by Lee Jackson
Henry Cotton, uncertain if he might be able to duplicate such athletics, merely stands at the window, staring out at the street. He loses sight of Tom Hunt, stumbling along the road, but can hear the sound of a policeman’s whistle. In the strange excitement of Hunt’s abrupt flight, he almost forgets the reason for Hunt’s departure until he hears a man’s voice behind him.
‘Don’t you bleedin’ move. You’re under arrest.’
Even in the darkness, Cotton turns his head and can make out the helmeted figure of a constable standing by the door to the parlour, his gutta-percha truncheon raised above his head.
‘Really, Constable,’ says Cotton, taking a deep breath, ‘there is no need for that.’
‘Ain’t there? I think I’ll be the judge of that. Hold out your hands.’
‘What is the charge?’
‘Don’t come that with me.’
‘No, you don’t understand. You see, Constable, this is my house. I live here.’
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
DECIMUS WEBB is alone in his office when he hears the sound of raised voices. Such raucous interruptions are not uncommon in the confines of the Marylebone Lane station, and he pays little heed to it. Instead, he turns to look at the clock, which, in the dim light of the brass oil-lamp that sits upon his desk, is barely visible; it is, he realises, two o’clock in the morning, and he has been asleep for an hour or more. Wearily, he prises himself from his chair, and goes to pick up his coat from the stand.
Outside, a man can still be heard complaining loudly from one of the cells situated at the rear of the building. Webb makes his way to the entrance hall of the station, in which the sergeant on duty, Tibbs by name, sits in a rather slovenly manner at his desk, his head propped up on his hands, lolling forward over a copy of the Daily News. On seeing the inspector, he sits up straight as a ruler and ineffectually attempts to conceal the paper beneath a pile of more official-looking material.
‘Lor, you gave me a scare,’ exclaims the sergeant.
‘Am I that terrifying, sergeant?’
‘I thought you had gone home, sir, that’s all,’ replies Tibbs. ‘I would have called you out; you’ve missed some fun and games.’
‘I am glad you didn’t,’ says Webb, making to leave.
‘Constable Evans,’ continues Tibbs, warming to his subject, ‘took this cracksman in Meulton Street; regular Spring-Heel Jack he was! Jumped out the window of the place, then fought like blazes when he caught up with him. Took three men to get him here.’
‘Ah, well, my congratulations to Evans.’
‘You ain’t heard the funniest part, sir, if you’ll forgive me.’
‘Haven’t I?’ asks Webb.
‘His chum, who weren’t so hot on his feet, says he owns the place what was done over; well, that he rents it, anyhow, or something. But the first fellow, he denies it. Frankly, sir, between the two of them, we can’t make head nor tail of it.’
‘Had he merely lost his key? Perhaps this man was helping him?’
‘Oh, no, sir. Evans recognised the first fellow; used to see him about Saffron Hill when he was posted there a year or two back. Name of Thomas Hunt. Notorious rogue, sir, so Evans tells me. It was only a chance he saw him, as it happens. Dogged him from Regent Street, all the way till when he cracked the place. A regular ghost is Evans, when he wants to be.’
‘And do we know the second man?’
‘Well, we’ll leave him to the magistrate, I reckon, sir. Says his name is Cotton, but the other fellow swears he told him it was Phibbs. Now, what do you make of that?’
Webb looks at sergeant Tibbs. His large heavily lidded eyes, suddenly quite alert, fix on Tibbs’ face and narrow in an unmistakable expression of anger.
‘Sir?’ says Tibbs, nervously.
‘Sergeant,’ says Webb at last, ‘do you ever read my memoranda? Perhaps it has escaped your notice that I am engaged in the investigation of a murder? Or do you imagine I am merely indulging a peculiar fancy for late nights in your company?’
A look of comprehension passes across the sergeant’s face, as the name of Phibbs, mentioned in several papers circulated by Webb to his fellow officers, stirs something in his memory. He coughs, nervously.
