Authors: The Companion
Ann Granger (5 page)
Frank Carterton, having done his duty by his aunt that evening, had overcome his fit of pique and was setting off about Town and his own pleasures.
Inspector Benjamin Ross
‘HERE WE are, sir,’ said Sergeant Morris hoarsely.
We had picked our way between piles of rubble piled in some places as high as slag heaps. These roads had never been paved and over time had become rutted and potholed, the walls of the ruts set like stone, even before the present onslaught which was leaving Agar Town razed and deserted as if the object of some Biblical wrath.
Broken bricks littered our path and made each footstep treacherous. Between lumps of masonry and fallen rafters sticking up like the shattered spars of a shipwreck, the ground was further churned by the wheels of the wagons and pitted with abominable-smelling potholes marking the site of demolished privies and open sewers. I kicked aside the mummified corpse of a rat. Another nearby, still decomposing, was a mass of writhing maggots.
Though the weather was cool, it had not rained in several days and this morning the wind swirled around us. The air was full of dust, forcing itself into our nostrils and throats, so that we coughed and were forced to cover our faces with our handkerchiefs. Even the bony flanks of the dejected nags waiting to haul the wagons were dressed with pinkish-grey powder. In this setting the poor beasts suggested the spectral horses of some apocalyptic nightmare.
I saw that some sporadic activity had started again at the point furthest from the spot towards which we were headed. Men were busy at a shell of a house, its roof, windows, and doors all gone together with part of the upper brickwork. My eye was caught by two or three fellows perched insecurely at first-floor level. They were knocking out the front wall with regular swings of sledgehammers so that great chunks of brickwork fell in slabs to the ground beneath. As each crashed down, a fresh cloud of mortar and brick dust billowed into the air and the navvies above, caught in the upflow, were covered in a thick coating. They reminded me of the colliers I knew in my youth with their mantle of coal dust. I wondered whether the men who worked here would also suffer in later years, as so many colliers including my own poor father did, with lung troubles.
As soon as these navvies on their lofty eyrie spotted Morris and me, they gave a warning shout and all work ceased again. The men on the half-demolished facade let their tools hang from their brawny arms and stood as still as grey statues. Those below removing already demolished masonry leaned on shovels and pickaxes to watch us go by, their faces sullen. One man, his woollen cap, features and clothing all grey with dust, turned his head and spat to one side. It surprised me he had enough spittle left.
‘She should not have been moved,’ I muttered, more to myself than to poor Morris. He had already borne the brunt of my frustration as well as the brooding resentment of the labourers and the outright hostility of those in charge.
‘Yes, sir, I do recognise it, sir. But the foreman, a downy bird if ever I saw one, and the fellow from the railway company kicked up a devil of a fuss, begging your pardon. The labourers themselves, they were turning very nasty. I couldn’t expect a pair of constables to handle it.’
The figure of a constable appeared as he spoke. He was a youngster, clearly nervous, who looked relieved when he recognised Morris and then, when he spotted me, apprehensive again.
‘Biddle,’ Morris informed me. ‘He’s a good lad but he’s not been long in the force.’
I thought privately that Biddle scarcely looked the minimum age to enrol, eighteen. Moreover, he was wearing one of the tall helmets which had recently replaced the familiar glazed top hats such as I had worn when I had first entered the police force. The new headgear still attracted much comment. To be honest, the helmet perched atop Biddle’s round skull in a way which I was afraid would make it a natural target for small boys with catapults.
Morris, too, seemed struck by the sight. ‘I don’t know about these helmets, sir,’ he murmured to me. ‘I know the old hats were always likely to fall off at the first bit of action and they made your head like a furnace when the weather was hot. But they at least lent a man a bit of dignity.’ More loudly, he enquired, ‘Where’s Jenkins, Biddle?’
‘Round the back, Sergeant, arguing with that foreman. I think the gentleman from the railway company has come back, too. They’re not happy that the work hasn’t restarted in this area now the dead woman’s been taken away.’
‘Are they not, indeed?’ I allowed myself to say sarcastically, and then added, making the effort to sound more matter-of-fact, ‘So, this is the scene of the crime, eh?’
It wasn’t the wretched Biddle’s fault any more than it was Morris’s. Biddle, pink and sweating in his high-buttoned uniform and with the helmet looking even more insecure, said earnestly, ‘There’s no one gone in, sir. I’ve been here, or Jenkins has, all the time.’
The other houses in the row had been pulled down but these three at the end still stood, leaning against one another like a trio of drunken men. If one moved, they’d all fall. The body had been found by workmen entering the first of them to make preparations for the demolition.
