Edwardian Murder Mystery 04; Our Lady of Pain emm-4

by M C Beaton

  “How had he hanged himself?”

  “With a strip he’d torn off his sheets.”

  “No note?”

  “No.”

  “Odd. I’d like to see the body.”

  “Why?”

  “I’d just like to be sure he hanged himself.”

  “You’re clutching at straws. Case closed.”

  “Humour me.”

  “Oh, very well. I’ll take you to the morgue myself.”

  ♦

  Harry stared down at the dead body laid out on a slab in the mortuary. He regarded the distorted face with distaste. Then he said to the morgue attendant, “Please turn the body over.”

  “Hurry up,” growled Kerridge. “This place gives me the creeps.”

  The body was turned over. Harry removed his gloves and examined the back of the head. “Didn’t you see this?” he asked. “Look here.”

  Kerridge walked forward. “See the matted hair and blood on the back of his head?” said Harry. “Someone struck him a blow and maybe that someone hanged him.”

  Kerridge swung round in a fury. “Hasn’t the pathologist examined this body?”

  “Didn’t seem no rush,” said the attendant. “Prison doctor signed the death certificate. Suicide.”

  “I’ll get the pathologist to do a proper autopsy,” said Kerridge. “We’d better get over to Pentonville and find out if he had any visitors.”

  ♦

  But at the prison they were informed that no one had come to see Biles. The warder who had taken him his evening meal said he looked distraught and that he had been crying.

  “Where had be been living?” asked Harry when they left the prison.

  “Place down the Mile End Road.”

  “I’d like to go there.”

  “Why? The room’s been cleaned up. The landlord wants to re-let it.”

  “Just a look.”

  “Oh, very well. Your man can drive us there.”

  ♦

  The landlord reluctantly opened the door of what had been Jeffrey Biles’s last address. “Don’t go mucking around,” he said. “I got someone for this room.”

  “Mind your manners,” snapped Kerridge.

  The room was dismal. The dingy window which overlooked the street did not have any curtains. There was a narrow iron bedstead in one corner. A rickety table and one chair stood in the middle of the floor. A small fireplace surmounted by a grimy mirror was against one wall. Beside the fireplace stood a scuttle full of coal and a shovel and poker.

  “He might have hidden something,” murmured Harry.

  “Don’t think so. We even looked up the chimney.”

  “Did you raise the floorboards?”

  “Captain, we had our man. And look at the floorboards. Not obviously haven’t any of them been raised in years but neither have they been cleaned in years. I hate the smell in these lice-infested tenements. It sticks to my clothes. Let’s go.”

  “A few minutes.”

  “Then I’ll wait downstairs in the motor with your man. Don’t be long.”

  Harry stood, gazing about him. The roar of the traffic on the Mile End Road reverberated through the little room: the clop of horses’ hooves, the growl of brewers’ drays, the rumble of omnibuses and the curses of drivers.

  He looked thoughtfully at the coal scuttle. Odd to see a scuttle full of coal in such an impoverished room. But Jeffrey had found enough money to go to France and follow them to Scotland. Perhaps he had pawned some of the jewels he had stolen from his sister.

  The landlord appeared in the doorway. “Finished?”

  “No,” said Harry crossly. “Go away. No, wait a minute. I’m surprised you have supplied a full scuttle of coal.”

  “That was Mr Biles’s. I meant to take it away but the new tenant, he says to leave it, and since no one else wanted to rent a room where a murderer had been living, I had to promise to let him have the coal.”

  “Good. Go away and don’t come back until I call you.”

  Harry waited until he heard the landlord’s feet descending the staircase and then he began to lift the coal out piece by piece and lay it on the floor. At the bottom of the coal scuttle was a tin box.

  Harry went to the window and threw it up and called down to Kerridge. “You’d better get up here quickly.”

  When Kerridge arrived, Harry said, “I’ve found this box. It was under the coal. I want you as witness when I open it.” He wiped the coal dust from his hands with a handkerchief, lifted the box out and took it to the table.

  “It’s locked,” he said. He took out a lock pick and worked away until the lid sprang open.

