Scarper Jack and the Bloodstained Room

by Christopher Russell

  Downstairs, the butler was emerging from the breakfast room. He showed no surprise at seeing Richard Featherstone so early. Though not as vigorous as his father, the son wasn’t lazy.

  ‘Good morning, Parfitt. Is my father about?’

  ‘Uh, no, Mr Richard. As far as I’m aware, he didn’t return home last night.’

  ‘Oh.’

  ‘Will you take breakfast downstairs, sir, or in your room?’

  Richard ignored the question. ‘There’s been no word from my father?’

  ‘Not that I’ve been informed, sir.’ Parfitt paused politely then tried again. ‘Breakfast, sir?’

  ‘I think I’d better go and see that Pa’s all right first,’ said Richard.

  He dressed quickly, while the carriage was brought round, and just half an hour later was in Nunwell Street. He’d brought a spare key and took it from his pocket, went quickly up the steps and turned it in the lock. The door didn’t give; it was still bolted. Nobody answered his knock.

  Richard hurried off to find a policeman and was in luck, meeting two of them at the first road junction. They recognized Henry Featherstone’s son and returned with him to number seventeen.

  ‘I’m concerned for my father,’ said Richard as they walked. ‘He may have been taken ill. We need to get into the building.’

  The policemen briefly tried the door then regarded the ground-floor windows. They opted for the one without curtains, and with difficulty and a tear in his tailcoat, one of them climbed over the street railings. He peered in at the window then struck it once with his truncheon. Richard flinched as the glass shattered loudly. The policeman knocked out the jagged remnants and clambered through.

  Within seconds Richard heard the bolts being drawn. He pushed in through the opening door, ahead of the second policeman.

  ‘Where does he work, sir?’ asked the policeman who’d broken in.

  The closed office door was right beside them. Richard turned the handle and threw the door open.

  ‘Pa…’ he called. ‘Are you…’

  The words died away on his lips. The room looked like a battlefield. The portrait of his mother, the only painting his father cared for, hung at a crazy angle above the mantelpiece, its glass cracked. The dainty chair for visitors lay on its back, one leg snapped off, and even the heavy document cupboard had been toppled on its face. Piles of papers and files were strewn over the floor, most of them stained pink or red with blood. Blood was everywhere: splashed up the walls, across the floor, on the furniture and the curtains. And in the middle of the floor lay his father: a battered twisted heap, his unseeing eyes staring at the ceiling. For the first time in his life, Richard Featherstone screamed.

  It took both policemen to pull him away. They forced themselves past him and into the room. Henry Featherstone had not succumbed without a struggle but he was most certainly dead. The gas lamps on the wall hissed on, regardless of the sudden daylight.

  ‘There must be something going on,’ said the girl in the police cell. ‘Should have let us out by now.’ She turned from the small barred window in the door for the umpteenth time. ‘Gran’ll be worried stiff.’

  In the early morning light, Jack could see the concerned frown on her thin face. She sat down again. ‘What’s your family do?’ she asked, clearly to take her mind off her gran.

  ‘Haven’t really got one,’ replied Jack. ‘Only my father now. He’s a caretaker somewhere, I think.’

  ‘My pa was a sewer hunter,’ said the girl, whose name was April. ‘Only he’s dead now. Not in the sewers,’ she emphasized. ‘He died in his bed. So did Ma. So it’s me and Gran now.’

  She spoke with quiet determination, as if she were now head of the family, which Jack supposed she was.

  ‘Why are you in here?’ he asked.

  ‘Got caught down a drain,’ said April. ‘I was in the sewers. I go down sometimes if there’s no other work. Only it’s a crime now, sewer hunting. So if the crushers spot you down there you get taken. Still, they give me bread and jam when they brung me in and I hid the shilling I’d just dug out the sewer mud, so I’ve done all right.’

  ‘Won’t you go to prison?’

  ‘No, they’ll just tell me off. You won’t either. Not for being drunk. They’ll just make you mop the floor in here then throw you out as well.’ She got up and went restlessly to the door again. ‘Gran’ll be worried stiff,’ she repeated as she peered through the bars. ‘There must be something going on.’

