The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

‘Yes, but we haven’t caught them or Bertha Maybrick,’ growled Anthony. ‘They can always start again. They’re dangerous.’

  Tara shuddered. ‘They are. I could hardly believe I’d slept in the same house as that woman. It was horrible when she stabbed Father Quinet.’ She glanced at her husband. ‘You’re quite sure he’ll be all right?’

  Anthony nodded. He had visited the old priest in Charing Cross Hospital before coming to Scotland Yard. ‘It was a nasty blow, but he’s a tough old bird. Fortunately, he had a thick coat which took most of the blow and you stopped that lunatic woman killing him. That poor beggar Hoyland will probably have a scar for the rest of his natural though.’

  ‘We’ll pick Bertha Maybrick up soon enough,’ asserted Sir Douglas confidently. ‘We’ve got a first-rate description and the entire force is looking for her.’

  ‘I wish we had some idea where to look,’ said Tara fretfully. ‘The first thing Anthony did after she’d arrived was go through her box and things, but there wasn’t anything personal, was there? No photographs or books or anything to show us where she’d come from or where she might hide.’

  ‘No,’ began Anthony, then stopped. ‘There were receipts in her purse,’ he said slowly. ‘All for purchases the week before. One for a coat, another for a pair of shoes but there was one for a pork chop, half a pound of sausages and so on. Meat.’

  Tara, Sir Douglas and Charles Talbot stared at him. ‘So we know she’s not a vegetarian?’ prompted Sir Charles.

  Anthony waved him silent. ‘No, it’s not that. Damn!’ He turned to Tara. ‘I know Bertha Maybrick’s box will still be in the flat, but I suppose she had her purse with her.’

  ‘I imagine so,’ said Tara. ‘She certainly had her handbag. She was carrying the knife in it. Is it important, Anthony?’

  He nodded. ‘It could be. I’d like to see those receipts again. After all, why would she buy meat?’

  Tara looked at him blankly. ‘Why not? I know she’s next door to a lunatic, but she’s got to eat.’

  ‘But where?’ demanded Anthony. ‘Where does she eat? When she was in Grace Russell’s flat, you paid for all the food, didn’t you? She didn’t.’ He jerked his thumb at the box of files taken from the Diligent. ‘We know that story about her being employed by Gloria Wilde, the actress, is nonsense. She hadn’t had a job for a couple of weeks. Where was she cooking her meals?’

  Charles Talbot looked up, enlightenment dawning. ‘In a boarding house?’ he suggested. ‘Residents usually buy their own food.’

  Anthony shook his head. ‘No, it can’t be a boarding house. This was the bill for a week’s worth of meat. If she lived in a boarding house, she’d buy each meal separately.’

  Tara sat up, her eyes gleaming. ‘Butchers don’t give receipts for individual purchases. The butcher’s boy comes every day with the delivery and the butcher sends a bill at the end of the week. She must’ve had it delivered!’

  Sir Charles smacked his fist into the palm of his hand. ‘That means she’s got her own flat or house! It has to mean that! She must’ve made a deal of money from blackmail. Can you remember where these receipts were from, Brooke?’

  Anthony sunk his chin into his hands, trying to visualize the thin pieces of paper. ‘Fletcher’s Drapers. High-quality Ladies’ wear,’ he said eventually. ‘That was the coat. The shoes were from Mercers.’

  ‘Mercers are on Oxford Street,’ said Tara.

  Sir Douglas picked up Kelly’s Street Directory and turned to the trades section. ‘And so are Fletcher’s Drapers.’ He looked hopefully at Anthony. ‘The butchers?’

  Anthony frowned, concentrating hard. ‘Wilkinson! That’s it! Ebenezer Wilkinson and Son, family butchers.’

  Sir Douglas flipped through the book to the list of butchers. ‘Walker, Widdecombe, Wilfred, Wilkinson – quite a lot of Wilkinsons – Ebenezer Wilkinson and Son!’ he exclaimed triumphantly. ‘43, Melbourne Street, Paddington.’ He put the book down and beamed at Anthony. ‘Well done.’

  Anthony stood up. ‘I think I’d better pay a visit to Paddington.’

  SIXTEEN

  Mr Ebenezer Wilkinson lived over his shop and was none too pleased to be disturbed over his evening pipe and newspaper by a Dr Brooke in company with Constable Bryce and Sergeant Atkinson from Scotland Yard. How should he know, he complained, reasonably enough, the name and address of everyone he’d ever sold a pork chop to? A delivery? Well, that was different.

