The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  Langley returns to the Great Hall where, after several minutes of fruitless searching, he sees a woman, surrounded by a dozen or more bags and cases, standing by the marble statue of Stephenson that dominates the far end of the chamber. He takes another look at the photograph, and walks over to her.

  ‘Miss Krout?’

  She smiles a brief, nervous smile. ‘Yes. I was expecting . . . I am sorry, but you are not Mr. Woodrow?’

  ‘Ah, no. My name is Langley. Mr. Woodrow is detained elsewhere, I am afraid. But your cousin has a brougham waiting outside.’

  ‘Does she? Oh, how good of her!’

  ‘I fear your luggage will have to go separately. Can you wait, while I find a porter?’

  ‘Of course,’ she replies. ‘You must excuse me, I should have arranged something myself.’

  ‘No need,’ says Langley, looking round the hall for an attendant. ‘I confess, I thought I had missed you.’

  ‘I do beg your pardon,’ she says earnestly.

  Langley smiles. ‘No, no. We are late – do not apologise. I imagine you are exhausted, Miss Krout. It is a long way from Liverpool.’

  ‘Even further from Boston, sir.’

  ‘Indeed! Well, you are safe and sound now, rest assured. I expect you are looking forward to seeing London?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Truly, I—’

  ‘Ah, hang on, here’s our chap. Boy – over here!’

  The ‘boy’ who takes charge of the despatch of Annabel Krout’s luggage is barely three or four years younger than Richard Langley. Nonetheless, he does not object to the description, and the business in hand is soon dealt with. In consequence, it does not take long for Langley to guide Miss Krout back outside to her cousin’s waiting carriage. A few polite words are exchanged, and he cordially takes leave of the two women.

  As for Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin, the cold night air forbids the customary ecstasy of greetings and exchange of affectionate familial bulletins, until they are both ensconced inside the brougham and wrapped in several layers of blankets. As the vehicle begins its slow ascent of Pentonville Hill, however, a litany of American relatives ‘send their love’, via the medium of Annabel Krout. In turn, Mrs. Woodrow replies with a host of family members ‘dying to meet’ Miss Krout, a veritable hospital ward-full of aunts, uncles, first, second and third cousins upon the brink of metaphorical extinction, scattered throughout the kingdom. It is only as they approach the Angel at Islington, the famous public house barely visible in the enshrouding darkness, that the conversation turns to other things.

  ‘I trust the journey was not too awful?’ says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Now, Mr. Langley said he found you all alone? Did I hear right? I do not know how things are done in Boston, my dear, but that is rather foolhardy for a young lady. I thought you had a chaperon, a friend of your dear father’s?’

  ‘Yes, ma’am, indeed, Mr. Johannsen and his wife; but I told them there was no need to wait on me, once we were off the train. They have rented rooms in a place called Bayswater, I think – is that far?’

  ‘Not too far, my dear. Perhaps we may call on them in a day or two, if you think that would be agreeable. But please, do call me Melissa, won’t you? We are flesh and blood, after all.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am . . . Melissa,’ replies Miss Krout.

  ‘Good. Now, I only hope Jasper has returned home – we were delayed by waiting for him. You will have to forgive my husband, Annabel, he is so devoted to the business that he sometimes forgets all social ties. He is an awful beast, and I will tell him so when I see him.’

  ‘Please, not on my account, cousin,’ replies Miss Krout, anxiety in her voice. ‘I would not want to start off on a bad foot.’

  ‘Oh, Annabel, he will adore you, I am sure. Ah, now here we are at last.’

  The brougham turns left, into Duncan Terrace, a narrow street just off the City Road, flanked on one side by lofty Georgian houses, and on the other by neatly kept public gardens protected by iron railings. The coachman pulls to a stop and, once a man-servant appears by the side of the vehicle, the two women are swiftly ushered into the hall of the Woodrows’ home. Coats are hung upon the coat-stand, the blankets taken away and despatched to some secret location. Mrs. Woodrow, meanwhile, acquires a few items of evening post, left waiting for her upon a side-table.

  ‘Come up to the drawing-room, my dear,’ says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘You may as well see us at our best.’

  The drawing-room, upon the first floor, boasts a roaring fire and a pair of comfortable armchairs arranged before it.

  ‘Mr. Woodrow is still not home, Jervis?’ asks Melissa Woodrow, addressing the man-servant who awaits instruction by the door.

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  She sighs with exasperation, placing the envelopes upon the mantel, and extending her hands towards the fire, rubbing them vigorously. ‘He has sent no message?’

  ‘No, ma’am.’