  There was.

  Colonel Giles Radcliffe, Assistant Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police, had jumped from his carriage and was striding through the police station. He emerged into the assembly yard, and the sergeants and constables of E Division stood swiftly to attention under the watchful eye of their inspectors and station superintendent. Bigwig senior officers rarely visited police stations. Certainly not to take personal charge of murder investigations. And there was an added interest with this senior officer. He was only recently appointed, having returned from India, where he’d been Inspector General of the Bengal Police. It was rumoured he had ‘ideas’. The rank and file of E Division weren’t sure if that was a good thing or not.

  The man from India addressed them without preamble.

  ‘Good morning, gentlemen. I shan’t detain you long. You will all know by now of the vile crime committed in Nunwell Street. The Impossible Crime, as the newspapers are already calling it, since there seems to have been no way in or out for the murderer: everything was still locked and barred after the event. Clearly, though, this crime was not impossible. Henry Featherstone is most certainly dead. He is also famous. His death will not go unregarded. The eyes of the nation are upon us, and the newspapers will ensure they remain so. That is both a burden and, I hope, an inspiration: an opportunity for the men of E Division to show their mettle. Between us we shall solve this “impossible crime”, but we shall do so only by close attention to detail. No piece of information, however tiny, must be passed over. That is my method: neglect nothing; ignore nothing; dismiss nothing. If your sergeants or inspectors are too busy to listen, if you cannot find an officer of the Detective Branch, come straight to me. I am here to nail a murderer, not to stand on rank. Speak with me, work with me, and E Division will become as famous as Henry Featherstone himself.’ He paused.

  ‘We have so far only one possible lead: a reported sighting of a woman in Nunwell Street somewhere between seven and nine o’clock. We need more. Good luck.’

  He nodded at the station superintendent and left the yard as swiftly as he’d entered.

  A murmur passed through the massed policemen. In the very back row, Constable John Adams was feeling distinctly unsettled. Neglect nothing, ignore nothing, dismiss nothing. Dismiss nothing, that was the worrying one. He was thinking of the sweep’s boy who’d accosted him in the street, claiming to have had a dream. Adams had dismissed him. Now the dream had proved truly prophetic. Perhaps he should mention it after all. To his sergeant, at least. To approach the Assistant Commissioner directly was unthinkable, despite the invitation to do so. Then again, what was the point? Adams had no idea who the boy was or where to find him, so mentioning it now would only cause trouble. Constable Adams didn’t like trouble. It was probably just coincidence anyway.

  ‘Anything wrong, Adams?’

  ‘No, sergeant.’

  ‘Get yourself out on the street then. Number five beat.’

  ‘Yes, sergeant.’

  April sprang back from the small barred window.

  ‘Someone’s coming at last.’

  A key turned in the heavy lock and the door swung open.

  ‘Out,’ ordered the station sergeant. ‘The pair of you.’

  ‘What’s happening?’ asked Jack.

  He’d never been in a police station before but, like April, he sensed heightened activity.

  ‘No concern of yours, I hope,’ said the sergeant. ‘Go away and don’t come back.’

  Outside on the pavement, Jack said a slightly a
wkward goodbye to April. She looked very pinched and anxious in the daylight.

  ‘Which way d’you go?’ he asked.

  April nodded to the right. ‘Primrose Court, over Deptford.’

  ‘I go this way,’ said Jack, indicating left.

  There was a brief pause.

  ‘Stay off the beer,’ advised April and she hurried away.

  Jack walked more slowly. After a few minutes he realized he was heading towards the Jevons’ address rather than his father’s and reluctantly changed direction. He didn’t know if his father would be indoors or not and wasn’t in a hurry to find out. He still felt ill. He wiped his face again with the damp cloth that April had draped round his neck after washing him, and noticed that it was, in fact, a silk handkerchief. She hadn’t asked for it back but he felt bad now that he hadn’t returned it.

  A news vendor was chanting enthusiastically at the corner of his father’s street.