  He supposed, he said, rising stiffly from his armchair, that they’d better come downstairs and look at the ledger in the shop, but he couldn’t recall any Maybrick on the books.

  Together the four men went downstairs to the darkened shop. As an afterthought, Mr Wilkinson called up the stairs for his son, Alan, a sharp-looking boy of fifteen. Alan, explained Mr Wilkinson, as he clattered down the stairs after them, was the delivery boy.

  Mr Wilkinson lit the gas and opened the delivery book on the scrubbed beech butcher’s block. ‘Maybrick, you say?’ he asked, wetting his forefinger and laboriously turning to the M’s.

  ‘We don’t have any Maybricks, Dad,’ put in Alan, disappointedly. He was obviously enthralled by the presence of Scotland Yard. ‘I’d know if we did.’

  Mr Wilkinson looked down the list of names. ‘No more we do,’ he agreed. ‘I’m sorry, gents, but I can’t help you. You must have the wrong shop.’

  There was a printed block of blank receipts on the counter beside the till. Anthony picked it up. He recognized the receipt. ‘This is the right place,’ he said. ‘The receipt I saw was from here. She’s one of your customers, right enough. She’s probably using another name.’

  Alan’s eyes rounded in awe. ‘Is she a crook? Or a spy? A German spy?’

  ‘She might be,’ agreed Anthony quickly, ignoring Mr Wilkinson’s snort of disbelief. To help track down a German spy was clearly the way to win Alan’s co-operation.

  ‘Cor!’ Alan wriggled with barely suppressed delight. ‘What did she order?’ he demanded. ‘I bet I can remember.’

  Anthony stared at the blank receipt. The dimly lit shop with its row of gleaming knives on the wall, the carcasses on their metal hooks and the smell of fresh sawdust faded as he concentrated hard on the butcher’s receipt in his hand. Scribbled pencilled words seemed to form on the paper. ‘Pork chop,’ he said slowly, ‘half pound beef sausage, quarter pound pig’s liver, half pound streaky bacon, two faggots. Three shillings and eightpence.’

  Alan repeated the words with a frown, then looked up, his face alight. ‘I knows it! I delivered that bill a fortnight come Friday. She’s not called Maybrick, she’s called Kylow!’ He turned to his father. ‘You know Miss Kylow, Dad. She lives on Draycott Road. Number 7.’

  ‘Draycott Road?’ said Constable Bryce. ‘I know it.’

  ‘Miss Kylow?’ repeated Mr Wilkinson. ‘Sour as vinegar, she is and argues about her bill. She’s not here half the time. She says she’s got a sick aunt who needs looking after.’ He smiled slowly. ‘I wouldn’t want her looking after me.’

  ‘I’ve seen her!’ said Alan, nearly jumping with excitement. ‘I seen her not half an hour ago! She was outside the shop, walking towards Draycott Road. She was with a man.’

  Sergeant Atkinson looked at Anthony. ‘A man?’ he said quickly. ‘I wonder if that’s Harper?’

  ‘Is he a spy too?’ asked Alan.

  Although anxious to be off, Anthony didn’t want to disappoint him. After all, if the boy was right, he’d led them to Bertha Maybrick and, with any luck, Joshua Harper as well. He tapped the side of his nose with his finger and winked conspiratorially at the boy. ‘Not a word.’

  ‘Cor!’ exclaimed Alan in absolute rapture. ‘German spies!’ He hugged himself in unadulterated joy. ‘I’ve been delivering sausages to a spy.’

  Number 7, Draycott Road was a small terraced house, fronted by a scrubby privet-hedged tiny rectangle of garden. Anthony sent Constable Bryce to the back of the house and, leaving Sergeant Atkinson on the street, carefully opened the
iron gate and crouched down beside the front window.

  Reinforcements were on their way. Sergeant Atkinson had telephoned Scotland Yard from the police box on the corner. Their orders were to make sure Bertha Maybrick and anyone else in the house stayed put until the police cars arrived, but Anthony wanted to make sure their quarry hadn’t slipped away.

  There wasn’t anyone in the front of the house. He could hear the rise and fall of voices, but he couldn’t distinguish the words.

  The curtains were drawn back and he risked a quick glimpse into the darkened room. There was a strip of light from the open door into the hall.

