A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  Jenny blushes as she speaks. ‘I’m sorry, ma’am, but the gentleman . . . well, being the police and all, I didn’t think he should wait.’

  Clara steals a look at the man and flinches. There is something in the word ‘police’, and in the sight of the blue uniform, that produces a subtle alteration in her posture, and a glance downwards at the floor, as if chastened by some unspoken word of reproach.

  ‘Thank you, Jenny, that will be all. And I believe we have concluded our talk, Miss White.’

  Clara looks up, as if about to reply, then catches the eye of Webb once more, and changes her mind. She turns to leave. But before she can do so, the inspector politely interrupts her progress.

  ‘One moment, if you please. Perhaps you might introduce us, Miss Sparrow?’

  Miss Sparrow purses her lips.

  ‘Very well, Inspector. This is Clara White, one of our former residents. Miss White – this is Inspector Webb.’

  ‘Ma’am!’ interjects Clara in an urgent whisper, far too late to prevent the revelation.

  ‘Really, Miss White,’ continues Miss Sparrow, ignoring her protest, ‘there is no need to hide your old life from the inspector; indeed, we are all proud of your progress.’

  Clara blushes, avoiding the inspector’s quizzical glance.

  Webb smiles. ‘Ah, I see. Well, a success attributable solely to you, ma’am, I am sure. It is good to see your former charges doing so well, I suppose.’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘Well, ma’am,’ says Webb, ‘I do not suppose I need speak to former residents, so much as the current ones, eh?’

  ‘No, indeed,’ says Miss Sparrow hurriedly. ‘You may go, Miss White.’

  Clara nods and walks briskly out of the room, her face still burning red. As she enters the hallway, she finds Jenny, the nurse who spoke to her previously, standing remarkably close to the door, making a feint at adjusting the inspector’s coat, which hangs from a nearby hook.

  ‘I didn’t know you used to be here, Miss,’ she says in a whisper. ‘You’d never know it, to look at you, I mean.’

  Clara smiles weakly. She appears eager to change the subject.

  ‘Why are the police here?’

  ‘Well, you’ll never believe it, but you know the girl what you were talking about yesterday . . .’

  ‘A nervous creature, ma’am,’ observes Inspector Webb, once Clara has left the room.

  ‘Indeed,’ replies Miss Sparrow, and smiles anxiously. ‘I think we are all a little nervous. This is an awful business, Inspector.’

  ‘Undoubtedly,’ says Webb.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  CLARA WHITE LEAVES the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women thoughtful and troubled, dwelling both upon the news of her mother’s disappearance, and the nurse’s revelations about Sally Bowker’s death. It is, however, an instinctive eagerness to place some distance between herself and the figure of Inspector Webb, still dimly visible in Miss Sparrow’s parlour window, that sends her walking briskly across Serle Street. She is too swift, however, since she does not heed the clattering approach of a hansom cab, which darts out from the gatehouse of nearby Lincoln’s Inn. In fact, the vehicle flies into the road just as fast as if the horse had bolted. The actual cause is the promise of a half-sovereign made by its passenger, in the hope that the driver might proceed to London Bridge ‘as quick as he likes’. It is a wellknown fact that such an injunction is never wasted upon the Jehus of the cabbing profession, and inevitably leads to a liberal application of the whip. In this case, however, as in many others, it also nearly causes a collision. Indeed, in the end, it is impossible to say whether or not it is remotely due to the cabman’s skill that he misses Clara, for he does so by no more than an inch or two. It is, perhaps, safe to assume that the driver himself would readily claim the glory. Certainly it is a tribute to his marvellous equanimity that, once he is satisfied that Clara is only sent tumbling on to the pavement, with nothing too much broken, he confines his observations upon the matter to a cry of ‘Look it!’, and turns the corner into Carey Street, wheels skidding on the slippery cobbles. And yet something is broken: the bottle of Balley’s Quietener, intended for her absent mother, flies from Clara’s pocket as she falls, and smashes into a dozen pieces beside her.

  ‘Miss, here, let me help you up.’

