by Granger, Ann
To the surprise of us all, especially Bessie, Daisy shook her head, sending the poor battered feathers on her hat bobbing.
‘I don’t want your money. I want you to find someone. Well, you’ll have to find her if you want to talk to her! The girl who saw the Wraith clearly, her name is Clarrie Brady. That’s Clarissa, but everyone calls her Clarrie.’ Daisy folded her arms and leaned them on the table. ‘See, I work the south side of the river, just around where your missus found me tonight. Clarrie she worked the north side, up as far as the Strand. Only there’s a lot of girls working the Strand, so mostly Clarrie worked nearer the river.’
‘Why do you say “worked”?’ Ben asked sharply. ‘Where is she working now?’
‘That’s it,’ said Daisy. ‘No one’s seen her since Friday before last. When I met you on the bridge that Saturday night, I was running across to try and find her and warn her that the Wraith was about, tell her I’d just met him myself. But I couldn’t find her. She was still working the district; I knew that, because I’d seen her meself on the Friday morning. There’s a coffee stall just over the bridge and that’s where I met her, drinking a cup on her way home from work. We had a bit of a chat because we’re friends. We’ve been friends since we were kids. Ever since that time she saw him standing right in front of her, in his shroud, she’s been scared of meeting him again. She told me she was sure he knew who she was; and he was looking for her. She’s not working another pitch. I asked all the girls I could find. None of ’em’s seen her.’
She shook her head sadly and I realised how very young she was, certainly little older than Bessie. I didn’t like to think how long she had been at her present trade.
‘When you told me about her, that evening on the bridge,’ Ben said slowly, ‘you mentioned she had a man friend.’
Daisy gave a snort of disgust. ‘Jed Sparrow. He don’t care. He’s not even looking for her now. He did look for a couple of days. Now he’s got himself another girl.’
‘Where can I find Sparrow?’
‘The pub, the Conquering Hero, just where your missus saw me tonight. He was drinking in there earlier, might still be. Only if you go looking for him, don’t you tell him I told you where to find him – or he’ll find me!’ Bessie finished warningly.
‘I won’t tell him. What does she look like, Clarrie Brady?’
‘She’s short, little runt like her . . .’ Daisy pointed at the bristling Bessie. ‘But she got a pretty face, not like her -’
‘If you says one more thing about my looks,’ shouted Bessie, ‘I’ll tip that pot of hot tea right over your dyed hair and silly hat!’
‘Bessie, go and make up the sitting-room fire,’ I ordered. ‘I’m sure Daisy is only teasing you.’
‘No, she ain’t,’ growled Bessie. ‘She means it.’ She pushed her face into Daisy’s. ‘Well, I ain’t on the streets, am I?’
‘Shouldn’t think so,’ said Daisy, ‘not looking—’
I jumped up, grabbed Bessie’s arm and bundled her out into the hall. ‘Just listen, Bessie, I know she’s being very rude to you. But she does it because you react. She prods you, you snap back. Leave it all to the inspector and me. The inspector really needs her information.’
Bessie removed her arm from my grip. ‘I’ll go and make up that fire,’ she said icily.
Back in the kitchen, Daisy was making herself at home, pouring herself another cup of tea.’
‘So, she’s short and she’s pretty,’ Ben was saying, a touch wearily. ‘So are hundreds of girls in London.’
‘She’s got a mole on her forehead, right here.’ Daisy touched her left temple. ‘And a scar under her eye, here.’ She put a forefinger on her right cheekbone. ‘That’s where Jed Sparrow smashed a glass into her face one time. He was sorry he done that,’ she added.
‘So I should think!’ I said indignantly. ‘The poor girl was defenceless!’
‘It’s ’cos he was worried it’d spoil her looks a bit,’ explained Daisy. ‘That’s why he was sorry. But it healed up nice and you don’t see it much. She puts greasepaint over it, the stuff the actresses use. It covers it up really well.’
