Ghost of Whitechapel

by Mary Jane Staples

  Chapter Seven

  MRS PRITCHARD OPENED HER front door. On her step stood two upright manly-looking blokes in bowler hats, overcoats and polished boots. She blinked in recognition.

  ‘Good morning, Mrs Pritchard,’ said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

  ‘Beggin’ yer pardon, you don’t want me again, do yer?’ she said.

  The Chief Inspector said, ‘We only wish to ask you a few more questions, Mrs Pritchard.’

  ‘Well, if that’s yer wish, you’d best come in, then,’ said Mrs Pritchard reluctantly. ‘You can come through to me kitchen, it’s warmer there.’

  The Scotland Yard men removed their bowlers and stepped in. Ross closed the door for the lady, and followed her and the Chief Inspector into the kitchen. It looked slightly untidy, which didn’t detract from its homely atmosphere. The range fire was going, and Mrs Pritchard invited the policemen to sit down. She also said she’d put the kettle on, if they fancied a cup of tea.

  ‘Thanks, but no,’ said Ross, as he and Dobbs sat down.

  Seating herself, Mrs Pritchard said, ‘Is it more questions about that poor Maureen Flanagan?’

  ‘There are some questions,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, all right.’ Mrs Pritchard looked cautious.

  ‘Could you tell us something about Mr Pritchard?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘What, me old man?’ Mrs Pritchard quivered. ‘What’s ’e got to do with it?’

  ‘Did he like Miss Flanagan?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Did he like Miss Flanagan?’

  ‘Well, ’e didn’t unlike ’er. She was a cheerful woman, like I told yer, and Irish as well.’

  ‘She went out some evenings, you said.’ Dobbs looked a kind man, a friendly one. ‘Did Mr Pritchard go too?’

  ‘Go where?’ Mrs Pritchard was suddenly uneasy.

  ‘Did he go out some evenings with Miss Flanagan? To the pub, say?’

  ‘’Ere, ’e didn’t go with ’er, ’e went by hisself, and only now and again,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘And only for a small glass of beer. He’d give up the ’ard drink on account of ’is new job as a lamplighter.’

  ‘Would he have met Miss Flanagan on any of these occasions?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘’Ere, what d’yer mean?’

  ‘If he liked her, he might have been pleased to treat her and give her a bit of company,’ said Ross.

  ‘Me ’usband’s a steady-goin’ married man, I’ll ’ave you know,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘’E don’t keep company with no woman except me.’

  ‘On some occasions he might have said to Miss Flanagan that he’d go along with her to a pub,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Well, ’e didn’t,’ said Mrs Pritchard, shifting about on her chair. ‘Miss Flanagan didn’t ever come down to our kitchen to tell us she was goin’ out. She just went straight out and we’d ’ear ’er go most times.’

  ‘Did Mr Pritchard ever follow her out?’ asked Ross.

  ‘’Ere, what’s all these insinuations about?’ demanded the nervous landlady.

  ‘Oh, just that someone witnessed Mr Pritchard with Miss Flanagan on occasions,’ said Dobbs, ‘and we wondered if she ever mentioned a particular man to him, a man we’d like to talk to.’

  ‘Oh, why didn’t yer say so?’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘I thought you was insinuatin’ it was me old man you was after. Well, p’raps ’e did see Miss Flanagan sometimes when ’e was out, ’e was always ’elpful to ’er, ’e’d go up to ’er room on a Sunday to see if there was any little job ’e could do for her. ’E mended a broken strap on ’er shoe once, and one of ’er chairs another time.’

  ‘He liked her a lot, obviously,’ said Ross.

  ‘Ted’s a friendly man that likes all kinds,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘Mind, I don’t know that Flanagan ever told ’im about some partic’ler man she knew. There was that bloke she called Godfrey, is that the one you mean?’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Ross, ‘and we’d like to get hold of his full name.’

  ‘Well, if she mentioned it to me old man, ’e never mentioned it to me.’

  ‘When does your husband get home?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘You mean you want to talk to ’im?’ Mrs Pritchard didn’t look overjoyed at the idea.

  ‘Only about Miss Flanagan,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Oh, about what she might of told ’im about Godfrey?’

  ‘What she might have told him could be important,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Oh, see what yer mean,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘Well, ’e comes ’ome midday for an hour or so, then goes back to work and later does ’is round lightin’ the street lamps.’

  ‘What time at midday?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Oh, just a bit after twelve-thirty,’ said Mrs Pritchard.