  The window catch was the old latch type. Anthony took out his penknife and quietly inserted the blade under the lock. He held onto the frame as the window swung open and listened.

  A woman’s voice, high and complaining, came from the room beyond the hall. ‘… Over? What d’you mean, over?’ It was Bertha Maybrick.

  ‘You knifed a vicar, you dumb hag!’ Was that Harper? It seemed likely. ‘If he dies, you’ll swing.’

  ‘Oh yeah? They’ve got to catch me first.’

  The man laughed derisively. ‘How long will that take? You’re known, Bertha! That Russell woman could pick you out in a flash. You can’t work for me now.’

  ‘That’s no great loss. The Diligent is bust. I seen the cops at the Diligent. You can’t go back there.’

  ‘So what? The Diligent’s just a name. I can start again any time I like. You’re finished. I might split on you myself.’

  ‘Split?’ Bertha Maybrick’s voice was thick with scorn. ‘You want to shop me? For being a murderer? That’s a laugh! What about you then?’

  There was a sudden silence.

  ‘What d’you mean?’ Harper’s voice was quiet and wary.

  ‘Jowett, that’s what I mean. I know a lot about you, Harper. Think you’re so clever, don’t you? Well, you’re not. I ain’t going quiet. You ain’t getting rid of me.’

  Again, there was silence. When Harper spoke again, his voice was too low to catch.

  Anthony hesitated, then gripping the window frame, swung his foot over the sill and dropped silently into the room. Creeping to where the door stood ajar, he paused. The hall beyond was unlit, the light coming from a room he guessed was the kitchen.

  Bertha Maybrick’s voice was high and cracked. ‘Don’t say that! I know, you understand? Of course I know. I’d be stupid not to know.’

  ‘What do you know?’ Harper’s voice was deadly.

  ‘About Annie.’ Bertha’s voice dripped with disgust. ‘Think I don’t know why she always gets the plum jobs, the easy pickings? Well, let me tell you, if you have any thoughts of shopping me, I’ve got quite a lot to tell the cops about you and your precious Annie.’ There was a pause. ‘See this?’ she cried triumphantly. ‘If I were you, I’d think again.’

  She was obviously showing Harper something.

  There was complete, frozen silence.

  When Harper spoke again, his voice was quiet, even gentle. ‘Come on, Bertha. We’ve always been pals. Now you just give me that, like a good girl, and we’ll say no more about it.’

  Anthony couldn’t see danger but he could sense it. Standing behind the door into the hall in the darkened room, the air seemed suddenly deadly cold.

  There was a sudden, tremendous crash, as if something had been overturned.

  ‘Keep off!’ screamed Bertha. ‘I’ll use this knife, I means it! I’ve knifed one man today and I’ll—’

  There was a series of thumps, muffled grunts, a yelp of pain and then a horrible, drawn-out, choking gurgle.

  It was enough.

  Anthony was through the door and into the hall at a run. Flinging back the door at the end of the hall, he burst into the kitchen.

  It was a small, cramped room with an empty black kitchen range and a table covered with a red check patterned oilcloth. The kitchen drawer was upended on the floor, forks, spoons and knives scattered across the linoleum. Even at that moment, Anthony knew that had been the crash he’d heard.

  Bertha Maybrick, a hand to her throat, was slumped against the kitchen range, the other hand clawing uselessly at a black something on her dress.

  Someone – Harper – shouted in terror as Anthony cannoned through the door. He had one glimpse of a white, startled face, then Harper wrenched open the back door and leapt down the steps, missing Anthony’s grasping hand by inches.

  ‘Stop him!’ Anthony roared to the policeman outside.

  He made to race after him, but Bertha Maybrick, in two staggering steps, lurched across the kitchen and fell, clutching his coat.

  Blood pumping and desperate for the chase, Anthony went to knock her hand away, then she whimpered.

  The sound brought him up sharp. He simply couldn’t leave her. Catching hold of her, he laid her gently on the floor. The something on her dress was the hilt of a knife. He could see it move up and down as she frantically fought for breath. Her eyes were wide and unfocused and there was a darker stain on the front of her dark dress.

  She gave a rasping croak – a hideous sound – then the hilt of the knife stopped moving.

  Anthony sat back on his heels. He felt sick. Bertha Maybrick had blackmailed Tara, callously spied on those who trusted her, connived at the murder of Edward and Mrs Jowett and attempted to murder Father Quinet, but at that moment Anthony could’ve strangled her killer with his bare hands.

