Birdcage Walk (30 page)

“I can see no reason why not. As they say, there is no time like the present. I think I will walk there, it won’t take fifteen minutes and the exercise will do me good”

Clemmie caught hold of his sleeve.

“Will you send us news whatever happens? Please, uncle.”

Booth kissed her hand.

“I thought you might say that. Of course I will.”

He strode away in the weak sunshine, waving to them with his umbrella before the bend in the road took him out of sight. Just as he did, a carriage passed close by him. It slowed to a stop outside the house but none of the three women standing at the door recognised the portly man who got out.

Mr. Woolfe looked up as Cissy suddenly got to her feet. “I’m going up there again,” she said. “It’s not like I’m getting any work done here.”

“They won’t let you see him, Cissy.” Mr. Woolfe got up carefully, wincing as he straightened his back. “Do you not think I’ve tried?”

Cissy put her best hat on and fastened it on with a pearl pin of her mother’s.

“I know you have, dad. But it’s worth another try, isn’t it? I’ve written out a note to him this time. Perhaps someone will take it down to him, even if they won’t let me see him.”

Mr. Woolfe nodded.

“Of course it’s worth a go. As long as you’re feeling up to it. You’re a good girl, Cissy. I don’t think my back will let me go up there today or I’d come with you.”

The wind hadn’t abated since the previous day, if anything it had strengthened. Cissy’s slender frame was buffeted by it and she had to hold her hat on, the other hand keeping her cloak from billowing out behind her and allowing the wind’s icy fingers to penetrate her thin dress.

She hadn’t been to the police station yet. She had told her father she was ill, worn out from her nail-biting tour of London, Middlesex and half of Surrey’s barracks with Chief Inspector Pearn. By the time she was forced to identify George in Kingston, her fear of Pearn had turned to hate. She had seen the triumph in his face, a flash of his big white teeth and then everything had gone black. That was the last she had seen of her brother and the truth of it was that she was scared of seeing him, knowing how she had betrayed him and what he must think of her as a result. Her father had said she had no choice but she thought a better, braver sister would have lied to the end. That she had also fainted made her yet more ashamed, when it was George who was in such trouble and not her. She cringed anew at the memory of it as she walked north to Stoke Newington.

She was not sure what she would do if they did let her down to see him. She had only come because she thought it so unlikely; her father had had no luck and he’d gone every one of the four days since George had been brought there. Her mission was to deliver the note. In it she had explained why she had been such a coward in the barracks, why she had not been able to lie or stop her brain from closing down with the horror of it all.

The roads close to the police station were leafier than Cissy was accustomed to. In the high winds the topmost branches were being battered. Brittle twigs, long bare of leaves, had already been scattered across the streets. Cissy looked up anxiously at the creaking limbs and hurried on, fearful that she would be crushed if she didn’t.

When she reached it, the station’s door was difficult to wrench back, the wind pushing obstinately against it. Eventually she tumbled in, the door slamming behind her and the sudden quiet making her remember with a lurch why she was here.

The man at the desk was young, younger even than George, his hair self-consciously smoothed into place with too much pomade. He didn’t return Cissy’s smile, though she supposed it looked like more of a grimace, such were her nerves.

“I’m here to ask about George Woolfe,” she said, so softly that the constable leant forward in spite of himself. “I’m his sister.”

He snorted at that and let out a short, barking laugh.

“Another sister, eh? I suppose a third will be in tomorrow, trying to fox me into letting her see him. That won’t happen again. Your sister got me into trouble with the Chief Inspector yesterday. No one’s allowed down there without his say-so.”

“But . . . “ Cissy stopped, utterly confused. She was silent for a moment and then realised it would do no good to ask further questions. The constable had already opened a large leather-bound ledger and was studiously turning its pages, as though she had already left. She fished inside her dress and brought out her letter, warm and slightly warped from the heat of her. She pushed it across the high desk towards the ledger.

“What’s all this, then?” He picked it up with distaste and waved it at her.

“If you won’t let me, or his father, see him then at least give him this from us. There’s nothing to say he can’t get letters in here, is there?”

The constable looked appalled but Cissy ignored him, astonished that she had, for once, been brave. As brave as Charlotte might have been if she’d come here for George. Just as the constable went to toss the letter down in disgust, the door banged open again, the noise of the wind and detritus from the road swirling inside. Just behind them came an upright gentleman clutching an umbrella, who jumped as the door slammed shut again.