  ‘Second edition. Financier found dead. Second edition. Grisly murder. Impossible crime…’

  Jack’s stomach lurched. Grisly murder? In his pocket he had a birthday sovereign given to him by his father and a single penny. He paid his penny for a paper and sat on the pavement to study it. He couldn’t read well but was better at it than most sweeps’ boys. His mother had taught him and the Jevons’ house and yard were full of newspapers. Mr Jevons preferred the inside pages, where he found what he called ‘gems of information’. Jack stared now at a front page.

  Nunwell Street. Seventeen Nunwell

  Street. Violent Struggle. Bloody

  Murder. Doors and Windows Locked

  and Bolted. No Way In or Out. Mystery.

  Impossible Crime. Bloody Murder.

  MURDER. NUNWELL STREET!

  Jack felt his skin crawling again and the now familiar rising within his stomach. He dropped the newspaper and rushed round the end of the houses and along the back alleyway to the shared privy, reaching it just in time before he was violently sick.

  On his knees, shaking with nausea and shock, he confronted the truth. There had indeed been a killing.

  And he knew where the murderer lived.

  3

  Lies

  Richard Featherstone sat on the staircase. Number seventeen seemed full of policemen. They edged discreetly past him, up and down the stairs. He was still shaking and knew he must look awful. He could still hear his scream inside his head. Mercifully, his father’s body had now been removed.

  Inside the office to his left, the senior officer was going through his father’s papers. An Assistant Commissioner, no less. Richard felt vaguely honoured on behalf of his father.

  The Assistant Commissioner had first noted carefully where each of the documents that had fallen or been thrown from the desk was lying. Then he’d picked up every sheet and ledger with the greatest delicacy, as if they were in danger of disintegrating, peering at each one before laying it on the desk. He’d also read everything in a way that suggested the mysteries of finance, of stocks and shares and bonds and promissory notes, weren’t mysteries at all. They were to Richard. He braced himself to feel foolish when the Assistant Commissioner asked him questions about his father’s business.

  ‘Did your father have enemies?’

  It was, in the event, the obvious question.

  Richard shrugged. ‘I suppose for every investor who considered him a hero, there was one who did not.’

  The Assistant Commissioner indicated the papers he’d been studying.

  ‘This appears a most…’ He chose the word carefully.‘… ambitious venture. Were there partners in it? Sharing the risk?’

  ‘Not that I know of. My father preferred to stand or fall alone.’

  ‘Your mother…’

  ‘Is in America. Visiting relatives.’

  Mrs Featherstone had been visiting relatives for three years now. Both she and Richard’s father had found their marriage pleasanter when apart.

  ‘We shall need the names and addresses of all employees,’ said the Assistant Commissioner. ‘Everyone who was ever in this building, from the senior accountant to the cleaner.’

  ‘I’ve already made details available to your men,’ said Richard. ‘Though I shouldn’t like the lower staff… harrassed. My father was a generous employer. Well liked.’ Richard looked at the Assistant Commissioner. ‘I have a strong interest in the poor and middling, Colonel Radcliffe. They should not always be instinctively blamed. There are other motives for crime besides greed and envy.’

  The Assistant Commissioner returned the look steadily.

  ‘I do not establish guilt by instinct, Mr Featherstone. Only by fact.’ He paused a moment. ‘Who would you say knows this building best?’

  When a neighbour came to use the privy, Jack was still slumped outside it.

  ‘You’re Tony Tolchard’s boy, aren’t you?’ asked the neighbour.

  Jack looked up and nodded.

  ‘The crushers are at your door.’

  Police Constable Downing was, in fact, inside the door now. Tony had tumbled out of bed at the third knock and let him in. They were sitting at the table when Jack eased into the room. His father was bleary-eyed and had clearly slept fully dressed but didn’t look as if he’d been sick all night like his son.

  ‘Seventeen Nunwell Street. You’re the caretaker. Did you lock all the windows?’ asked Constable Downing.

  He seemed less than friendly, as if he’d taken an instant dislike, which he had. He knew a boozy, good-for-nothing when he met one. He met a lot.

  ‘Course I did,’ said Tony comfortably.

  ‘Look in every room before you left?’

  Tony nodded again. ‘That’s my routine. There was no one in the building save Mr Featherstone and his son. Not even a mouse.’