  The shouting from outside seemed very remote. Wearily he stood up and shook himself back to the here and now.

  He leaned against the open kitchen door, breathing deeply, and lit a cigarette.

  As if the volume on a gramophone had been turned up, the sounds from the road outside increased as the drumming of the blood in his head diminished. He heard the creak of windows being thrown open as police whistles shrilled. Voices; lots of voices, neighbours shocked by the sudden eruption of violence on their quiet street. More shouts, deep men’s voices; he recognized Sergeant Atkinson yelling orders. Pounding feet, dogs barking, more whistles and then, against a hubbub of inquisitive, muttering sounds from the street, the sound of the front door opening.

  Constable Bryce stepped into the light from the kitchen door.

  ‘We lost him, sir, …’ he began, then took in the scene in the kitchen. ‘Good God,’ he said softly. He gulped as he saw the lifeless, bloodstained body of Bertha Maybrick. With obscure decency, he took off his cap and stood silently for a moment. ‘So Harper’s wanted for murder, now,’ he said.

  Of course, Anthony reminded himself, Constable Bryce knew nothing about the Jowett murders.

  ‘I’ll be back in a minute, sir.’ Constable Bryce turned and, retreating down the path, called for Sergeant Atkinson, leaving Anthony alone with his thoughts.

  He looked at the dead woman on the floor. She’d known. Harper had killed her because she’d known.

  What had she known? At first, it sounded as if she knew the true story of the Jowetts’ murders but was that all?

  Anthony cast his mind back. I’ve got quite a lot to tell the cops about you and your precious Annie. That had brought Harper up short. Then Bertha had shown Harper something. What?

  It could have been a knife, he supposed. Then, threatened with a knife, Harper tried persuasion before wrenching open the cutlery drawer and grabbing a knife himself. Was that it?

  Maybe. Bertha Maybrick’s handbag, a substantial brown leather bag with a clasp, lay open on the floor by the kitchen range. He looked inside. There, wrapped in a handkerchief, blotched with the rusty colour of blood, was a bone-handled kitchen knife. So it wasn’t a knife she had shown him. No, it was something else.

  See this? There had been a crow of triumph in her voice. What had she shown him? Whatever it was, the sight of it had changed Harper’s tune. From being angry and dismissive, he had suddenly become gentle and persuasive. Now you just give me that, like a good girl …

  Anthony lit another cigarette. He remembered the acute chill of danger that had suddenly a
ssaulted him. What was Harper doing? He drew on his cigarette, seeing how it trembled in his fingers.

  His fingers. His hands! That was it! Harper, with that gentle voice, had advanced on Bertha Maybrick, hands twitching for the kill.

  He knelt down beside the body and pulled away the collar of her dress. Finger marks and scratches. He was on the right lines.

  That was when Bertha, mad with fright, had struggled free and wrenched open the cutlery drawer. Yes, that made sense. After all, it was her kitchen. She knew where the knives were. She’d grabbed a knife and threatened him with it. The knife she’d threatened him with had been turned against her and now she was dead.

  That all added up, but it still left the question unanswered. What had she shown him?

  She’d obviously had it in her hand. See this? Some significant object. Perhaps a ring or a key or a letter? There was the sound of footsteps on the path and he swore inwardly. He wanted to be alone, to have time to think this out.

  Time. If he had time, Harper would have taken whatever it was with him, but Anthony’s eruption into the kitchen hadn’t left him time. So was it, whatever it was, still here?

  Anthony glanced quickly round the kitchen. Bertha Maybrick had been a tidy woman. Apart from the spilled knives and forks, nothing was out of place. Knives and forks and a murdered woman.

  He knelt down beside her and reached out.

  ‘You shouldn’t disturb the body, sir.’ Sergeant Atkinson stood in the doorway. His voice was awkwardly respectful. ‘We should wait until the doctor arrives.’

  Anthony looked up. ‘I am a doctor.’ He rolled the body over. He felt a stab of disappointment. The linoleum where Bertha had lain was patterned in dark red and white flecks and stained with blood. Then he saw it.

  It was a torn scrap of paper, sticky with blood and almost invisible against the lino. Anthony reached for a knife amongst the jumble of cutlery on the floor and, sliding the blade underneath, picked up the scrap and laid it on his palm.

  The scrap had obviously come from a sheet of letter paper, torn down the side. Torn, Anthony thought, from Bertha Maybrick’s hand by Harper before he made his dash for freedom.