“Good gracious, that wind is fierce,” he said, brushing himself down. Though his figure was immediately familiar, it was the voice that emboldened Cissy to speak out.

“Mr. Booth, it’s you, isn’t it?”

Charles Booth stood motionless for a moment before smiling.

“Of course. George Woolfe’s sister. I know you but I’m afraid I can’t quite grasp the name. The Hoxton constable did tell me. I think I may have forgotten his name too.”

“It’s Ryeland, sir. And I’m Sarah—Cissy, I’m known as. But fancy seeing you here, sir. What a strange thing. You must be on one of your tours.”

She blushed, realising she might have to explain why she was here. Booth saw her colour and dropped his voice, mindful of the constable’s nonplussed expression.

“Miss Woolfe, I am here to enquire about your brother.”

Cissy’s eyes widened and then her cheeks reddened further.

“The papers. That’s how you knew isn’t it? He didn’t do it, you know. He wouldn’t have, not George.”

“Actually, I don’t read the more sensational stories in the press. Even when they’re in the Times my eye seems to shy away from them. My goddaughter alerted me to this terrible business. She’s been very worried about George. Like you, she seems convinced that he couldn’t possibly be responsible for this unfortunate girl’s death.”

Cissy thought she might cry, but managed to overcome the urge by staying silent. Mr. Booth waited patiently until she managed to speak.

“She is very kind.”

“Can I be of assistance to you, sir? Is this young girl bothering you?” the constable was suddenly upon them, having come out from behind his desk.

Booth frowned at him.

“Not at all. She is an acquaintance of mine.”

The constable raised an eyebrow. Cissy realised this was her best chance.

“I came to deliver a letter to George but he won’t take it,” she said to Booth. “My father has come every day George has been here but they won’t let him in.”

“I’m under strict instructions,” the constable spoke up defensively. ‘”It’s more than my job’s worth to let anyone down there again. You’ll have to take it up with the Chief Inspector and he’s not here.” He ran a nervous hand over his waxed hair though it hadn’t moved.

“Still,” said Booth. “There’s no harm in a letter is there? No rules against that, I’m sure.”

“Well, I’d have to open it and check the contents, of course,” said the constable. “There might be clues in there.”

Booth laughed and turned back to Cissy.

“There you are. I will make sure it is delivered to him before I leave.”

The constable had reappeared behind the desk, his expression sulky. Booth went over to him and rapped lightly on the counter with his umbrella.

“Now listen here, young man, is there a constable here by the name of Mason?”

“He’s moved on. Gone south of the river.”

“That’s a blow, he was a good man, Mason. When is this Chief Inspector of yours coming back?”

“He said he’d be in this afternoon, some time after two.”

Booth sighed.

“Is there anyone else I can speak to about Woolfe’s case? I am rather a busy man.”

“Not really, sir. Inspector McArthur you could have talked to—he’s working on the case under Mr. Pearn—but he went out not twenty minutes ago. Going out interviewing, he said. Didn’t know when he’d be back.”

Booth smiled over at Cissy, who had listened anxiously to the exchange.

“Well then, I shall just have to wait, won’t I?”

“But you said how busy you are, sir. Why would you . . . ? You hardly know my brother, sir.”

“My goddaughter is almost as anxious as you, my dear. She is concerned that George should not be bullied into a confession and I must say I share some of her concerns. I would like to hear this Mr. Pearn’s side of it.”

Cissy shuddered at the thought of him.

“He’s a sharp one, Mr. Booth. He makes my blood run cold.”

“Don’t worry, my dear. I have stumbled upon his sort before and am not intimidated. Go back to your father now, and if I learn anything of import I will get word to you. Write your address down in my notebook.”

He handed her his small silver pencil and the battered notebook. She took her time over her letters, the fingers gripping the pencil feeling clumsy from lack of practice. When she surveyed her work she was embarrassed at the large, childlike script, but the letters were clear and that was the important thing.

“Very good,” said Booth, scanning the words and then tucking the book back in his pocket. “Now goodbye, Miss Woolfe.”

She had reached the pavement before she realised that he was calling after her, his voice almost lost in the din of the wind’s ferocious passage through the streets. He pressed some coins into her hand.

“Please catch a cab home to Wiltshire Row. It is too dangerous to be walking the streets in this gale.”

