A Metropolitan Murder

by Lee Jackson

  ‘I see our Clarrie must have spoken of me,’ he says. ‘Nothing too bad, I hope.’

  Cotton coughs. ‘In point of fact, I had hoped to meet you.’

  ‘Now,’ says Hunt, a little mystified, ‘you have the advantage of me, sir. Why is that?’

  ‘I have a proposition for you,’ says Cotton, choosing his words carefully. ‘A matter of business.’

  ‘Ah, now that is interesting,’ replies Hunt, his curiosity piqued. ‘Well, what say we take a seat, like old friends, share a drop of something suitable?’

  Cotton nods, and the three of them make their way to the table where Tom Hunt was sitting.

  Clara looks around the room. ‘Is Lizzie not here?’

  ‘She’ll be along later, I should think. You wanting a word with her? And I thought it was me you’d come for.’

  Clara does not reply.

  Tom Hunt downs his second pint of porter, purchased by Henry Cotton, who sits opposite him, still drinking from his first. Clara sits by his side, with no drink before her, looking at the door in case her sister should arrive.

  ‘I’m not sure I get your meaning, sir,’ says Hunt, wiping his lips.

  ‘Well, I am an author, you see. Or rather, a journalist.’

  ‘That writes for the papers?’

  ‘Well, I would like to, yes. You must have seen the sort of thing that I am talking about – studies of London characters and such like.’

  ‘And you consider me a character, do you, sir?’

  ‘Clara tells me you know a few dodges. Is that not true?’

  ‘What you been telling this fellow, Clarrie, eh?’ says Hunt, a little nervously. ‘I fear the girl misled you, sir. She’s always been a bit fanciful. Just because a man is alive to a few fakes, that don’t make him no cadger, nor a thief.’

  ‘Wait, you misunderstand me,’ says Cotton. ‘I wish to make a study of such things, but I assure you I will not give your rightful name when I write my piece.’

  ‘How do I know that?’

  ‘You have my word. And I would pay, of course.’

  ‘How much?’

  ‘That would depend on what I find.’

  Hunt fails to reply, as he sees the diminutive figure of his wife enter the room.

  ‘Over here, Liz! Just look who’s here to see you!’

  Lizzie Hunt frowns and walks cautiously towards the table. Henry Cotton stands up, a display of manners that causes her husband to grin in amusement.

  ‘Here, please,’ says Cotton, offering her his seat.

  ‘Who’s this?’ she says, ignoring him and finding another stool, pulling it up next to her husband.

  ‘Now, Liz,’ replies her husband, ‘no need to be rude. This gentleman is Mr. Phibbs, who is an acquaintance of Clarrie, and who has just made me an interesting little offer.’

  She does not reply, looking sideways at her sister. Clara herself, however, speaks up.

  ‘You missed the funeral.’

  ‘Did I? I didn’t want to go anyhow.’

  ‘You knew it was today then?’

  ‘No. Tom saw something in the papers about . . . well, what happened.’

  ‘You should have come to her funeral. You owed her that.’

  Lizzie shrugs. ‘I didn’t know it was today.’

  ‘You could have asked me.’

  ‘It’s a crying shame,’ interjects Hunt. ‘Nasty way to go, that.’

  ‘Who’s asking you?’ says Clara, a hint of anger in her voice.

  Hunt smiles thinly and glances away. Clara turns and looks at Cotton. ‘I’d better go,’ she says, standing up.

  ‘Clara, wait a moment,’ he replies, ‘I will see you home. Mr. Hunt, so do we have an agreement?’

  ‘If we can settle terms.’

  ‘I will come back tomorrow, then, as we discussed?’

  ‘If you like.’

  ‘Good. I will make it worth your trouble, you have my word.’

  Hunt nods and watches Henry Cotton depart, together with Clara White, who studiously avoids his gaze.

  ‘What was that all about?’ asks Lizzie, when the door of the Three Cups has closed behind the pair of them.

  ‘Apparently, my dear, I am a “character”, and it seems “characters” are at a premium with that young gentleman.’

  ‘I don’t much like the look of him,’ says Lizzie Hunt.

  Ten minutes later, and Henry Cotton and Clara stand upon the corner of Doughty Street.