  Clara looks up, a little dazed but unhurt, and hesitantly takes the arm of a young man who seems to appear almost instantly at her side, a handsome man, although rather shabbily dressed. She is too preoccupied with the remains of the broken bottle to notice that there is something odd in his voice and manner that belies his poor appearance.

  ‘Quite done for, I’m afraid,’ he says, looking at the shards of glass, then carefully shunting them into the gutter with his foot. ‘I hope it wasn’t anything valuable. Still, you’re lucky it isn’t you in pieces. Are you hurt at all?’

  Clara lets go of his arm, and dusts herself down. ‘No,’ she replies, a little breathless, ‘not valuable. Not hurt either. I’m sorry, thank you, but I must go.’

  At this, she says nothing more, and strides away, without even a smile for her saviour.

  The man watches her hurry off into Lincoln’s Inn Fields. He takes a long look at the Refuge for Penitent Women, as if pondering some question in his head, then turns and follows her at a distance, having made a note in his diary.

  ‘Accident with a hansom’.

  ‘So, tell me, ma’am, how many do you have?’ asks Inspector Webb, as he takes a leisurely glance at the books in Miss Sparrow’s study.

  ‘You make it sound as if I keep prize cochins, Inspector. There are twenty or, no, I should say, nineteen women here at present.’

  ‘Well, I will need to speak to all of them. Nineteen, not twenty? You were thinking of the dead girl, I suppose?’

  ‘Well, no. Another woman left us yesterday.’

  ‘Left you? Do you mean . . .’

  ‘No, not died. She ran off last night, but I expect we shall see her again.’

  ‘Ran off? You mean like Sally Bowker “ran off”?’

  ‘Really, Inspector, nothing like that at all. What are you suggesting? Agnes White makes a habit of such petty recidivism; it is nothing out of the ordinary, I can assure you. She has never managed a full month with us without some infraction. Sally, on the other hand, was a good girl; she took well to instruction.’

  ‘And you let this White woman offend with regularity?’

  ‘We attempt to be charitable, Inspector. But this time is the last straw . . .’

  ‘And did she know the dead girl?’

  ‘They shared a room, but I do not believe they were close. Agnes has been ill for much of the time this past month or two. If anything, that alone has made her a little better behaved.’

  ‘Shared a room? You astonish me, ma’am. Why was none of this mentioned before?’

  ‘Agnes only went off last night. You think it significant?’

  ‘It is something of a coincidence, is it not? One moment. Her name is “White”? The girl who I just saw . . .’

  ‘Agnes’s daughter. A much sounder proposition; one of our successes, as I said.’

  The inspector smiles. ‘The daughter? I see. Nice to keep a trade in the family, I suppose. I shall want to speak to the daughter again, I fear, when I am done here.’

  ‘I am sure that can be arranged. But our work here is no laughing matter, Inspector.’

  ‘No, ma’am. I don’t honestly suppose it is.’

  Clara White walks briskly around the square of Lincoln’s Inn Fields. There is something agitated in her manner: her eyes are downcast, as if engaged in some awful contemplation, her hands busy in constant worrying of her dress. Moreover, she almost collides with several persons on the pavement, though she manages, upon each corner of the square, to keep clear of passing traffic. She only pauses, in fact, having almost completed a full circuit, when she comes near to the corner of Portugal Row, where the square abuts on to the narrow streets leading to Clare Ma
rket. At this junction, she halts, and looks up as if suddenly noticing something or someone. Then, for a moment she hesitates. But it is not for long; she leaves the square and walks briskly towards the alleys.