They were narrow houses, cheaply and shoddily constructed of inferior materials, deemed fit for the poor and designed chiefly in
order to make a quick fortune for the builder. I had just seen how they crumbled before the blows of the sledgehammers like a child’s castle built of wooden bricks. This was – or had been – Agar Town, notorious even in a city with more than its fair share of slums. Here a whole family had lived in one room and, in the worst cases, shared the room with other tenants. All the residents had shared the communal privies in the yards at the back where some also kept pigs. Sewage would have overflowed from the latrines and the pigs devoured the waste. A pig will eat anything. It’s a useful beast. Nearby the pump from which they all drew their water still stood. I hoped the navvies were not tempted to drink from it. Cholera had paid regular visits to Agar Town. The newspapers were saying Mr Bazalgette’s ingenious sewer system would deliver London from that plague, although those same journals reported numerous new cases in the East End at that very moment.
order to make a quick fortune for the builder. I had just seen how they crumbled before the blows of the sledgehammers like a child’s castle built of wooden bricks. This was – or had been – Agar Town, notorious even in a city with more than its fair share of slums. Here a whole family had lived in one room and, in the worst cases, shared the room with other tenants. All the residents had shared the communal privies in the yards at the back where some also kept pigs. Sewage would have overflowed from the latrines and the pigs devoured the waste. A pig will eat anything. It’s a useful beast. Nearby the pump from which they all drew their water still stood. I hoped the navvies were not tempted to drink from it. Cholera had paid regular visits to Agar Town. The newspapers were saying Mr Bazalgette’s ingenious sewer system would deliver London from that plague, although those same journals reported numerous new cases in the East End at that very moment.
In any case, there were other plagues: typhoid, diphtheria, consumption and those maladies which affect the poor alone and spring from despair. No one lives long in such conditions. Men are lucky to live forty years, women often less. Children die like flies and those who survive emerge from the hovels of their homes deformed and pale as ghosts, little old men and women themselves by ten years of age. I know such places and I knew Agar Town. When a man, or woman, is starving and has nothing to lose, what is there to stop either of them turning to crime? Perhaps the sweeping away of Agar Town to make way for the new railway terminus and yards might even be argued a blessing in disguise. Were it not for the fact that I suspected it had simply served to move the area’s problems elsewhere.
‘Mind how you go, sir,’ advised Morris, leading the way. ‘That outer wall is unsafe. Don’t go leaning on anything, will you? The whole lot could come down around our ears. Fact is, it’s one of the reasons the foreman gave for moving her out. “Don’t blame me,” he said, “if by the time your inspector gets here, the whole
lot has tumbled and your dead woman is buried good and proper!” Only his language wasn’t near as decent as that. But he had a point, sir, as I could see. Best be quick, sir.’
lot has tumbled and your dead woman is buried good and proper!” Only his language wasn’t near as decent as that. But he had a point, sir, as I could see. Best be quick, sir.’
‘All right, all right!’ I said testily. I could see for myself how shaky the whole structure was. ‘You’ve spoken to the men who found her?’
‘Yes, sir, I took statements and they made their marks to them. Irish fellers, the pair of them, crossing themselves and hoping as the poor woman would rest in peace.’
We had made our way down a narrow hallway stinking of mould and generations of unwashed bodies. There was another insidious miasma seeping from the walls: poverty. It has its own smell; despair an odour all its own. I felt it now creep into my nostrils and pulled out my handkerchief again to press to my nose.
‘Whiffs a bit, don’t it?’ observed Morris kindly, observing my distress.
I was ashamed of my weakness and put the handkerchief away.
We had reached a back room. Here there was a new smell, the sweetly rotten stench of death.
She
had been taken away but nothing would remove the foulness until the whole place came down. I looked around, trying to envisage the room as a home. Someone, probably in an attempt to keep the draughts out, had lined the walls with old newspapers. Advertisments for exhibitions of watercolours by ‘a lady’, good-quality imported French soap and antiquarian books formed an incongruous background to a life in which any of those things would have been totally meaningless. The floorboards were bare, rotten in parts, and all furniture had been removed but for a broken bedstead against a wall.
She
had been taken away but nothing would remove the foulness until the whole place came down. I looked around, trying to envisage the room as a home. Someone, probably in an attempt to keep the draughts out, had lined the walls with old newspapers. Advertisments for exhibitions of watercolours by ‘a lady’, good-quality imported French soap and antiquarian books formed an incongruous background to a life in which any of those things would have been totally meaningless. The floorboards were bare, rotten in parts, and all furniture had been removed but for a broken bedstead against a wall.
