‘Did Miss Flanagan ever mention him on any of the occasions when you were with her and she was fortifying herself with port?’ asked Dobbs.
‘She mentioned ’im to me and the missus before ’e came to see ’er that time,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘No, did she make a particular mention of him whenever you met her in the pub?’ asked Ross. ‘Anything that gave you an idea of where he lived, what his full name was, what his work was and so on?’
‘Well, now you come to ask,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘while I don’t recall she ever told me ’is full monicker or what ’is work was, she did say once that he ’ad a bit of a temper.’
Mrs Pritchard fidgeted.
‘Miss Flanagan said that, did she?’ murmured the Chief Inspector.
‘It didn’t surprise me,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘I’d been ’aving me doubts about him.’
‘Due to your instincts, sir?’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Yus, that’s right,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘You mentioned this to your wife, I expect,’ said Ross.
‘Bound to ’ave done,’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘Didn’t I?’ he said to his wife.
‘Well, I – well, yes, I believe you did,’ said the harassed lady.
‘So we’ve got a certain gent with a bit of a temper, have we?’ said Dobbs drily. ‘Let’s see now, the night Miss Flanagan was murdered—’
‘Oh, gawd,’ said Mrs Pritchard, and winced. Mr Pritchard chewed at his moustache.
‘Painful for you, I know,’ said Dobbs, ‘but I have to ask. On that night, Mr Pritchard, did she mention to you that she was going to meet this man Godfrey?’
‘Mention to me?’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘Well, you were with her during the evening, weren’t you?’
‘’Ere, who told yer that?’ demanded Mr Pritchard.
‘Let’s see, was it you who told us, Mrs Pritchard?’ asked Dobbs, and the poor woman visibly quivered.
‘No, I never did,’ she gasped.
‘But Mr Pritchard was out, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, but—’
‘Course I wasn’t, yer daft cow,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘I was ’ere all evening with you, wasn’t I?’
Mrs Pritchard sat heavily down on the sofa and put a hand to her forehead.
‘I’m that upset I can’t think straight,’ she said.
‘Take your time,’ said Dobbs, very friendly, very pleasant.
‘Well, thinkin’ about it, that evenin’, I ought to remember,’ said Mrs Pritchard, mentally fumbling. ‘Yes, I ought to. Yes, I remember now, me ’usband was ’ome all evenin’.’
‘There y’ar,’ said Mr Pritchard to the Chief Inspector. ‘Mind, I ain’t blamin’ yer for ’aving suspicions, but I got to say it ain’t doin’ me old lady much good, you ’aving them about me. I ain’t surprised she got confused.’
‘With some cases, we get confused ourselves,’ said Dobbs. ‘By the way, which pub did Miss Flanagan use?’
‘Well, the times I run into ’er, which wasn’t a lot, yer know, it was the Borough Arms,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘Well, perhaps we can find some of the regulars who knew her,’ said Dobbs.
‘What for?’ asked Mr Pritchard.
‘Just a question of picking up as much information as we can, sir,’ said Ross.
‘Well, yer don’t want to believe all you ’ear from that lot that uses the Borough Arms,’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘That’s a frequent happening,’ said Dobbs.
‘Is it?’ said Mr Pritchard. ‘What is?’
‘Coming up against a lot of people we don’t want to believe,’ said Dobbs, and Mrs Pritchard could hardly credit what a kind smile this police officer had. He was nearly human.
‘Me and me ’usband’s honest workin’ people,’ she said.
‘It’s the other kind that give us trouble,’ said Dobbs. ‘Thanks for your help, we’re obliged to both of you. Good day.’
‘I ’ope I’ve still got time to ’ave a bite to eat,’ said Mr Pritchard.
Chapter Eight
THE CHIEF INSPECTOR and his sergeant each ate a thick, well-filled ham sandwich in the Borough Arms, a pub located in Bermondsey Street and midway between Tanner Street and Tooley Street. The Borough Arms, like the Rockingham Pub at the Elephant and Castle, served sandwiches. The CID men chased the food down with some welcome old ale. The Chief Inspector remarked that the sawdust on the floor of the private bar needed changing, and Sergeant Ross remarked that his sandwich could have done with a little more mustard, mustard being a very agreeable condiment.