  ‘Don’t come any further,’ she says, looking warily along the road. ‘They might see you.’

  ‘And then I would have to say we met by chance here. Would that be so terrible?’

  ‘Not for you, maybe.’

  ‘Well, thank you for introducing me to Mr. Hunt.’

  Clara looks at him. ‘I owe you that much, sir. I hope you don’t live to regret it.’

  ‘I do not think I will. It is a shame your sister is, well, shy of me. I would like to talk to her too.’

  ‘I’m sure Tom will fix you a price.’

  ‘I only wish to talk to her, you realise that, I hope?’

  ‘If you say so, Mr. Phibbs. Talking won’t help her, in any case.’

  ‘How do you mean?’

  ‘You didn’t see the bruises on her arm, I suppose?’

  ‘No, I can’t say I did.’

  ‘Well, I best be going.’

  ‘I hope we shall meet again at least?’

  Clara merely turns away.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE

  THE THREE CUPS.

  The clock upon the wall strikes four in the afternoon and, though it is an inoffensive little timepiece, the landlord of the establishment looks at it with a peculiarly grim expression, as if the passing of the hour only brings him sixty minutes nearer the final judgment of his maker. He is a heavily jowled, snubnosed man, and his features bear a passing resemblance to those of the average British bull-dog. In consequence, his expression rarely wavers from a look of perpetual melancholy, regardless of the object of his contemplation. In this case, however, the diminution of the evening light is under consideration, and, after a good deal of thought, he finally puts a match to a taper and goes out to light the gas-lamp. As he leaves, the words ‘I won’t be but a minute’ are muttered indistinctly, but with a slight undertone of menace, to no-one in particular. He feels no need to make any more particular statement; he does not say, for instance, that he emphatically does not expect the contents of the whiskey bottle to diminish in his brief absence. None the less, this much, at least, is understood by the few drinkers who loiter in the smoky comfort of the Three Cups. At a corner table, Tom Hunt and his wife are still part of the Cup’s clientele, their conversation having turned back to their encounter with Mr. Phibbs earlier in the afternoon.

  ‘He was a queer one, though, Tom. What if he’s police?’ says Lizzie.

  ‘That young scrub? Hardly, darlin’. You saw him.’

  ‘Plain clothes,’ she replies. ‘What if he’s plain clothes? He could be, you know.’

  ‘Then he would be not plain, but very fine clothes, I must say,’ says Tom, amused; he has a drink in his hand and a merry look on his face. ‘The police have worse suits, and worse manners.’

  ‘I’m not sure,’ says Lizzie.

  ‘Your Mr. Plain-Clothes will do us fine. He talks smart, but he’s green as the grass. I’ll tap him easy. Your Clarrie’s done us a favour, Liz. It’s good of her.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Here now,’ he says, taking her hand and squeezing it hard, ‘who else is there to say different?’

  She bites her lip and looks away. He tuts to himself, and releases his grip.

  ‘You said for me to tell you when you got ratted,’ she says, stealing a glance in his direction.

  ‘Well, I ain’t.’

  ‘If you says so.’

  ‘Lizzie, dear, I ain’t drunk,’ he says, though the words are a little slurred. ‘You know what I am?’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Happy.
And you know why? Because I smell money.’

  ‘You think he’s got money?’

  Tom taps his nose. ‘I can smell it, darlin’. Plenty of it.’

  ‘That’s the beer, I reckon.’

  Tom smiles, and swills the dregs of brown liquid around his glass.

  ‘I don’t think he’s a peeler,’ he says, more contemplatively, ‘but maybe you should go and have a word with your blessed sister anyhow, see what’s what. Find out proper how she knows this fellow. Maybe have a good look at that grand mansion what you say she’s living in, while you’re there. Likely she could put something our way.’

  ‘Tom,’ she says, pleadingly, ‘do I have to? It ain’t no mansion, and she was so off with me last time, I told you she was. And she weren’t much better today, was she? She hardly said a word. She thinks she’s better than the likes of you and me.’

  Tom shakes his head. ‘That’s just the business with your blasted mother, ain’t it? Can’t blame her being upset, can you? Just do as you’re told,’ he says emphatically. ‘You’d do well to keep in with her. And with me and all.’