“Oh, I couldn’t take your money, sir.”

“Of course you can, and you will. Someone of your size is liable to be blown into the path of a speeding bus in this weather and what help to your brother would you be then? None whatsoever.”

Cissy smiled and closed her fist tight around the money.

“Off you go now. Send my regards to your father.”

Before heading back inside to wait, Booth watched her go, her arm going up to signal inexpertly at an approaching cab. He would do what he could for the Woolfes, though he wasn’t convinced it was much. What he hadn’t had the heart to tell Clemmie earlier that morning was that it looked rather black for young Mr. Woolfe.

“Seems you’ve got friends in high places, Mr. Woolfe.” Pearn was once again stationed at the window while George sweltered close to the well-stoked fire. “I would never have expected it, and I pride myself on being able to anticipate most things.”

George looked down to hide his confusion. Milly’s arrival the day before had flummoxed him, though he was grateful for it. The worry of the Highbury house being somehow involved in his disgrace nagged at him, though. The idea of the police crossing Captain Drew’s threshold made him queasy. Even if Miss Clemmie remained his ally, along with Milly, Mrs. Drew would surely be furious. As for the Captain, George could only hope he was back at sea by now. News such as this didn’t easily reach a ship in the middle of the Atlantic, or so he hoped.

“Woolfe, I’m talking to you. Answer me.” Pearn’s face suddenly loomed close and George caught the smell of his breath, the heat of strong peppermint and the sourness beneath it.

“I don’t know who you mean, sir.”

“Of course you do. I am referring to the Drew family and, as of two o’clock this afternoon, Mr. Charles Booth. Fancy, little George Woolfe, printer and murderer, an acquaintance of the great philanthropist Booth! Naturally we all wait for the last instalment of his great study of London with baited breath.”

He smiled over at McArthur who continued to stare at his hands. George stared back at Pearn, entirely lost for words, his mind whirring over the news. Booth as well?

“You seem surprised.”

“What did he say? Mr. Booth came on my account?”

“Evidently so. He wished to know the details of the case. I might have referred him to the last few issues of the Gazette but I didn’t want to seem impolite. He, like the little maid who came yesterday, seemed convinced of your innocence. At least at first. Booth initially seemed to think there had been some sort of gross mistake. I assured him there hadn’t been. I took the liberty—though it is irregular to do so—of informing him of yesterday’s little revelation.”

George dropped his head again. It was one thing to run away from the police in fright and distress at learning a girl close to you was dead; quite another to lie about when you last saw her on the night of her murder. He had thought of telling Milly about it yesterday but hadn’t had the courage, knowing too well how bad it sounded. There was no easy explanation of his decision to take Charlotte up to Tottenham.

“Booth went rather quiet after that, poor man. He was quite distracted when he left. I insisted I hail him a cab myself. Altogether, it’s been quite an eventful day for you, hasn’t it? How did you enjoy that pathetic note from your sister? Your real sister this time, I gather.”

George patted his trouser pocket, feeling rather than hearing the crackle of the paper on which Cissy had inscribed a few lines. He didn’t reply to Pearn. He might take the letter away, burn it in front of him in that wretchedly hot fire. Pearn came to sit down and nodded at his colleague, who passed him a pile of papers in a cardboard sleeve.

“So, despite the protestations of your remarkably varied circle of friends, I think we have investigated all that we need to in this case. Mr. McArthur has today visited the residence of the Drews.”

George visibly paled at the words. It could not get worse now.

“Not a great deal was gleaned from Mrs. Drew, it must be said. She was extremely distressed at the intrusion, as you might expect, and fearful for her and her daughter’s health in consequence. I imagine she might also have been concerned for her reputation. Aberdeen Park is a very quiet street; a very respectable street. It’s not every day that a police inspector visits. Were the net curtains a-twitching, Mr. McArthur?”

He laughed heartily and then continued, not waiting for any response. Opening the folder he began to leaf through the sheets there.

“Firstly, Woolfe, we have evidence of a recent falling out between you and the deceased. We also have a note written by you that speaks of ‘getting rid’ of the deceased. You have been identified as the companion of that same deceased in the Park Hotel on the night of the murder, as well as leaving with her some time around half past ten. The same witnesses also claim that you looked angry and seemed drunk. Another witness has told of the scratches seen on your face late on Christmas Eve, and of the metal file you took home from your place of work at Carlisle & Clegg’s Printworks on Christmas Eve.”