‘I take it, do I, that Nurse Cartright’s ham and mustard sandwiches are very agreeable?’ said the Chief Inspector, glass in his hand, his eyes on the burning coals of the fire.
‘No idea, guv, but her mother served some tasty anchovies on toast at eleven o’clock last night, with a large pot of tea,’ said Ross.
‘That was probably a reminder to you, as a single man in police lodgings, that you’re missing the good things of family life,’ said Dobbs.
‘I don’t think you’ve met Nurse Cartwright, have you, guv?’
‘Not socially.’
‘She’s admiring of your reputation,’ said Ross.
‘What reputation?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Your well-known one,’ said Ross.
‘Tell her not to believe all she hears,’ said Dobbs. ‘By the way, what did you think of that bloke Pritchard?’
‘That he was out on the night of the murder, and that his old lady knew he was,’ said Ross.
‘Well, now you’ve finished your sandwich, go and have a quiet word with the publican. Find out if he saw Pritchard in the public bar on the night of the murder, and if Flanagan was with him. Find out too if he ever saw her leave the pub with men.’
‘If I might say so,’ said Sergeant Ross, ‘I thought we agreed Maureen Flanagan wouldn’t have picked men up in her own back yard, on the grounds that she didn’t want friends and neighbours to think she was anything but a hard-working laundress. We know that her family in Cork thought this.’
‘All the same, best to keep an open mind,’ said Dobbs. ‘Hop over, sunshine, and talk somewhere private with the publican.’
Sergeant Ross carried out the order in commendable fashion, detaching the publican from his barman, and disappearing with him after a brief few words. He reappeared ten minutes later, when he rejoined the Chief Inspector at the table closest to the fire.
‘Well, guv—’
‘Not here,’ said Dobbs.
They left. The afternoon, wondrously, was clear, and the sun, conscience-stricken about failing the put-upon citizens of London by its prolonged absence, had returned in a penitent attempt to make them feel better. The temperature was mild, and grubby Bermondsey Street was almost basking. Sergeant Ross, walking beside the Chief Inspector, recounted details of his interview with the publican. Yes, the man knew Pritchard, and yes, Pritchard had been in the pub on the night of the murder, in the public bar as usual. Yes, Maureen Flanagan had drunk port from time to time, occasionally in company with Pritchard, but no, the publican couldn’t swear she’d been present on that particular night. Certainly, he couldn’t remember seeing her with Pritchard, not then. Further, nor could he remember ever having seen her leave the pub in company with a man. She usually took only a short time to drink her port, and once she’d finished it she left almost immediately, and always by herself.
‘Well, there you are, guv,’ said Ross, ‘it looks like we can still stick with your feeling that she went elsewhere on her part-time excursions. The West End’s still the best bet.’
‘You’re upsetting me, my lad,’ said Dobbs.
‘I’ll have to ask why,’ said Ross.
They passed a knife-grinder, his barrow stationary beside the kerb, a blade throwing sparks in its frictional contact with his fast-revolving whetstone. He looked up.
‘Knives to grind, gents?’ he offered.
‘I’ll ask my wife,’ said the Chief I
nspector. Walking on with Sergeant Ross, he said, ‘When I asked you to talk to the publican, I didn’t suggest you should come up with a result that Pritchard would like better than I do. I suppose you realize what you’ve done? Given him what looks like a clean sheet on the night of the capital crime. I could call that rank carelessness.’
‘That’s a bit upside-down, guv,’ said Ross. ‘You’ve got the publican to blame for these facts, not me. I asked, he replied, and I listened.’
‘Between the two of you, you’ve upset the applecart and me as well,’ said Dobbs. ‘On the other hand, I still see Pritchard as suspect. He was shifting about all over the place during the interview, and his old lady was like a woman having to dance on hot bricks. Now, let’s suppose Pritchard fancied Flanagan, shall we?’
‘Reasonable,’ said Ross. ‘Well, I’d say he’s given up fancying Mrs Pritchard, and that she prefers port.’
‘Further, let’s suppose Pritchard made an appointment with Flanagan that night – no, that won’t do. There’s the knife. I mean, if he fancied her why would he have kept the appointment carrying a knife?’