  ‘I see,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘We’ll call back then, if you and your husband don’t mind.’

  ‘Well, you got to ask questions, I suppose,’ said Mrs Pritchard grudgingly.

  ‘It’s the only way,’ said Ross. ‘Don’t get up, Mrs Pritchard, we’ll see ourselves out.’

  They left, making their way to London Bridge.

  ‘Any conclusions, sergeant?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘She’s jumpy,’ said Ross.

  ‘Her old man’s got an eye for a skirt and she knows it, would you say?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Looked like it,’ said Ross. ‘Wouldn’t admit he was friendly with Flanagan until you mentioned a witness. Have we rightly got a witness?’

  ‘Only in the form of an unsigned letter,’ said Dobbs. ‘Still, beggars can’t be choosers, my lad. We’ll get back to the house a little before twelve-thirty, and wait at a distance, then follow Mr Pritchard in. That’ll make sure his old lady doesn’t have time to prime him. Or to wallop him with her iron kettle for making life uncomfortable for her at the moment. Now, d’you want to toddle off to see if Nurse Cartright is on duty?’

  ‘It’s against the rules, socializing with a nurse on duty.’

  ‘And while she’s in uniform?’ said the Chief Inspector.

  ‘I’m sorry I mentioned she was out of it last night,’ said Ross.

  ‘Nothing to be sorry about, sunshine. It’s natural to prefer them in lace and suchlike. All right, we’ll go back to the Yard for a while. There’s a chance of some news about Godfrey Who. It’s time he got in touch. Well, either Godfrey or someone who knows him.’

  ‘Taking into account that Mrs Pritchard was a bag of nerves, I think I fancy her old man myself,’ said Ross.

  ‘As a suspect?’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Or in place of Nurse Cartright?’

  ‘Give over, guv. I’m thinking that Mrs Pritchard’s twice mentioned her old man’s off the hard stuff. What happens to him when he’s on it? Goes a bit crazy? If he did for Flanagan at the back of some local pub, say, Tooley Street wasn’t very far. Better for him to dump her there than close to his own doorstep.’

  ‘I’m admiring of that theory, my lad,’ said Dobbs. ‘I’d say you were a promising prospect for promotion sometime in the future. Not yet. Sometime in the future. By the way, in your theory, what happened to the pool of blood?’

  ‘Pardon?’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, she’d have dropped dead if she’d been standing up. Bound to have left a pool of blood, noticeable to someone the following morning. That someone would have reported it, wouldn’t you say, when news of the murder broke? People don’t like murder, not even persistent wrongdoers.’

  ‘I’ll admit it, guv,’ said Ross, ‘there’s a weak spot in my theory.’

  ‘Good try, though, sergeant, so don’t let it worry you. And Pritchard might still be our man.’

  An urchin came running towards them, a second one in yelling pursuit of him.

  ‘’Ello, coppers,’ panted the first one as he ran past them, ‘ain’t it an ’ard life?’

  On he went, darned socks down, hobnails in his boots. On came the second ragamuffin.

  ‘’Ere, you coppers, why didn’t yer stop ’im?’ he panted. ‘’E’s nick
ed me bleedin’ tanner that I just found.’ He continued his yelling pursuit.

  ‘I’m not fond of being instantly recognizable as a copper,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Remind me sometime to recommend to the Assistant Commissioner a change of plainclothes. Say something like a frockcoat, a top hat and a brolly. Now let’s pick up a cab on the bridge.’

  Bridget and Daisy were enjoying a mid-morning pot of tea. Bridget had slept late after a trying time getting to the restaurant in the fog, an exhausting time washing up mountains of dishes, pans, saucepans, crockery and cutlery, and a nerve-racking time getting home. It might have been even more nerve-racking if an obliging old bloke hadn’t given her a lift from Aldgate tube station to Back Church Lane in his horse and cart. He was doing a carrying job, he said, for friends of his. What kind of carrying job? Best not to ask, said the obliging old bloke, except the stuff’s in the cart under sacks of onions. He informed her he couldn’t see where he was going, but his nag knew the way through the East End blindfold. Sure enough, he was able to drop her off at Back Church Lane, from where Bridget groped her way home. Someone passed her, someone who came looming out of the fog and almost brushed her in going by. Bridget stiffened and went on in haste, trusting to luck that she wouldn’t run into a wall. If this fog keeps up all through winter, she thought, I can see meself having to give up this job, which I can’t afford to.