‘You’ll want to see the man directly, I suppose,’ says the sergeant, retrieving the keys to the cells. ‘I’ll get one of the lads to . . .’
‘Give that here,’ replies Webb, taking the keys. ‘And for pity’s sake, find out who does have that house in Meulton Street.’
‘It’s two a.m., sir,’ says Tibbs, pleadingly.
‘I don’t care if you personally have to wake all his blasted neighbours one by one.’
Before sergeant Tibbs even contemplates an answer, Webb has turned and is walking back into the rear of the police station.
Decimus Webb finds Henry Cotton, also known as Phibbs, sitting mournfully in his cell, on the palliasse mattress provided by the Metropolitan Police for the comfort of their guests. The curses of Tom Hunt, similarly accommodated, can be vaguely heard in the distance. Cotton looks up at Webb, and smiles nervously.
‘Ah, good, Inspector. I asked to see someone more senior. There has been an awful misunderstanding.’
‘I should say so, Mr. Phibbs.’
‘Phibbs?’
‘No need for that gammon, sir,’ says Webb, pulling a leather-bound article from his pocket. ‘I know who you are. I assume this is yours?’
Henry Cotton looks at his notebook, last seen at
Baker Street. He toys with the idea of remaining silent, but decides, in the end, to speak.
‘Ah. Yes, it is,’ he admits reluctantly. ‘You say you know me? Then, really, Inspector, you must let me explain . . .’
Decimus Webb sighs. ‘That is exactly what I would like you to do.’
‘Well, I don’t know quite where to begin. What can I tell you?’
‘The truth, if you will, Mr. Phibbs. Or should I say Cotton? Is that your real name?’
Henry Cotton blushes. ‘Yes, it is. Phibbs is something of a nom de plume, if you will.’
‘You consider yourself a writer, then?’
‘I aspire to be, sir, yes.’
‘And your subject matter is vice.’
‘I see you have deciphered my notes.’
Webb nods, as if realising the solution to a particular problem.
‘But it is not just a nom de plume, is it, Mr. Cotton? You have gone to some pains to keep yourself hidden away from the world. It is your house in Meulton Street, is it not?’
Cotton smiles with relief. ‘Thank the Lord you believe me. Yes, of course it is. I rent it by the quarter.’
‘We can check that, Mr. Cotton, and, rest assured, we will. But you are accustomed to take lodgings elsewhere, in Clare Market, to pick one instance, for your, ah, research?’
‘For convenience, Inspector. I believe there is a great advantage in being something of a chameleon when one is acquainting oneself with the evils of our society. I have taken lodgings in two or three places.’
‘I see. Even so, I think there is more to it than that. You might begin by telling me, if you please, why you ran from Baker Street station that night?’
‘Well, you don’t suppose I killed that poor girl?’
‘I don’t suppose anything, though there’s plenty who do. Tell me why you ran.’
Cotton looks awkwardly down at the ground, speaking hesitantly. ‘There are reasons, quite delicate and personal to me . . .’
‘Do you wish to hang, Mr. Cotton?’
Henry Cotton blanches. ‘Hang? I am sure it could not come to that, could it?’
‘Are you really, Mr. Cotton?’
Cotton pauses, then hesitantly speaks. ‘My family, Inspector, have no knowledge of my particular studies of the metropolis. They believe me in Italy.’
‘Italy?’
‘On a tour, viewing Roman antiquities.’
‘Good Lord!’ exclaims Webb. ‘That is your reason? You ran because you are commonly su
pposed to be in Italy?’
‘If my father knew where I was, worse, the subject matter on which I am writing, how I have been spending my annuity . . . I mean to say, if any of it got out, well, he would cut me off without a penny.’
‘But the blasted girl was dead!’
‘Well,’ says Cotton, trying to instil some degree of self-justification into his speech, ‘what of it? I did not kill the wretched creature. She must have been dead before I even laid eyes on her. I thought she was asleep.’