  Clara makes swift progress, since the pavements of Clare Market, though littered with a confusion of market stalls and wagons, are empty of goods and persons, the market proper not being a daily occurrence. Admittedly, there are still some attractions for passing trade, principally the butchers’ shops, which rarely close. Indeed, if a stranger were in any doubt as to whether, in these odd lanes, he or she had stumbled upon the famous market, he would only have to note the prevailing smell, distinctive to the district. It is an odour of old vegetables mingled with rotting meat, the pungent outpouring of local tripe-houses, the delicate scent of pig’s blood and cabbage leaves. It is, say local wags, a meal in itself. In any case, the market is quite familiar to Clara White, and she readily ignores the stench, and the cries of the butchers. Likewise, where half a dozen or more purveyors of household stuff have cleared some ground to lay out their wares, she pays no heed and walks round them. Instead, her eyes are firmly fixed upon a person in the middle distance slowly weaving her way along in the direction of Drury Lane and the Strand. It is an old woman dressed in dark blue cotton and a rather dirty shawl, wearing a ribboned straw bonnet and carrying a small wicker basket hooked under her arm. The woman walks with a stoop and it is not long before Clara catches up to her. But she does not speak to her or detain her; rather, she ensures that she is a few yards behind the stooped figure, and idles a little, to guarantee that she does not get too near.

  The old woman herself comes to a halt voluntarily some five minutes later in Wych Street. It is not a prepossessing place in which to stop, being a dog-leg continuation of Drury Lane that runs down to the Strand, famous only for the Olympic Theatre, a place grander in name than in reality. It does, however, possess a good number of print-sellers and bookshops displaying the latest prints and engravings in their windows, and the occasional cartoon from Punch; a few can even boast rather more immodest literature, pages and titles that would not be welcome in a decent household. In consequence, Wych Street, though narrow and gloomy, is never quite free of foot-traffic: in front of every establishment there are little crowds of window-gazers, both men and women, and even children, who come to press their noses against the plate glass and, in some cases, remark upon how shocking it is that such things are put on show. Indeed, a person might easily spend a whole day in Wych Street, moving from one window to another, pausing only occasionally to peruse the shops’ books and antiquarian oddities, which are laid upon shambolic wooden counters upon the pavement. And it is, no doubt, with some such intention that the old woman stops in front of a particular print-seller where a huddle of half a dozen persons are already gathered. A sign in the window reads, ‘Books and Prints: French curiosities.’

  Clara White stops behind her.

  ‘That is the entire list, ma’am?’

  ‘Yes, Inspector, as I said. Every girl who has stayed with us in the last six months, and a list of family and visitors, with dates and times of visits.’

  ‘Very thorough, ma’am. Commendable.’

  ‘We do our best, Inspector.’

  ‘I see Miss White has been a regular visitor these past few days.’

  ‘She has been concerned for her mother’s health. It is understandable, I suppose.’

  ‘The same mother who pitched off into the night, yesterday, eh? Her health cannot be that bad.’

  ‘My opinion also. If anything, I would say it is her mental state that is disturbed. I have never found much wrong with her.’

  ‘She didn’t see a doctor during her stay here?’

  ‘Indeed, on two occasions, at considerable expense, I might add. They concurred with me.’

  ‘I see. Well, may I have the daughter’s address, ma’am?’

  ‘As I said, Inspector, something can be arranged, I am sure . . .’

  ‘The address will suffice, ma’am. Is there some difficulty?’

  ‘No, it’s merely that . . . well, Clara White is housemaid to one of our governors, Dr. Harris. He sponsored both Clara and her mother. I should not like him to think that there is anything amiss here.’

  ‘You can’t conceal a murder, ma’am. It is all over the papers already. I am surprised there is not a crowd of gawpers directly outside your window. There will be – you have my word.’

  ‘Really? But surely this business with Agnes is something and nothing. It may rather sound to Dr. Harris as though we are in chaos here, Inspector, and that is far from the case.’

  ‘I am confident no-one will think such a thing, ma’am. If it is any comfort to you, I will do my utmost to be discreet.’

  ‘Very well. But I am sure Clara has nothing to hide, Inspector.’

  ‘I never said she did, ma’am.’

  Outside the shop window, Clara White turns around, apparently intending to walk away. But, as a carriage passes by at the same moment, she happens to stumble on the kerb and falls back. As she trips she leans against a tall mustachioed gentleman in a dark green morning suit, also stationed by the window, knocking his walking cane to one side, and she herself lands clumsily upon the pavement. It is, however, a rather different kind of tumble from the incident upon Serle Street, though quite convincing to the uninitiated. Indeed, there is no-one more concerned for Clara’s welfare, as she is helped up, than the old woman whom she followed. There are, in fact, expressions of heartfelt concern, pressing of hands, assurances sought, and received, as to her health and state of mind. And when Clara walks away with the old woman’s purse, deftly retrieved from her shopping basket, the old party is none the wiser, and merely mutters ‘poor soul’ to herself as she watches the girl depart.