  Still, she slept well once she was tucked into her bed in the upstairs front. And having woken up late, she was eating a slice of bread and marge with the mid-morning tea.

  ‘Daisy,’ she said, ‘what ’appened about Fred Billings?’

  ‘Oh, ’e went when Billy and me started our supper,’ said Daisy.

  ‘I meant what ’appened about ’im tryin’ to get ’imself into that spare room?’

  ‘Oh, it’s still spare,’ said Daisy, ‘but ’e might call again this evenin’.’

  ‘If he does and if I’m at work,’ said Bridget, ‘chuck the stew saucepan at ’im. If I’m ’ere, I’ll chuck it at ’im meself. It’s the ’eaviest we’ve got.’

  ‘I ’eard once that when a woman chucks a saucepan at a bloke and ’alf kills ’im, she’s the first to mop up ’is blood,’ said Daisy.

  ‘That sort of woman ought to see a doctor,’ said Bridget.

  ‘Bridget, Fred ain’t a bad bloke,’ said Daisy.

  ‘Had a drop of ’is port last night, did you?’ said Bridget.

  ‘Yes, me and Billy just ’ad a small glass each,’ said Daisy. ‘I don’t know if Billy sneaked ’imself another glass before ’e went to bed, but when I put the bottle in the cupboard after breakfast, there wasn’t as much in it as there should ’ave been.’

  ‘Oh, wasn’t there?’ said Bridget. She’d had a full glass herself when she finally arrived home. It was what a girl needed after some very trying hours. ‘Anyway, I’ve got to say it again, Daisy, we don’t want Fred Billings in this ’ouse. Especially not when we’re using the tin bath in the kitchen on Sunday mornings. I ’ope you and Billy understand that.’

  ‘Yes, course we do, Bridget,’ said Daisy, and thought about it. ‘We’d both be very understandin’ if Fred caught you takin’ yer Sunday mornin’ bath in the altogether.’

  Bridget didn’t think that a bit funny.

  From an advantageous point in Tanner Street, Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross watched the approach of a long-legged man. Clad in a flat cap, thick jacket, hard-wearing trousers and a scarf, his boots made no sound as he walked up to the door of his house.

  ‘Rubber soles,’ said Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Interesting,’ said Chief Inspector Dobbs.

  The man opened the door by its latchcord and went in. The Scotland Yard men crossed the street and advanced with speed on the house. Ross knocked loudly. The door was opened almost at once. The long-legged man, still with his cap on, regarded the callers in curiosity. His face was lean and slightly choleric, his moustache bushy, his eyes dark. He looked near to fifty, but not as if his virility was on the wane.

  ‘’Ello, what’ve we got ’ere, then?’ he said. ‘Coppers?’

  ‘Good morning,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘are you Mr Pritchard?’

  ‘Well, yus, I am, cully, I been that all me life.’

  ‘I’m Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard, and this is Sergeant Ross. Might we come in and talk to you, sir?’

  Mr Pritchard hardly looked pleased at the prospect. He twitched a bit.

  ‘It ain’t what I’d call convenient,’ he said. ‘I’ve just come ’ome to ’ave a bite to eat.’

  ‘We shan’t keep you long, Mr Pritchard,’ said Ross.

  ‘What’s it about?’ asked the displeased Mr Pritchard.

  ‘We’re conducting enquiries into the death of Miss Maureen Flanagan, who lodged here,’ said Dobbs.

  ‘Ain’t you already conducted some, ain’t you already talked to me wife?’

  ‘We have, sir,’ said Ross.

  ‘Then what d’yer want to talk to me for?’ asked Mr Pritchard, bushy moustache stirring to the aggressive movements of his lips.

  ‘It won’t take long, sir,’ said Dobbs, offering a smile. The smile made him look as if he was offering friendship as well.

  It disarmed Mr Pritchard.

  ‘Well, all right, come in,’ he said, and his wife appeared then.

  ‘Oh, yer back already,’ she said to Chief Inspector Dobbs, as he and Ross stepped in. ‘They come and talked to me earlier Ted,’ she said to her husband.

  ‘What for?’ asked Mr Pritchard. ‘Yus, what for?’ he asked the policemen.

  ‘We were hoping to see you, sir,’ said Ross.

  ‘What, while I was at work?’ said Mr Pritchard.

  ‘Pleased to have found you in now, sir,’ said Dobbs in affable fashion. ‘Where can we talk?’