‘She was under there,’ said Morris, pointing at it. ‘Half pushed underneath but not hidden although whoever put her there had thrown a bit of old carpet over her. Her feet stuck out. You could have seen what it was straight off, the minute you came in here, even if you hadn’t smelled her first. The men who found her knew
it at once for a corpse and yelled for the foreman to come. Then, according to the foreman, they all downed tools. None of ’em would touch a brick, not anywhere on the site, not while she stayed. He panicked because the railway company would blame him for the delay. He would have she must be moved. I told him regulations said, the inspector must see her for himself, but he sent off someone to fetch the gentleman from the railway company and
he
sent off somewhere else. In the end, word come down from the superintendent, we could move her out to the nearest mortuary. But I got a bit of chalk and drew round the spot, see?’
it at once for a corpse and yelled for the foreman to come. Then, according to the foreman, they all downed tools. None of ’em would touch a brick, not anywhere on the site, not while she stayed. He panicked because the railway company would blame him for the delay. He would have she must be moved. I told him regulations said, the inspector must see her for himself, but he sent off someone to fetch the gentleman from the railway company and
he
sent off somewhere else. In the end, word come down from the superintendent, we could move her out to the nearest mortuary. But I got a bit of chalk and drew round the spot, see?’
Morris pointed proudly to a roughly scrawled shape on the floorboards half under the old bedstead.
‘I took a good look round, Biddle and Jenkins too. We went upstairs and everything. We didn’t find anything of interest.’
Morris had done his best to prevent removal of the body but, in the end, the railway company had called on friends in higher places. As the men pulling down the houses to clear the whole area for the building of the new railway terminus would not work while the body lay
in situ
, ergo the body had been removed. It now lay in the mortuary which is where we would go when I’d seen what was left to be seen here. You see I have learned my Latin phrases. I am an ambitious man and I’ve worked hard. I’ve spent long hours by candlelight making good the shortcomings in my education and now I’m an inspector of the Metropolitan Police Force based at Scotland Yard. But when I look in the shaving mirror of a morning I often observe aloud, ‘You fool nobody, Ben Ross. A collier’s son you were and a collier’s son you remain.’
in situ
, ergo the body had been removed. It now lay in the mortuary which is where we would go when I’d seen what was left to be seen here. You see I have learned my Latin phrases. I am an ambitious man and I’ve worked hard. I’ve spent long hours by candlelight making good the shortcomings in my education and now I’m an inspector of the Metropolitan Police Force based at Scotland Yard. But when I look in the shaving mirror of a morning I often observe aloud, ‘You fool nobody, Ben Ross. A collier’s son you were and a collier’s son you remain.’
I looked down at the dusty floor and Morris’s effort to preserve the evidence and sighed. The workmen who had found the body had tramped all over the place, followed by the original constable called to the scene and then Morris and his helpers. If there had been any small clue to be found, it had long been demolished.
There was a shout from outside. Heavy footsteps echoed in the
hall and Biddle put his pink shiny face and wobbly headwear through the doorway. ‘Gentleman from the railway company is here and that foreman feller, as well – sir.’
hall and Biddle put his pink shiny face and wobbly headwear through the doorway. ‘Gentleman from the railway company is here and that foreman feller, as well – sir.’
I was not sorry to have the excuse to get out of this claustrophobic place of death. But I remembered to say, ‘Well done!’ to Morris because, in the trying circumstances, he had done well.
He looked mightily relieved. As we moved back down the hall, he whispered in his hoarse undertone, ‘Her clothes was very good, sir, no old rubbish. Whoever she was, she didn’t live round here.’
Stepping out of that place into the dusty sunshine was like stepping out of a tomb. Two men were waiting for me. One was clearly the foreman, a burly fellow with a drinker’s nose and an expression of cultivated blankness. I recognised the expression well enough. He did not intend to assist the police. This was probably not because he had anything to hide but simply because, like every other man working here, he disliked us – and that even before we, in his view, had caused a problem. It sometimes puzzles me, when I take the trouble to think about it, that the population at large has so little to say in our favour. The poor claim we harass them. The wealthy claim we don’t do enough. Between the two the vast majority see us as an expense upon the public purse and another burden on the honest citizen.
Speaking of honest citizens, I turned my attention to the man from the railway company who probably claimed this distinction. He was a pale-faced young fellow in a frock coat, wearing spectacles with oval lenses. His air was one of irritated self-importance. He held his silk hat in one hand and was mopping his brow with the other using a large spotted handkerchief. He tucked this away as he saw me.
‘Fletcher,’ he said briefly. ‘I am clerk of the works here and, as such, I represent the railway company.’
‘I am Inspector Ross,’ I replied. ‘I represent Scotland Yard.’
The sunlight glinted on the oval lenses as he gave me a sharp look to see if I meant any facetiousness. But he saw in my face
that what I had meant him to understand was that his credentials did not outweigh mine.
that what I had meant him to understand was that his credentials did not outweigh mine.
‘Quite so,’ he said. ‘I’m hoping, Inspector, that now you’ve visited the place where the unfortunate female was discovered, we may be allowed to begin work here again. Time is money.’
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