  He’d noticed Jack appear and grinned at him.

  ‘Morning, son. Light the fire, will you, and put the kettle on? I’m sure the constable would like a cup of tea.’

  The constable turned and looked at Jack, then frowned. He returned his gaze to Tony.

  ‘Are you aware this lad spent last night in a cell? I picked him up off the street dead drunk.’

  Tony shrugged. ‘It was his birthday,’ he said and grinned again, proudly. ‘A young man’s got to have such adventures.’

  Jack crouched in front of the grate, fumbling with sticks and scraps of paper; and keeping his head down to hide his shock. He’d known his father was a caretaker. But not at number seventeen Nunwell Street. His stomach churned again but fortunately was now completely empty. He struck a lucifer with trembling fingers. As the small fire smouldered into life, he heard heavy footsteps on the stairs outside the room and a knock at the door.

  Constable Downing went to open it and was startled to find the new Assistant Commissioner on the threshold. Richard Featherstone was behind him. Downing saluted and stood aside.

  ‘Claims he shut and checked everything, sir, and was last out save Mr Featherstone junior.’

  Colonel Radcliffe nodded and regarded Tony Tolchard, who’d remained seated casually, almost insolently, at the table. He also noticed the skinny boy by the fire.

  ‘My son, Jack,’ announced Tony, then, as Richard Featherstone entered the room, he stood up, suddenly a picture of grave condolence.

  ‘Terrible news, Mr Richard.’

  ‘Indeed, Tolchard. Thank you for your concern.’

  The Assistant Commissioner seemed immediately to have lost interest in Tony and was wandering around the room, which was quite spacious, serving as kitchen, parlour and bedroom all in one.

  ‘There will be no work for you today, of course,’ continued Richard. ‘And the office is closed until further notice, but you’ll continue to be paid.’

  Tony looked surprised.

  ‘My father would have wanted it,’ said Richard, ‘and so do I. The tragedy’s mine. It shouldn’t inflict hardship on our employees. Here.’ He took a card from inside his jacket and handed it to Tony. ‘My card. Come to the address on it for
your wages from day to day until told otherwise. I’ll arrange for the money to be given to you if I’m not there.’

  Tony looked awkwardly at the card, hesitated as if about to speak, then put it in his pocket. Colonel Radcliffe noticed the hesitation. He can’t read, he thought.

  ‘You can also rest assured,’ said Richard with a certain emphasis, ‘that you will be treated fairly in these enquiries, and with respect.’ He glanced at Constable Downing and the Assistant Commissioner. ‘Colonel Radcliffe understands my views with regard to jumping to conclusions.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Tony humbly. ‘Thank you very much.’

  Colonel Radcliffe made no comment. ‘How d’you come by so much money, Mr Tolchard?’ he asked without turning.

  A small heap of sovereigns lay on a low table beside the unmade bed. He was gazing down at them as he spoke, then turned with a look of mild enquiry.

  Placing the kettle on its trivet on the grate, Jack was jolted by the echo of his own question in the Cap and Cockerel.

  ‘I’m a gambling man, sir. Won it on the horses. Epsom last week.’

  Jack’s grip on the kettle tightened. His father never gambled and despised those who did.

  ‘Can you tell me where you were last evening? After leaving Nunwell Street?’

  The Assistant Commissioner’s voice was level, unthreatening, but Jack felt it would be a difficult voice to lie to. His father sounded unconcerned.

  ‘Came home at six o’clock. Washed and changed. It was Jack’s birthday. We went out to celebrate. At the Cap and Cockerel.’

  ‘The boy was found in Branham Street at midnight, sir,’ said Downing tersely. ‘On his own.’

  ‘There’s a lady friend can vouch for me from midnight,’ said Tony easily.

  ‘And before?’ asked Colonel Radcliffe.

  ‘Why, as I’ve said: with Jack.’

  ‘The entire evening?’

  ‘The entire evening. We’ve been apart these past three years and more. Last night was precious to me. Ask the boy, if you like. He’ll confirm what I say.’

  ‘I wouldn’t expect him to do anything else, Mr Tolchard.’