  ‘All right, in ’ere,’ said Mr Pritchard, and took them into the parlour, which contained a fading aspidistra as well as horsehair-stuffed armchairs and sofa.

  ‘It’s a bit warmer in the kitchen,’ said Mrs Pritchard, visibly on edge.

  ‘It’ll do in ’ere,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘the gents don’t ’appen to be stayin’ long.’ He looked at the Chief Inspector. ‘Fire away, cully, I ain’t got nothing to ’ide.’

  ‘Did we give the impression that we thought you had?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Yus, you did,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘as soon as I saw yer on me doorstep.’

  ‘Sorry about that, sir,’ said Dobbs. ‘Now, we understand you were fairly friendly with the late Miss Flanagan—’

  ‘What d’yer mean, fairly friendly?’

  ‘Well, we have a witness who says you were seen out with her sometimes.’

  Mr Pritchard shifted from one foot to the other.

  ‘Bleedin’ Nosy Parker, then,’ he said. ‘Mind, I ain’t goin’ to deny I run into Maureen now and again.’

  ‘Attractive woman,’ said Dobbs. ‘I daresay I’d have enjoyed treating her to a drink myself.’

  ‘As I recollect,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘she only ever ’ad a port. No gin. Wise woman, she was, she just stuck to one port. Mind, it was a large one. I asked ’er once why she liked a large one. She laughed, yer know, and said it was to fortify ’erself.’

  ‘Against what?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Bleedin’ ups and downs, I suppose,’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘All that laundry work day in day out, that got ’er down, I’d ’ave thought.’

  ‘Still, I don’t know she needed any fortifyin’,’ said Mrs Pritchard, ‘strong and ’ealthy, she was. She didn’t need anyone treatin’ ’er to anything, and you was daft spendin’ money on ’er that you should of spent on me.’

  ‘Only now and again,’ said Mr Pritchard, looking irritable, ‘only now and again, I’ve told yer that more’n once. Only when I ’appened to bump into ’er. And she never stayed long in the pub. Soon as she finished ’er port, off she went.’

  ‘Where to?’ asked Sergeant Ross.

  ‘Another pub, I suppose,’ said Mr Pritc
hard.

  ‘To get more fortifyin’? said Mrs Pritchard sarcastically. ‘To get some other daft man to treat ’er?’

  ‘Mrs Pritchard, didn’t you tell us she never came back drunk to her room?’ said Ross.

  ‘Well, yes, I can’t say she ever did,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘Me ’usband can confirm.’

  ‘That’s right, I never saw ’er drunk at any time,’ said Mr Pritchard.

  Sergeant Ross looked at his guv’nor. Dobbs nodded. They were both of the same mind, that Maureen Flanagan fortified herself not for the purpose of finding another pub and another mug, but for finding an agreeable client or two, and some suitable back street in the West End where she could perform out of sight of people and cops.

  ‘Mr Pritchard,’ said Dobbs, ‘this friend of Miss Flanagan’s, a man called Godfrey. She brought him here once, I believe, when you and your wife entertained them.’

  ‘So she did,’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘Ugly bit of work, ’e was.’

  ‘What yer talkin’ about? asked Mrs Pritchard. ‘’E was a proper gent.’

  ‘Nasty underneath,’ said Mr Pritchard.

  ‘How’d you know?’ asked Ross.

  ‘Well, I got instincts, ain’t I? said Mr Pritchard.

  That, thought Dobbs, could very well be the attempt of an uneasy man to point the investigation away from himself.

  ‘I must say me ’usband does ’ave natural instincts,’ said Mrs Pritchard supportively.

  ‘During the evening the man was here, did you get any idea of what his full name was, Mr Pritchard?’ asked Dobbs.

  ‘Wish I ’ad,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘I’d give it to yer with pleasure. The way ’e looked at Maureen at times, well, now I come to think about it, that look of ’is, I got a feeling ’e was sort of sizing up that nice neck of ’ers.’

  ‘Oh, me gawd,’ breathed Mrs Pritchard.

  ‘Mr Pritchard, when we first spoke to your wife,’ said Ross, ‘she gave us the impression you both thought the man was a friendly and likeable bloke.’

  ‘Yus, well me instincts wasn’t workin’ correct at the time,’ said Mr Pritchard, scowling a bit. ‘It was afterwards that I said to meself I wouldn’t trust the bloke if I was Maureen.’