  A few minutes later, Clara shelters in an alley just off Portugal Street, and counts the old woman’s money; she finds it hard to stop her hands from shaking. It is, in truth, some months since she did anything so dangerous. The money, at least, is enough, she concludes, to pay for the broken bottle of medicine and to square the Harrises’ account before a demand is made.

  She takes a deep breath and heads back across Lincoln’s Inn, somehow both ashamed and elated by her success.

  For a moment, she has the peculiar sensation that someone is watching her.

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  ‘LADIES AND GENTLEMEN, ladies and gentlemen! Three thimbles and one humble pea. I moves them around like so. A penny is the price to play, two pennies is what you win. Come now, don’t be shy.’

  It is well after midday, and Tom Hunt sits on a doorstep upon Saffron Hill, calling out to passers-by, a piece of card balanced upon his lap; on the card are the three thimbles, rusty little items made of some undistinguished metal, and under one he carefully places a dried pea, then shifts them around, slowly at first, then more quickly, shuffling them about. The only person watching, however, is a small ragged-looking boy who hovers nearby; he seems to regard this display as sufficient entertainment, without contemplating the investment of a penny into the proceedings, even if he had such an article.

  ‘You, sir! How about you, sir? Would you venture a penny on a game of skill?’ says Tom, addressing a man coming out of the alley opposite, the narrow passageway that leads to the Three Cups. ‘Yes, sir. Skill. I won’t say, “Try your luck”, not me. It ain’t luck what’s needed. A good pair of eyes in your head, that’s the thing for this game, sir. Not many as have ’em, mind you, but you look a sharp fellow.’

  The man demurs, smiling but shaking his head. Tom Hunt smiles back, albeit with less enthusiasm, and is about to continue his patter on the next person who chances to approach when he realises that the effort would be quite wasted.

  ‘Bill!’ he exclaims, seeing his cousin. ‘You’re up, are you? Ain’t you on the night shift tonight?’

  Bill Hunt shrugs. ‘I couldn’t sleep.’

  ‘Is Lizzie back home?’

  ‘Home?’

  �
��A slip of the tongue, Bill. I mean to say your lodgings, of course I do.’

  ‘You staying with us much longer?’

  ‘Course not,’ says Tom, emphatically, although his cousin does not appear reassured. ‘So is Lizzie there?’

  ‘She ain’t there, least not when I woke up. What do you want with her?’

  ‘A man can ask after his own wife, can’t he?’

  ‘If he likes.’

  ‘Well, she should have some money for us, as it happens. Pay you back that half-crown what we borrowed.’

  Bill Hunt pauses, frowning, as if framing his words carefully. ‘Not sure I want it, given how she’ll have earnt it.’

  Tom Hunt laughs, an expression of amazement on his face. ‘Not sure you want it?’ he says, parroting his words in mockery. ‘Well I never! You been going to church on Sundays, Bill?’

  ‘It’s a bad business for a young’un like her, that’s all I’m saying.’

  ‘Bad for me and all,’ says Tom, reproachfully. ‘Don’t you think it weighs heavy on my head to have her doing that game?’

  ‘Then you should do something.’

  ‘I am, cousin, I am. Look at me, I’m sitting here now, ain’t I? I ain’t here for my health.’

  ‘I could get you something regular, on the railway. They need men on the tunnel; they’re taking it to Finsbury Circus in a month or two. There’ll be lots of work for them as wants it.’

  ‘I ain’t that keen on picks and shovels, Bill. Don’t have the bones for it. We ain’t all cart-horses, are we? Wouldn’t be natural if we were.’

  Bill shrugs. ‘I suppose.’

  ‘Though you’re right, this is slow going,’ continues Tom, looking up and down the street, then staring disconsolately at his piece of card. ‘What say you front us a drink, eh?’