  ‘Very well. Ask Mrs. Figgis to make some tea and toast, if you will. We’ll take them here.’

  ‘Very good, ma’am.’

  Mrs. Woodrow watches the butler depart, and turns her attention to her guest.

  ‘Jasper will be home soon, my dear, I am sure; then we can eat properly. Do sit down. And I expect your luggage will arrive shortly. But the cab-men are a law unto themselves, you may take it from me. They should know Duncan Terrace, mind you. It is a thoroughly respectable road.’

  ‘It is much the same in Boston, with the cabs, ma’am.’

  ‘“Melissa”, my dear, please. Will you forgive me if I open these?’ she says, gesturing at the pile of envelopes. ‘It is just that Jasper likes everything to be dealt with immediately. He can be very particular in some things, when it suits him.’

  ‘Of course,’ replies Miss Krout.

  ‘I know it is awfully rude of me, Annabel dear. I won’t be a moment.’

  Annabel Krout looks idly around the room as her cousin takes the envelopes to a small writing desk against the far wall, and slices into them with a paper-knife. It is a pleasant parlour, with a marble fireplace, and a great gilt-edged mirror hung above the mantel-piece. The furniture is a little gloomy perhaps, all dark mahogany and walnut, a little old-fashioned. But it is a comfortable, well-upholstered sort of room. There is even, Annabel notes with some satisfaction, a piano-forte. But as she looks about her, she happens to notice a peculiar frown upon her cousin’s face as she opens her post or, at least, one particular item. Indeed, if she were more familiar with Melissa Woodrow, Annabel Krout would express some polite concern about the contents of the letter in question; but it is too early in their acquaintance for such confidences. Instead, she waits patiently while Mrs. Woodrow replaces it in the envelope, and continues with the remainder.

  ‘Annabel, I think I might go and change,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, once her task is done. ‘I do believe these clothes positively trap the fog. Would you mind awfully?’

  ‘Why, not at all.’

  ‘The tea will not be a moment – do begin without me.’

  Annabel denies that she would ever dream of doing such a thing; more exhausting smiles and pleasantries are exchanged, until she is left alone in the room. She sits still for a moment or two, and then gets up, idly running her hands upon the keys of the piano, taking care not to depress them. Looking at the pictures upon the wall, a number of prints of famous personages and painted rural scenes, she passes by the writing desk in the corner. The post is still lying there, and she recognises the small manila envelope that so perturbed her cousin.

  It is perhaps indicative of a certain strain of Annabel Krout’s character that she cannot resist snatching it up and opening it. The contents, however, surprise her considerably, both in their brevity and sentiment:

  YOUR HUSBAND IS A FRAUD

  It is so distracting, that she visibly jumps when the door opens behind her.

  Fortunately, it is only the maid-servant, with a tray of tea and buttered toast.

  CHAPTER TWO

  A SOLITARY HANSOM CAB travels at
speed along the Victoria Embankment. Of the two men inside, one is engaged in giving a rather voluble monologue, attempting to gain the attention of the other.

  ‘And so, the man’s in bed somewhere, laid up, sir, you see? And the doctor, he says, “I think you might drop a line, and have your wife come up.” Because his wife’s somewhere else, at home, I suppose. And the gent in bed, he says, “Oh, Doctor, you’re always for such extreme measures!” Prime, isn’t it, sir?’

  The look upon the face of Inspector Decimus Webb, as he listens to his sergeant’s verbal re-creation of his favourite cartoon from the week’s Punch, says otherwise.

  ‘I mean to say, you do get it, don’t you, sir?’

  Webb nods his rather jowly face, solemnly and slowly, in a manner that he hopes is calculated to prevent another word being spoken upon the matter. He takes his pipe from his coat pocket, and begins to fill it with tobacco. He has enough time to light it, before the silence is broken once more.

  ‘And there was this other—’ continues Sergeant Bartleby.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Webb, judiciously interrupting, as he begins to fill the cab with a pungent cloud of Latakia, ‘what precisely the message said.’

  ‘The message, sir?’

  ‘The telegram. The reason we are progressing so precipitously towards Ludgate Hill.’

  ‘I have it here, sir,’ replies the sergeant, a little abashed. He reaches into his pocket.

  ‘Just read it to me, if you please,’ says Webb.

  ‘“Knight’s Hotel, Knight’s Court, Godliman Street. Murder. Please come. I seek your advice. Hanson, City of London Police.” Not much one can make of that, is there, sir? Must be a bad business, mind, to call us. The City boys like to keep things to themselves.’