She turned her attention back to Ben. ‘So where is she? I can’t find her. But if the bobbies on the beat was to look out for her, one of them might find her.’
‘I’ll put out the description to all of them,’ Ben promised.
‘And you won’t give up if they don’t find her in a couple of days? Supposing you find the Wraith first, you’ll still go on looking for Clarrie, like you’d look for some fine lady if she went missing? You promise that? It’s what I want in return for my information.’
‘Yes, I will,’ said Ben. ‘You have my word, Daisy.’
Daisy stood up. ‘Thanks for the tea, then. I’ll let meself out the back way, like I come in.’ She paused by the door and looked over her shoulder. ‘You give me ten minutes to get well away before you going running round to the Conquering Hero, if that’s what you’re going to do.’
‘I will,’ promised Ben.
‘And if ever you want to find me, you can leave a message with Sally, the barmaid at the Hero. I’ll be off, then.’
When Daisy had gone, I sat down at the table again. ‘What do you think has happened to Clarrie Brady, Ben?’
Ben hunched his shoulders. ‘She may have been so frightened by her encounter with the Wraith and so sure he was looking for her – or so frightened of that lout, Sparrow - that she’s run right away, out of London. Or . . .’
‘Or?’ I asked quietly.
Ben sighed. ‘Either Sparrow has killed her and dumped the body somewhere we haven’t yet found it. He’s got himself another girl without delay. That suggests he’s not expecting her back. Or the other possibility . . .’ He looked at me apologetically. ‘I’m afraid, Lizzie, the other possibility is that the Wraith did find her again. Perhaps Clarrie was not imagining he was looking for her. She saw him clearly. He will know that. He obviously disguises himself in that ridiculous shroud and what I suspect is a mask of some sort over his face. But she still saw him clear of the fog, and that may have worried him. He may have sought her out. But we haven’t found a body, Lizzie, not that I know of. Keep your fingers crossed.’
He took out his watch and consulted it. ‘Almost ten minutes. I’ll just walk over to the Conquering Hero and see if the not-so-heroic Mr Sparrow is still there.’
Chapter Nine
Inspector Benjamin Ross
IT WAS a short step to the Conquering Hero. The pub stood on the corner at a junction where two roads formed a right angle. Thus it had two entrances in different streets: an entrance into the public bar from one and that to the saloon bar in the one round the corner. A very convenient arrangement, I thought. If a drinker were to learn someone he didn’t want to meet had just come in one door, he could easily make his escape through the other. It was likely Mr Sparrow wouldn’t want to meet me, so I had to choose the right door.
The men who lived off the earnings of the girls on the streets generally fancied themselves as flash coves. They wouldn’t want to mix with draymen and labourers. I made for the saloon bar entrance.
A question to the barman identified Jed Sparrow. From the little I knew of him I had imagined a burly brawler of a thug. But no, he matched his surname, a little shrimp of a man in a bowler hat and suit of houndstooth check. I saw that he had only one eye. Where the other should be was only a sunken cavity indicating that eyeball was missing altogether. The remaining orb seemed to miss nothing, for it darted around the bar-room taking in everything. It had already, I was sure, taken note of me. Certainly it flickered warningly at my approach.
I saw that not only had he suffered no business loss from the disappearance of Clarrie Brady, he seemed to have prospered since then. He sat between two young women in bright clothing, one wearing a mauve silk bonnet and the other a hat with trailing ostrich plumes that reminded me of Daisy and her feathered hat.
When I reached the table, Sparrow gave an exagge
rated wink to the girl with the mauve bonnet.
‘Well, look at what just blew in! Here’s the p’lice, all dressed up in plain clothes, if I’m not mistaken – what I don’t think I am!’
He laughed heartily and the two girls joined in but not without nervous glances at me. How did he know my calling? Not for the first time, it puzzled me. But they always did seem to know.