  Lizzie says nothing in reply. Instead, she reluctantly stands up, leaning against the pub’s dark green wallpaper, which itself seems to trap something of the ginsodden atmosphere of the place, and is slightly damp to the touch. She looks a little unsteady.

  ‘Here, how much have you had?’ asks Tom, eyeing her suspiciously, wondering, perhaps, if she somehow has acquired a personal supply of liquor.

  ‘Hardly anything,’ she replies, steadying herself. ‘I ain’t eaten much, that’s all.’

  Tom raises his eyebrows, adopting a mocking weary expression, as if to indicate that he cannot understand why any woman of his should declare a want for food. He reaches into his pocket and gives his wife two pennies.

  ‘Get yourself something.’

  Another woman might dash such meagre housekeeping to the ground, and demand more. Lizzie Hunt, however, is not such a female; she merely takes it meekly from her husband’s palm.

  ‘Tom,’ she says, as she takes the money, ‘there’s something I’ve been wanting to tell you . . .’

  ‘I don’t want to hear your troubles. Will you just get gone?’ he says, ignoring her words, impatiently downing the last of his drink.

  She looks at him for a moment, but thinks better of speaking, and turns away. With a nod to the sullen landlord, returned from his lamp-lighting, she walks out into the evening air.

  Outside, though the rain has ceased, the alley is still wet with mud, the viscous mixture of dirt and dung that clings to London’s side streets, places where no crossing-sweeper would ever ply for trade. Lizzie sighs to herself, hoists her dress above her boots and makes her way expertly along the slippery surface and down onto Saffron Hill. It is an old thoroughfare, and the area surrounding is often invoked as exemplary of the worst sort of slum. Indeed, the street itself is lined on both sides by second-hand sellers of this and that, from clothes to old iron, knives to neckerchiefs. If there is a saving grace to Saffron Hill, it is the gaslights, which can be found upon every corner. They range from the ornate projection of a distant gin palace, bigger even than that which heralds the Three Cups, to simple jets of naked flame that sprout unexpectedly, like fiery buds, from rain-soaked shop-fronts. And it occurs to Lizzie Hunt, as she makes her way along the road, that there is something of beauty in the sight, the fluttering of yellow flame against a soot-black evening sky. But it is because of such fanciful thoughts that she does not hear footsteps splashing upon the pavement behind her, nor pay any attention to the man to whom they belong, until he puts his arm around her shoulders. She gasps in surprise, and looks up.

  ‘Bill!’

  Bill Hunt smiles, touching his cap.

  ‘What you doing out in such weather?’ he says, pulling her closer.

  ‘You scared me half to death, creeping up on us like that.’

  ‘Creeping up? You was day-dreaming, I reckon.’

  ‘Maybe,’ she says, shifting a little from his grasp. ‘Have you been following me?’

  He winks. ‘What if I have? You need someone to keep an eye on you, I reckon.’

  There is the smell of beer on his breath; it is not an unfamiliar smell to Lizzie Hunt, but in this instance it is sufficient excuse for her to step away.

  ‘You’ve been drinking, ain’t you, Bill? Steering clear of the Cups now?’

  He shrugs, and looks a little shame-faced. ‘He’s there all the time, and I ain’t got enough money to be giving it away.’

  She smiles a wry smile. ‘You shouldn’t let Tom bully you, a big man like you.’

  ‘Neither should you,’ he says. As he speaks, he abruptly reaches out and touches her face, stroking her cheek with a gentleness that belies his bulky frame.

  ‘Bill!’ she exclaims, pushing his hand away. ‘Pack it in, will you? Besides, he don’t bully me. I love him.’

  Bill Hunt visibly winces at the words, and he frowns, a look of frustration etched on his face.

  ‘No you don’t,’ he says emphatically.

  Lizzie sighs.

  ‘You can go now, Bill. I’ll be all right from here.’

  ‘I’ll come with you.’

  ‘I can’t go and see my sister with you in tow, can I? Tom will be so angry if I don’t.’

  ‘Let him try being angry with me, if you likes,’ says Bill Hunt, with drunken belligerence.

  ‘Bill, don’t be silly. Just leave me be, will you?’