‘Suppose she turned him down on a previous occasion, suppose she laughed at him?’ said Ross. ‘That might have set him off and made him go looking for her on the night in question.’
‘Would she have laughed at him, my lad? More likely to have told him she was a respectable woman, thanks very much. Did the publican tell you what he drank that night?’
‘Old ale,’ said Ross. ‘No hard stuff.’
‘What time did he leave?’
‘The publican didn’t know, didn’t notice.’
‘More carelessness,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘All the same, it’s my belief there’s something bothering Pritchard, something he’s keeping to himself. If he did decide, for one reason or another, that he was going to look for Flanagan and do for her, he’d have had to leave the pub and go back home for a knife. Is that what made Mrs Pritchard twitchy, the fact that she not only knew he’d been out, but had come back and gone out again?’
‘And finally, guv, when he got back home for good, did she get landed with the job of washing his bloodstained clothes or getting rid of them?’
‘A promising piece of supposition on your part, sunshine,’ said Dobbs, ‘particularly as he looks capable of the carrying job to Tooley Street. In that fog, he could have done the job outside his own front door, having waited for her, and cleaned up his doorstep afterwards. I think we’ll have another word with the Pritchards.’
‘Now?’ said Ross.
‘No, let ’em twitch for a while,’ said Dobbs. ‘I’d like to get back to the Yard and find out if the other suspect, Godfrey Who, has shown up or made contact. Sergeant, have you noticed something unusual?’
‘Such as?’ said Ross.
‘The sun’s out,’ said the Chief Inspector.
There was no news of Godfrey. The man was still an invisible factor and accordingly a frustrating disturbance to the Chief Inspector’s methodical thought processes. It interfered with his theories concerning Pritchard. One or the other, either Pritchard or Godfrey, had to be eliminated.
Parliament had concerned itself with the riot in Whitechapel, much to the irritation of Her Majesty’s senior ministers. The aged Queen herself, increasingly fragile though she was, had sent the Prime Minister a note of disapproval.
Liberal-minded MPs favoured justice, decent wages and improved conditions for the people of the East End. MPs of a different mind considered the riot a disgrace, an impudent and insolent challenge to law and order, and a reprehensible attack on private property. It was very irritating to have the poverty of the people of the East End brought to public notice again. It had become public enough during the time of Jack the Ripper, creating embarrassment for the Government. After all, much of the lot of these people was brought about by their own sloth and idleness, and their drunken ways. Yes, it was very irritating, and the several rioters who had been arrested should be punished by the law. It was to be hoped they would. Hard labour should be considered.
The pride of Fleet Street had their notebooks at the ready again. Chief Inspector Dobbs, resisting the temptation to throw a subordinate into the ring, entered it himself.
‘Any news, Chief Inspector?’ asked the Daily Chronicle.
‘What kind of news d’you want, gents?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Come off it, Charlie,’ said the Evening News.
‘Hello, who’s being familiar?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Just an admirer,’ said the Evening News.
‘Concerning the capital crime presently under investigation,’ said Dobbs, ‘the apprehension of a certain person will take place in the near future.’
‘Person?’ said the Manchester Guardian.
‘The woman?’ said the Daily News.
‘Concerning who might have done what and who might not, and police policy gen’rally,’ said Dobbs, ‘I can say I’m not at liberty to offer you the kind of details the Yard considers unprintable.’
‘Is that the right word, unprintable?’ asked the Morning Post. ‘Or do you mean inadvisable?’
‘Same thing,’ said Dobbs. ‘It might seriously affect our chances of apprehending the person in question.’
‘Well, between you and us and the gatepost,’ said the Evening News, ‘is this a female person? Do you actually suspect a certain woman of cutting Maureen Flanagan’s throat?’
‘I appreciate it wouldn’t go any further than this room,’ said the Chief Inspector, ‘but all the same, the requested information isn’t disclosable at present.’
Sergeant Ross nodded in a seriously confirmatory way, although he knew the guv’nor was simply having another go at disposing of the spectre of the Ripper.
‘Chief Inspector, you’re still telling us little or nothing,’ said the Westminster Gazette.