  On top lay a sapphire necklace and a ruby necklace. “Those are the items that were missing from his sister’s jewel box,” said Kerridge. Harry lifted them out. Underneath were photographs of Jeffrey and his sister, two East End children. There was a photograph of a grocer’s shop with a stern-looking man standing in front of it. “That must be the father,” said Harry. “Is he dead?”

  “Yes, died some time ago.”

  “And what’s this?”

  Harry took out a folded piece of paper. He gently unfolded it. In a large round hand was written, “This is the Last Will and Testament of Elizabeth Biles, 19 Sordey Street, Whitechapel. I leave everything I have to my dear brother, Jeffrey.” It was signed and dated and witnessed. The date showed that Dolores had probably written it just before she fled to France.

  “So there’s the motive,” said Kerridge. “That would have been legal enough, and with Madame de Peurey out of the way, he could have got the lot.”

  “I’m puzzled,” said Harry. “What did you make of Jeffrey Biles?”

  “Weak, frightened – but then a lot of killers are like that after they are caught.”

  “It’s beginning to look as if someone might have faked Jeffrey’s suicide. Now, perhaps we have a murderer at large who put Jeffrey up to all this. Say, someone said to him, ‘I’ll kill your sister and when you inherit, you pay me so much.’”

  “Come on. All the evidence is against Jeffrey Biles. He did his damnedest to pin the murders on Lady Rose. He was in his sister’s house. He took the letters and he took the jewellery.”

  “I wonder if he wrote those threatening letters,” said Harry, “or if someone else did.”

  “You’re making work for me and there’s no need for it. I’ve wasted enough time on this already,” complained Kerridge.

  “Humour me. Look, written on the back of this photograph is ‘Me and Betty’. The handwriting looks adult, so he must have written that sometime after the photographs were taken. Why not get some expert to compare it with the handwriting on the threatening letters?”

  “Oh, anything for peace and quiet. I’ll take this box with me.”

  “Wait a minute. I want to copy down the names of the witnesses on that will.”

  Harry wrote down George Briggs, driver, and Sarah Briggs, laundress. “We’ll take you back to Scotland Yard first,” said Harry.

  ♦

  Kerridge was silent on the drive back. He wished with all his heart that Harry had left well enough alone. His boss would be furious with him. Dolores Duval had been a tart, and that put her in the category of we-don’t-care-what-happened-so-long-as-we-can-wrap-up-the-case.

  But according to his political beliefs, the lowest in the land were deserving of proper police work just as the highest. He would do what Harry had requested. He insisted Harry follow him to his office to make a statement about finding the box and detailing what it contained.

  While Harry was making his statement, Becket went to a phone box and called Daisy.

  “Is this what our life is going to be like?” complained Daisy. “I’ve been mostly alone all day. What have you been doing?”

  Becket told her that he had taken Harry to Jeffrey’s old address, how he had found a box there and how he had heard Kerridge grumble that Harry did not believe that Jeffrey had committed the murders.

  “What does Jeffrey
say?” asked Daisy.

  “Nothing. He hanged himself in his cell. He was going to tell Kerridge something important this morning, but when Kerridge arrived, he was already dead. The captain doesn’t think it’s suicide; he thinks it’s murder. I’d better go. We’ll talk tonight.”

  “If you ever come home,” said Daisy.

  Daisy then phoned Rose and told her the latest findings.

  “I wish we could do some detecting like we did before,” said Rose. “I mean, if Jeffrey didn’t do it, who did? I know: If you can find out from Becket the address of that grocer’s shop that their father owned, we could start there. I’ll tell Mama that we are going down the East End to perform charitable works. She’ll agree because she thinks that sort of thing will rehabilitate me in the eyes of society. Come round tomorrow morning.”

  ♦

  It was an hour before Harry came out of Scotland Yard and joined Becket. The lamps along the Embankment had been lit and the Thames gleamed an oily black as it slid past on its way to the sea.

  “I think we should leave any further investigation until tomorrow,” said Harry, much to Becket’s relief.

  “And where do we go tomorrow?” asked Becket.