Webb looks at him intently. ‘Do we have that right, Mr. Cotton? Before you set eyes on her?’
‘Well, yes, she was already on the train.’
‘She had got on before you?’
‘I assume so.’
‘Tell me, Mr. Cotton, for this is important, exactly what happened that night. Why did you catch the train?’
‘I decided to return home, to a decent bed.’
‘A decent bed? To Meulton Street, you mean?’
‘Yes.’
‘Do you keep servants, Mr. Cotton?’
‘No, I generally shift for myself, Inspector. It would be, well, difficult to do otherwise; and my, ah, financial situation is not the best.’
‘And so, thinking of your bed, in your empty house, you purchased a ticket, and went down to the station platform, yes?’
‘Indeed.’
‘And then?’
‘I waited for the train.’
‘It was not there already? Were you alone?’
‘No, there was myself and a few others, though I do not recall much about them.’
‘No young women? Not Sally Bowker?’
‘Well, I do not know. I did not see her, come to think of it. Then the train arrived, a handful of persons disembarked . . .’
‘And you alighted?’
‘No, not immediately at least.’
‘Why not?’
‘There was some business with the carriages. A man told us to wait while they “coupled” one more to the end of the train, or whatever they call it. I think he said it was something to do with the works at Paddington; they needed it for the morning or some such nonsense. He was quite apologetic about it.’
‘How long were you waiting?’
‘Five minutes or so.’
‘And then you got on the train, and saw the girl?’
‘Yes. Well, not quite. The first carriage I tried had little gas, and I could hardly see to read my notes, or write for that matter. So I got out and wandered down to another. Then I saw the girl. She was obviously drunk, or so I thought. I thought it would be instructive to watch her, if only to see her reaction on waking. I tell you, Inspector, I thought she was merely in a stupor. I swear it, on my life.’
Webb looks at him, amazed. ‘The carriage was at the far end of the train, was it not?’
‘Yes, what of it?’
Webb whispers through clenched teeth, ‘You, Mr. Cotton, are a selfish idiot. And I am a complete fool. Though Lord knows why no-one told me.’
‘I do not understand. What could I have possibly done? She was dead.’
‘You could have told me all this two weeks ago. Do you not see? The girl was in the last carriage, which they added at Farringdon. It was probably sitting in the blasted sidings all day. She never even caught a train. She was killed in the bloody station.’
‘Well, I hardly see . . .’
‘Stand up, man. You’re coming with me.’
‘Where?’
‘Farringdon.’
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
HENRY COTTON FINDS himself in a cab, seated next to Inspector Decimus Webb. Acquired from a rank on Marylebone High Street, the vehicle speeds through the empty city streets at an alarming pace. To Cotton it seems that the whole of London is a blur of smoke-filled streets and half-glimpsed gas-light.
‘Surely this could wait, Inspector?’
‘I don’t think so, sir. You should be grateful I haven’t charged you. Not yet, anyhow.’
‘I have done nothing wrong.’
‘You have been hindering my enquiries, for a start. Not to mention the matter of breaking and entering.’
‘It is my house, Inspector.’
‘I believe you rent it, do you not? And what about your chum Hunt? Broke one of our fellow’s ribs, they tell me.’
‘Well, I had nothing to do with that.’
‘I am sure your dear father would agree, sir.’
Cotton looks aghast at the suggestion. ‘What,’ he says, catching his breath, ‘do you need me for? Surely the place is closed at night.’
‘I need to know exactly where everything was. And there is a night-watchman, so I understand. I have waited long enough on your account, Mr. Cotton.’
‘I see.’
‘It is all very well saying, “I see”, but it is too late,’ says Webb, taking Cotton’s notebook out of his pocket and throwing it into Cotton’s lap. ‘Look! You made all these blasted notes, and nothing in them of any use to anybody!’