‘I believe I’m speaking to Jed Sparrow,’ I said to him. ‘I’d be obliged for a word. I am Inspector Ross from Scotland Yard.’
‘How do you know my name?’ he demanded at once, an ugly glint in his single eye.
‘Oh, you are a very well-known man, Mr Sparrow,’ I said cheerfully, seating myself opposite to him.
Sparrow seemed unsure whether to be offended or pleased to learn this. Then he jerked his head towards the door and told the girls to ‘Hop it! Get out there and earn your keep!’
They both scrambled to their feet and hurried away.
‘Not sending them out to work as prostitutes, I hope, Mr Sparrow?’ I asked mildly.
‘Bless you, no, they’re good girls. They go round houses collecting rags. I’m in that line of business, you see.’ His crooked yellow teeth flashed a grin at me. He didn’t expect me to believe that nonsense, of course.
‘Rubbish,’ I said briskly. ‘But it’s not those two girls I’ve come to talk to you about.You know a girl called Clarissa or Clarrie Brady.’
The Cyclops eye squinted at me alarmingly. ‘What if I do? Here, what’s she been saying about me? It’s all lies.You don’t want to believe a word she says. Born liar, that’s Clarrie. Wouldn’t know the truth if it jumped up and bit her nose.’
‘She’s said nothing, Mr Sparrow, because she hasn’t been seen for over a week. Friends have looked for her in vain. I’d like to find her and you, I understand, are the person to ask.’
‘I don’t know who told you that,’ he grumbled. ‘It’s no use you asking me about her now. I ain’t seen her either, not for, oh . . . must be near on ten days.’ He put his head on one side and the eye fixed me with a baleful stare. ‘What are you accusing me of? If she’s gone, she’s gone. I don’t know nothing about it.’
‘At the moment, Sparrow, I’m not accusing you of anything. I’d like to talk to her, that’s all,’ I said.
‘So would I,’ said Sparrow. ‘She owes me money.’
‘She earned you money, you mean. Did you look for her?’
He decided to be conciliatory. ‘Well, you know how it is, Inspector. I’d like to help but I can’t. Yes, I asked around when she first took off, but well, there’s always another one. I was getting tired of her, anyway. She gave me too much lip.’
And it had got her face cut by a broken glass on one occasion, I thought, but didn’t mention. He would be curious to know where I’d got my information and I didn’t want to lead him to Daisy.
‘But her disappearance left you out of pocket,’ I pointed out. ‘I would have thought you’d be out there hunting her high and low.’
‘Like I said, there’s always another one.’ Sparrow eyed me coolly. ‘And what, if I might ask you a question, would Scotland Yard want with Clarrie Brady? She’s magistrate’s court fare, she is. She’s not into the sort of business that interests you.’
I ignored the question to ask another of my own. ‘Did Clarrie ever mention to you that she had encountered a creature the girls call the River Wraith?’
Sparrow burst into a shout of laughter. ‘So that’s it, is it? Listen, Inspector . . .’ He leaned towards me confidentially and I tried not to draw back. ‘Here’s what I can tell you. There ain’t no such person – or monster or ghoul or whatever you’d like to call it. It’s an excuse the girls make when they don’t come back with much money – I mean any rags, they’ve not collected any rags, you understand!’ he added hastily.
‘Collecting the rags, if that’s what you choose to call it. Did Clarrie tell you that, while she was out “collecting rags”, she met this Wraith?’
To my great relief he leaned back. His breath hadn’t been the pleasantest. Now he hooked his thumbs into his waistcoat. ‘Yes, she did and I clipped her ear for being so stupid.’
‘Stupid for being frightened out of her wits?’ I snapped.
‘No, for thinking I’d believe such a cock and bull story.’
‘Can you remember exactly what she told you?’
He shook his head. ‘She was jabbering away about it, and piping her eye. She always knew how to turn on the waterworks. Something about the fog clearing and he was standing in front of her. They imagine things, Inspector, those girls. None of ’em is very bright.’