  Bill groans, but reluctantly turns away, muttering something indistinct to himself. He is inebriated enough to stumble as he walks along the pavement, but soon disappears into the distance. Lizzie, on the other hand, once she is certain her unwanted companion has gone, turns the corner and walks in the direction of Doughty Street.

  In less than five minutes she is outside the house where her sister is employed. She stands upon the opposite side of the road, surveying the windows. For a moment, she considers whether to try the kitchen door, or if it might be sensible to return at a later hour. Then she can make out a girl busying herself, closing curtains on the first floor. Is it her sister? There is another figure behind her.

  Lizzie Hunt stares fixedly at the window as the curtains are drawn. There is an odd change in her posture, a peculiar tension, a look of utter disbelief. Suddenly she turns and flies back along the road, running as fast as she can. With quick, anxious breaths she reaches Gray’s Inn in seconds, tears welling in her eyes.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX

  IT IS GONE midnight when Bill Hunt stumbles out of the Old Friar public house upon Saffron Hill, pausing in a doorway to light his pipe. He has not stopped drinking since he saw Lizzie Hunt, and he struggles to find the box of Vesuvians in his coat pocket. In fact, his fingers fumble with the match, with the result that he almost drops the pipe in the process. Cursing himself, he finally lights the dry Virginian tobacco, putting the clay to his lips, taking a deep breath, drawing in the smoke, and puffing it back into the cold night air.

  He is not alone, since the pubs have all begun to disgorge their clients on to the streets. He watches the steady stream of passers-by; most are working men at the end of the night’s spree, steeped in drink. His reverie is interrupted by a melody playing in the distance, steadily becoming louder. It is a boy with a fiddle, working through the late night crowds, his brother beside him with an upturned cap, both of them olive-skinned Italians, no more than eight years old. A pair of costers chip in a couple of pennies, and the boy grins like a lunatic. Then a trio of young women, laughing amongst themselves, do likewise. Bill looks at the women. They are all older than Lizzie Hunt, though not by much, and dressed in gaudy colours. One, the tallest of the group, wears a hat tipped with a white feather, the others are bare-headed, but all wear thick woollen shawls around their shoulders, and huddle close to one another as they walk.

  Bill Hunt shuffles out into the gaslit street, and follows a few yards behind them. He has a tendency to stoop as he walks, and it is hard
to say whether this is due to a natural shyness, or a habit formed whilst working underground with pickaxe and shovel. In any case, he dogs the three girls, unnoticed, for a good minute or more before the tallest of the group chances to look round and see him. It is a quick, appraising glance, a business-like look with which Bill Hunt is quite familiar. In turn, he catches her eye, and jerks his head, as if to indicate a nearby alley.

  The woman leans towards her companions, and whispers a few words; both turn briefly to look at him, then move away, hastening down the street. She, on the other hand, splits away from them, and waits for Bill to come closer.

  ‘I ain’t going down there, dear,’ she says, looking at the alley. ‘It stinks something awful.’

  Bill looks at her. ‘I know another good place, just round the corner.’

  Midnight. Doughty Street.

  A conversation in the front parlour.

  ‘I trust your mother is quite dead, Clara?’

  ‘I believe so, ma’am.’

  ‘Well, I am glad of it. I cannot abide sloppiness in these matters.’

  Wait. No.

  Clara White wakes up, perspiring.

  ‘Where we goin’?’ asks the girl with the feathered hat.

  ‘It’s not far.’

  ‘I don’t give a fig, darlin’. Long as you see me right.’

  ‘Here, careful,’ says Bill Hunt. ‘Now keep your eyes shut, and I’ll surprise you.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s a surprise, I told you. Watch out for the steps.’

  ‘What steps? Oh, bloody hell, you’ll kill me, you will.’

  ‘Here, I’ve got hold of you, ain’t I? It’s not far, I told you. Mind while I undo the latch.’

  ‘Can I open my eyes yet?’

  ‘Go on then.’

  ‘Well, ain’t this a little nest? Blankets and all. Very grand.’

  ‘We won’t get any trouble here.’

  ‘If you say so, love. It’s your shillin’. Easy now, no need to paw us like that, is there?’

  ‘It’s my shilling.’

  ‘You could be a bit . . .’

  ‘Shut your hole, will you?’