  “We’re going to take a trip to 19 Sordey Street in Whitechapel. Dolores’s father had a shop there, or I’m sure he had, because that’s an address I found in that box.”

  As soon as they reached the house in Chelsea, Becket put on an apron and went down to the kitchen to prepare dinner. Daisy had turned out to be a quite dreadful cook. Daisy joined him and gave him a fierce hug.

  “Later,” said Becket. “We’ve got to get the captain’s dinner ready. I’ll grill some lamb chops – that’s quick and easy. Thank goodness he likes a simple meal. There’s apple pie and cream for dessert.”

  After he had taken Harry’s dinner up to him, Becket laid the kitchen table for himself and Daisy.

  “We’re going to see that Dolores woman’s father, or rather where the father used to have a shop,” said Becket, deftly putting lamb chops, vegetables and potatoes on a plate and putting it in front of Daisy.

  “And where’s that?” asked Daisy. Becket served up his own food and joined her at the table.

  “It’s in Whitechapel, 19 Sordey Street.”

  Daisy made a mental note. She decided it would not be wise to tell Becket that Rose meant to go there herself. He would protest and tell the captain and then she would have another day on her own with nothing to do.

  “We’ll need to ask the captain to get us that apartment,” said Daisy. “And you will then need to discuss your hours with him.”

  “How can I do that? Servants don’t get time off, apart from one week a year.”

  “And I was supposed to work. You must ask him about that.”

  “I think he is being considerate because of the baby coming.”

  “But you don’t know! Honestly, it’s more like you were married to him instead of to me!”

  ♦

  The next morning, after they had left, Daisy took a cab to the earl’s residence. Rose was delighted to see her. “I talked to Mama, and she is agreeable. We’d better take a cab so as not to draw attention to ourselves. Your hat is too grand, Daisy. I’ll give you a plain one to wear.”

  Daisy removed her cartwheel straw hat embellished with sprigs of artificial lavender and reluctantly put on a plain straw boater. Rose was wearing a blouse and skirt with a light coat and a broad-brimmed felt hat without any embellishment.

  “We must get out before Mama wakes or she will insist on sending footmen with us,” said Rose. “This is fun! Quite like old times.”

  “Rose,” said Daisy cautiously, “have you considered that if Jeffrey did not kill his sister and that Frenchwoman, there might be a murderer out there?”

  “I should be safe,” said Rose. “Say it is someone else who was manipulating Jeffrey into trying to put the blame on me, well, now, as far as he knows, he has a scapegoat in the late Jeffrey.”

  “Still, he might be dangerous,” said Daisy. “I mean, if he murdered Jeffrey, how did he manage to do it?”

  “Some visitor?”

  “I asked Becket and he asked the captain last night after dinner. The captain said that no one was logged in the prison book.”

  “Odd. But let’s go.”

  ♦

  Harry arrived at 19 Sordey Street. It was still a grocer’s shop, a small dingy place. He opened the door and a bell tied by a rope above the door clanged loudly. A woman was behind the counter, slapping butter into blocks with two wooden paddles.

  “Can I ‘elp you?” she asked.

  She was a tall, thin woman with a lantern-jawed face and her hair tied tightly in a scarlet kerchief – the type of woman, Harry thought, who might have knitted below the scaffold during the French Revolution.

  “I believe a Mr Biles used to own this shop,” he said.

  “So what’s that to you?”

  Harry presented his card. She squinted at it and then glared at him. “We don’t like nosy parkers round ‘ere.”

  “It’s a simple question. Did a Mr Biles own this shop?”

  “If you’re not buying anythink, shove off.”

  ♦

  Rose and Daisy saw Becket’s car outside the shop and told the driver to go farther along the street. “We’ll wait until they’ve gone,” said Rose. “I think Harry would send me home if he saw me.”

  Rose peered out the small back window. “Harry’s come out. He looks angry. I don’t think he got anywhere.”

  “They don’t trust people asking questions around here,” said Daisy, feeling confident now that she was back in her home ground of London’s East End. “I tell you what. When we go in, you don’t say anything. Leave the talking to me. We’d better buy a lot of stuff. I bet they never thought of that.”