I left him there and went out to see if I could spot one of the ladybirds that had been drinking with him. But neither they nor any of their sisters were to be seen anywhere. The two in the pub had spread the word that ‘plain-clothes was snooping about’ and they had all prudently decided to ‘collect rags’ elsewhere.
It was my intention, on Monday morning, to request all constables on the beat to ask around for Clarrie Brady. The constables on the regular beats know all the girls who work the streets and, when not actually arresting them for plying their trade too obviously, indulge in fairly spirited banter with them. With luck one of them might have seen her. Or, failing that, might have heard from one of her sisters where she’d gone. I also intended to send Biddle to check the records of the various magistrates’ courts to see if Clarrie had appeared before the bench lately. But when I reached the Yard, all thought of Clarrie was put immediately out of my head.
Sergeant Morris once more grabbed me as I stepped through the door and announced, ‘Superintendent Dunn wants to see us both immediately, sir!’
‘Morris,’ I said ruefully, ‘this is becoming a habit. I wonder if I shall ever again reach my office without you intercepting me with some new problem. You’re not going to tell me there’s been another murder, I hope?’
‘I don’t know, sir,’ said Morris. He lowered his voice. ‘But Mr Dunn’s got someone with him, a chief inspector of Railway Police from Waterloo Bridge Station.’ Morris gave the rail terminus its full title to lend weight to his words. ‘Both of ’em very agitated, sir.’
Now what was a chief inspector of the Railway Police doing so far from his domain at Waterloo? I wondered. I hurried to Dunn’s office, Morris on my heels.
Dunn was scowling ferociously as I entered, but not at me. The recipient of the glare was a man of about forty with a ginger moustache. Some lively discussion (or some might have guessed ‘argument’) appeared to have been in progress. The first words I heard were spoken by the visitor.
He was saying, ‘Of course we cannot investigate it alone but you can’t do it without us . . .’
‘There you are, Ross!’ Dunn exclaimed with obvious relief as he spied Morris and me. ‘This is Chief Inspector Burns, London and South West Railway Police, based at Waterloo Bridge.’ He turned back to Burns. ‘This is Inspector Ross, who is heading the inquiry into the River Wraith and the Green Park murder. And Sergeant Morris.’
Morris stood to attention. Burns nodded acknowledgement of the introduction.
I had no time for social niceties. ‘River Wraith!’ I exclaimed. ‘There’s been another murder?’
‘Yes, but not in the park. This one was found on a train.’ Dunn gestured at Burns. ‘Perhaps you’d care to explain, Chief Inspector.’
‘Thank you, sir,’ said Burns to him. He turned to me. ‘About an hour ago a body was discovered in a compartment of a train arriving at Waterloo on the Chertsey line.’
‘Chertsey line? Forgive me, Chief Inspector,’ I interrupted, ‘but where does that stop along the route?’
‘Several places, at Egham, Staines . . .’
‘Egham!’ I cried. My heart gave a painful leap. Was it possible? No, no, surely not, I tried to tell myself. But I felt the cold hand of foreknowledge close round my heart.
Dunn cleared his throat warningly.
Burns, after a glance at him,
continued. ‘Discovery of the body, that of a woman, was made by the ticket inspector. The train is still standing at the platform but the public are not being allowed access. This is playing havoc with the timetable along the entire route, as you can imagine. As soon as the body has been moved, the train will have to be put back into service. If necessary we can isolate the carriage where she was found. It will require some manoeuvring and take a while.’
‘How about the other travellers on the train?’ asked Dunn. ‘Did they see or hear anything?’
Burns shrugged. ‘Unfortunately it wasn’t possible to detain any of the passengers. They had left the train and were gone before the body was found. They waste no time when they get to Waterloo! There is always a rush for the available cabs. The unfortunate woman appears to have been strangled with a length of cord or stout twine . . .’