‘Well, sometimes little or nothing is preferable to overdoing it,’ said Dobbs. ‘Investigations of capital crimes have taught me to proceed with care, caution and not to say anything I’d be sorry for. If I told you all I could tell you, and you printed it, I’d end up in the same condition as the fox that let the rabbit escape. Very sorry for myself.’
‘You mean there’s not much again for us,’ said the Daily Mail.
‘You know the rules, gents, no disclosure of information beneficial to wrongdoers,’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, at least tell us if the man called Godfrey has been found and eliminated,’ said the Daily Telegraph.
‘Ah, Godfrey,’ said Dobbs, and brushed his moustache. ‘How are we on that bloke, Sergeant Ross?’
‘Fairly blank, guv,’ said Ross.
‘Pity,’ said Dobbs.
‘But you must have eliminated him if the arrest of a certain other person is imminent,’ said The Times.
‘I hope no-one will mind if I don’t answer that,’ said Dobbs. ‘But I can say there’s one or two untidy ends floating about, so the Yard would be obliged if you’d print a repeat of the details concerning Godfrey. Give him another chance to come forward.’
‘But is he only an untidy end?’ asked the Westminster Gazette.
‘And is there a possibility he doesn’t exist?’ asked the Daily News.
‘Would you call that a good question, Sergeant Ross?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Reasonable, I’d say, reasonable,’ said Ross.
‘There you are, then, gents, a reasonable question,’ said Dobbs.
‘But what’s the answer?’ asked the Daily Mail.
‘That he’s alive and well, but keeping his head down,’ said Dobbs. ‘That’s all for today, gents, I appreciate your help, co-operation and interest.’
‘We haven’t got much out of it,’ said the Evening News.
‘Have some tea and biscuits,’ said the Chief Inspector.
‘When are we calling again on Mrs Pritchard?’ asked Sergeant Ross later.
‘First thing tomorrow morning, sunshine, just after she’s eaten her porridge and seen her old man off, but be
fore she’s got her hairpins in place,’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Meanwhile, I’m writing up my notes for today. You do the same with yours, then we’ll go though all of them from the beginning.’
‘What’ll we be looking for, guv?’
‘We’ll be looking to see if you’ve missed anything, my lad.’
Ross was grinning as he went to his desk.
‘I’m off now,’ said Bridget that evening.
‘Yes, all right, Bridget,’ said Daisy. ‘It won’t be so bad for you gettin’ to work this time. It’s not a bit foggy outside.’
‘It’s been a nice day,’ said Billy, who had put in an appearance on his way back from a delivery. ‘A bit of November sunshine can do wonders, yer know. I was give several tips, one of tuppence, would yer believe, and Fanny, the grocer’s daughter, came in and give me a very invitin’ smile. But I was too busy loadin’ groceries to take ’er into the storeroom and help meself to what she was invitin’.’
‘I’ll help you to a thump in a minute,’ said Bridget. ‘Listen, if Constable Fred Billings turns up again, take the front door off its hinges and hit ’im with it. That’s all, look after yerselves while I’m at work.’
Constable Fred Billings turned up at seven, just as the hitherto clear evening was turning nasty. Not only did he bring himself, he also brought his modest amount of goods and chattles, packed into a trunk. The trunk was on a barrow pushed by a whippet-like lad.
Fred knocked. Billy answered the door. He saw Fred, and he saw Fred’s trunk on the barrow.
‘Oh, yer’ve come to move in, Fred?’ he said.
‘Yes, now or never, I thought,’ said Fred. ‘I’ve got to get out of my present lodgings in a few days, anyway, and I decided I might as well start bein’ useful to yer sisters as a protective presence. We all know Whitechapel ain’t exactly safe for its lady residents.’
‘It’s a bit safer ’ere than it is farther up, in the stewpots and dens,’ said Billy, ‘but I like what yer sayin’, Fred. You’re goin’ to safeguard me sisters.’
Daisy, appearing, said, ‘Oh, crikey, are yer movin’ in, Fred?’
‘Yes, I’ve brought all me stuff, Daisy,’ said Fred.
‘Bridget told us to ’it you with the front door if you turned up,’ said Daisy.
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