  They waited until they saw them drive off. Telling the cabbie to wait, they made their way back to the shop.

  Daisy smiled brightly at the woman behind the counter and her voice changed back to its old Cockney accent as she asked, “Got any ham, luv?”

  “Fine bit o’ Wiltshire.”

  “I’ll take a pound o’ that.”

  “A pound!” The woman’s grim features lightened.

  She heaved a ham onto the slicing machine. “You’re not from around here?”

  “Used ter be,” chirped Daisy. “I was in the chorus at Butler’s.”

  “Was you now? I used ter go there Saturday nights. Luvverley it was.”

  “I’m down visiting me family. I’ll take a pound of butter as well. I know everywhere around ‘ere. Hey, wasn’t there a grumpy man who used to own this shop? Can’t remember his name. Oh, a pound of sugar as well.”

  “That ud be Biles. Died o’ a heart attack. The son sold the shop to me.” She lowered her voice. “The son, Jeffrey, been banged up for murder.”

  “Never!” screeched Daisy.

  “Yus. Murdered his own sister.”

  “Did you know the sister?”

  “‘Member her, way back. Pretty little thing. Ran away. He used to beat ‘er. He wanted ‘er to go with Mr Jones, him what owned the haberdashery down the Mile End Road. Lived in Breem Lane. Now, she was but fifteen and Jones was in ‘is late thirties. Scandal, it were. Betty, that was the daughter, she said she wouldn’t and Biles beat the living daylights out of her. She took the money out of the till and just went off. Can’t say I blame her.”

  “I’m sure this Mr Jones found someone else.”

  “Yes, he got himself a nice little bride and it all worked out in the end.”

  Daisy paid for the groceries and they left and walked back to the waiting cab. “That ham did not look fresh,” said Rose. “Give it away.”

  “If I give it away to someone nearby, word’ll get back to her. Let’s find out where Breem Lane is.”

  ♦

  Breem Lane was narrow and dirty. Scruffy children without shoes played in the dirt. Blowsy women hung out of windows and stared at the c
arriage.

  “Better let me go on with the talking,” said Daisy as they both stood uneasily by the cab.

  She shouted up to a fat woman at one of the windows, “Mr Jones, the haberdasher, live here?”

  “Naw, left to go live uptown.”

  “Where would that be?”

  The woman half turned her head and shouted, “Marigold!”

  “What is it, Ma?” a voice called from inside the flat.

  “Someone wanting Jones’s address. ‘Member, him what ‘ad the haberdashery?”

  “Notting Hill it were. Chepstow Mansions. Real posh. Liza went to do the cleaning once, but they got rid o’ her.”

  Daisy thanked the woman. They got back in the cab. “Notting Hill,” Daisy shouted up to the driver. “Chepstow Mansions.”

  “You’re running up a fearsome bill,” grumbled the cabby.

  “Get on with you,” ordered Daisy. “We’ve got the money.”

  She lowered the trap in the roof and sank back next to Rose. “You have got the money, I hope,” said Daisy.

  “Yes, I came prepared. Oh, wait. Look at that poor woman. I don’t think she’s had a meal in ages.” Rose rapped on the roof with her parasol and the cab came to a halt.

  “Give her the groceries,” said Rose.

  Daisy got out of the cab and handed the woman the paper bags full of groceries and then quickly got back in again. “Drive on,” she shouted.

  ♦

  Meanwhile, Harry and Becket had spent a weary time looking for the witnesses, George and Sarah Briggs. No one seemed to have heard of them. But people regarded them with suspicion.

  At last, Becket cleared his throat and said cautiously, “You might try offering money for information, sir. If I were you, I would start with one shilling and a bright child.”

  “I think we’re attracting too much attention with this motor. Drive off and park it somewhere up in the City – then we’ll take a cab and when we get back here, we’ll walk about on foot.”

  When they returned to Sordey Street, Harry spotted a child who could have posed for an illustration of the Artful Dodger. He was lounging against a lamp post, his hands in his pockets.

  “Would you like to earn some money?” asked Harry.

  “What for?”

  “Information. I’m trying to find a Mr George Briggs, a driver.”