He paused to look up at George, who had folded his arms around himself, his eyes on the fire. Pearn continued in the same deliberately outraged tone.

“We have learnt only in the last day or so that since autumn you have attempted to inveigle yourself into the home of a good family and probably taken advantage of their maid. A thwarted seduction of the young daughter living there is also probable. Lastly, Mr. Woolfe, and surely the strongest proof of your guilt-wracked conscience is your sudden flight and enrolment in the Army under a false name. I have no doubt that you savagely murdered Charlotte Cheeseman on Tottenham Marshes and I very much doubt a judge and jury will see the case any differently.

“This morning, while Mr. McArthur paid his visit to Aberdeen Park, I took myself on a little jaunt north. I went to the precise spot the victim was discovered on Christmas morning and consulted my watch. I then took two buses towards Hoxton and walked the final short distance to the Robert Peel public house. It took me 51 minutes. I then did it again. I am a very thorough man, Mr.Woolfe. The second time it took me 53 minutes. Your friend Alfred Jones claims you had both been drinking together some 20 minutes before midnight was celebrated. By my calculations, you had time to leave the Park Hotel, kill Miss Cheeseman and travel from Tottenham to Hoxton in time to meet Jones.”

George was angered into speaking.

“But there was no bus waiting at Manor Park and I had to walk from there. It took an hour or more that night. I would have had to kill her in a few minutes. It’s not possible.”

“So you say,” replied Pearn coldly. “It changes nothing. You said you weren’t in Tottenham with her. You were. You told His Majesty’s Army that you were called Slater. You are not. I have done my work here, Woolfe. Bright and early tomorrow morning you go to Newgate Gaol. I sincerely doubt you will leave it alive.”

Deep in the fire, below the flames that licked upwards towards the wind that roared around the chimney, George could see a place where it didn’t seem to burn. To him it seemed like a tiny refuge, a miniature cave he wished he could crawl into. Instead he was pulled to his feet by a constable and taken back down to his cell. He wondered if this was to be his last night close to home, and close to Highbury.

* * *

My dear Clemency,

Just as you wished, I am sending this note to you as soon as I could put pen to paper. I am afraid I did not succeed in seeing George Woolfe. I did, however, happen to make the acquaintance of the Chief Inspector charged with investigating the case, a Mr. Charles Pearn.

I also had the good fortune to meet young Cissy Woolfe. She had been attempting to see her brother as I was, and she had also brought a note for him. It was fortuitous that I arrived when I did. The constable stationed on the desk was treating her rather badly and refusing to take the letter. I soon persuaded him otherwise, I am happy to report. I sent Miss Woolfe on her way in a cab. The poor girl has hardly any flesh on her bones and I was convinced she would blow away in the wind otherwise, like a feather caught in the currents. Perhaps rashly, I promised I would try and use my influence to help her brother in his predicament.

That is where the source of my happier news runs dry, I’m afraid. Pearn has brought to my attention some aspects of the investigation that I find rather disturbing. It seems that, contrary to Woolfe’s original claim—that he spent only the early portion of the evening with poor Miss Cheeseman and parted from her at the Britannia Theatre—he in fact accompanied her to Tottenham. As you are only too well aware, it was upon the marshes of Tottenham that she was found the following morning.

Pearn is a cold man, and I found myself immediately forming a strong antipathy towards him. He is rather too gleeful in his bid to have Woolfe convicted for my tastes. Nevertheless, I have to tell you that the matter has taken on a different complexion to me since my visit this afternoon. I have sat awhile, thinking it through, and I find myself uneasy. Until I know more about the finer details of the case, I must reserve my judgement of the boy. I know you will not agree but I feel that caution is the prudent course at this time. I must also tell you that Pearn believes he has now gathered more than enough evidence with which to charge his suspect.

My dear, you must be brave, but he also imparted the bad news that George will soon stand trial at the Old Bailey for murder. In light of this development, he will also be moved, from the Stoke Newington station to Newgate Gaol. According to Pearn, this is likely to happen as early as tomorrow morning.

Take heart, not all is lost yet. I mean not only to follow this case but delve a little deeper into its details. If there have been any discrepancies, irregularities or other obstacles to justice—for Mr. Woolfe as well as Miss Cheeseman—then I will be sure to uncover them.

Your affectionate godfather,

Charles Booth