In less than half an hour, Decimus Webb, Henry Cotton and the night-watchman of Farringdon station, an elderly man, less than happy to be woken from his customary state of slumber, find themselves standing on the platform where Cotton stood two weeks earlier. Both the watchman and the policeman carry oillanterns that send out faint orange beams over the darkened rails before them. Cotton shivers slightly. A vague rustle of movement prompts Webb to turn round, shining the light back along the length of the platform.
‘Rats,’ says the old man, cheerfully.
Webb takes a moment to compose himself, looking at the discomforted figure of Henry Cotton and, despite his opinion of the young man, he feels a trifle sorry for him.
‘Tell me, Mr. Cotton, where was the train?’
‘Where on earth do you think? Here beside the platform.’
‘Yes, but from where to where? Show me where it began and ended.’
‘It is some time ago.’
‘Nevertheless, as best you can.’
Cotton walks tentatively, guided by the watchman’s lamp, to the end of the platform facing the tunnel entrance.
‘The engine was here, I should think.’
‘And the rear carriage?’
Cotton walks back along the platform.
‘Here.’
‘Before the carriage was added?’
‘I should say, in fact, after. I remember getting out and walking back to about here.’
‘Too exposed,’ mutters Webb.
‘Forgive me?’
‘No-one put her in the carriage there. Anyone might have seen it. You,’ he says, addressing the watchman, who observes the proceedings with a look of bemusement, ‘where would a carriage be kept if it was spare?’
‘Spare?’
‘Surplus to requirements. Damaged. Awaiting a train to connect to it. For whatever reason.’
The old man shrugs. ‘The line goes back there, see, to the side? There’s points, so you can switch it to the left there. By them works for the new station.’
Webb shines his light in the direction indicated by the watchman. The tracks recede back into the darkness, giving the impression that they might carry on for ever.
‘What is that? By the scaffolding?’
‘That? Just the men’s hut, that’s all. They keep tools in it.’
‘It is beside where the carriage would have been, is it not?’
The old man shrugs once more.
‘I believe it is,’ says Webb. ‘Come on.’
‘I ain’t going down there,’ replies the watchman. ‘It ain’t safe, not in the dark.’
‘If you brought your light it would not be dark. Oh, very well, give it to him,’ he says, indicating that the man should hand it over to Cotton.
‘Me?’
‘You owe me that much, Mr. Cotton. Come.’
Cotton gingerly takes the lamp and the two men walk to the end of the wooden platform, and then clamber off the raised edge down on to the gravel below. Even with the two lamps it
is difficult to cross the tracks, and they make slow progress, though it is but twenty yards to the wooden shed. To Webb’s surprise, the door is not locked.
‘Come out,’ he says, his voice echoing in the empty station.
Nothing happens.
Webb grabs the door, throwing it open and shining his light inside. It is quite empty, but for the various tools of the workmen, neatly arranged on shelves. In one corner, however, there are two or three blankets lain against the wall, and an empty bottle beside them. Webb bends down, examining the cloth.
‘You expected someone to be waiting here?’ asks Cotton, incredulously.
‘Can you smell it?’
‘What?’
‘Gin. And it is quite warm in here, is it not?’
‘I do not know.’
‘Someone has been in here, not that long ago.’
‘It will be one of the workmen. I am sure they are not averse to a drink.’
‘At this hour?’
‘Perhaps it is the night-shift . . .’
Cotton stops midway in his sentence as Webb puts his hand to his mouth, beckoning him to keep silent. The sound is quite clear: footsteps on the gravel, not many yards distant.
‘It is the watchman,’ whispers Hunt.
‘He said he would not come down here.’
Webb takes up his light and walks briskly out of the hut, holding the lamp out, swinging the beam from side to side. In the darkness, however, it is impossible to distinguish any movement, and the noise echoes off the cliff-like walls of the Farringdon Cut.
‘What you doing in there?’
It is the voice of the watchman, returning to the platform, bearing a third lantern.
‘Did you hear anything, just then?’