  ‘Indeed. They are fortunate we keep late hours at Scotland Yard. You know this Hanson fellow, Sergeant?’

  ‘No, sir.’

  ‘You know the hotel, by any chance, Sergeant?’

  ‘Can’t say as I do, sir.’

  ‘Well, then it is a curious request. Let us reflect upon it.’

  ‘Sir, there isn’t exactly much to—’

  ‘In silence, Sergeant. I think best in silence.’

  Sergeant Bartleby opens his mouth to speak, but one glance at Webb is sufficient for him to close it again. Webb, in turn, takes another satisfying draw of smoke. If he thinks upon anything, it is that his tobacco-pouch is rather empty and that he must soon pay a visit to his tobacconist.

  Webb’s reverie is interrupted after a few minutes, as the cab turns off the great sweep of the Victoria Embankment, up New Bridge Street, then a sharp right into the narrow lanes that nestle in the shadow of St. Paul’s. The great cathedral is, however, quite invisible in the fog; it is only when the driver of the hansom raises the trap in the roof, through which he communicates with his passengers, that the latter can be quite certain they have arrived at their destination.

  Knight’s Court itself is a remarkably quiet square, protected on all sides by tall buildings, shielded from the noise of the great thoroughfares around the cathedral. It is not so wretched a place as many London courts, and the houses that surround it, though divided into rented rooms, look smart enough to be the homes of decent working men. But one building, slightly grander than the rest, is marked out by the presence of a solitary police constable upon its doorstep. Webb and Bartleby follow his directions, and, in short order, find themselves in the hall of Knight’s Hotel. They are greeted by Inspector Hanson, of the City of London force. At thirty-five years of age, he is a younger man than Webb, by twenty years or so.

  ‘Hanson’s the name, sir, Detective Inspector. A pleasure to make your acquaintance, if I may say so.’

  ‘Likewise, Inspector. This is Sergeant Bartleby,’ replies Webb, in an off-hand fashion, not even allowing a pause for the two men to shake hands. ‘But perhaps, Inspector, you could begin by explaining why you called us here. I need hardly remind you that St. Paul’s is not our jurisdiction, murder or not.’

  Hanson frowns. ‘Well, it’s murder all right. I’m sure of that much. I telegraphed, sir, because, well, firstly I’ve been an admirer of your work for some time, since the Railway Murder, as it happens.’

  ‘You are too kind,’ replies Webb with a dismissive wave of his hand, although his naturally glum-looking face brightens considerably.

  ‘Second, because I’ve a feeling in my gut about this.’

  ‘In your gut, Inspector?’ asks Webb, a teasing hint of sarcasm in his voice.

  ‘I think it may be the start of something. And I thought Scotland Yard might care to hear about it sooner rather than later. Here,’ he says, moving towards the door, ‘come and have a gander, eh?’

  Webb agrees, and the two policemen follow the Inspector up the stairs.

  ‘You know what this place is, I take it?’ asks Hanson as they come up to the landing.

  ‘A hotel?’ says Bartleby.

  ‘No, Sergeant, not quite. It’s more what they call a “house of accommodation”.’

  ‘A knocking-shop?’ replies the sergeant. ‘Well, I’ve seen worse.’

  ‘It has quite a reputation, so they tell me. Attracts a slightly better class of—’

  ‘Gentleman?’ interposes Webb.

  ‘I was going to say girl, but it amounts to the same. Ah, now here we are. Number fourteen,’ says Hanson, waving aside another constable standing guard. ‘Shall we? I assume you aren’t of a nervous disposition, as they say, Inspector? Or you, Sergeant?’

  Webb nods. Bartleby looks slightly less confident, but assents all the same. The inspector opens the door.

  Webb surveys the room. It is lit by the dull gleam of a pair of oil-lamps, in dim contrast to the strong gaslight of the hall. There is a dresser, a wardrobe, a chair, a couple of cabinets; but in each case the wood is poor quality, old and chipped, the surfaces dusty with disuse; even the cheval-glass, which stands in a corner, has a crack in it. The principal item of furniture, however, is a large, wrought-iron bed that stands in the centre. In contrast to the shabby fixtures and fittings, the bed’s mattress is wrapped in fine white linen and the sheets neatly pressed; the covers of the pillows and cushions, heaped against the curlicued iron-work of the head-board, are made of silk; the rug beneath it bears a finely woven, intricate oriental pattern.

  The only thing out of place is the corpse of a girl, no more than eighteen years of age.

  She lies prone on her back, atop the sheets, her head arched back over a pillow. It is not a neat death, for, from a gash deep in her breast, blood has seeped into the silk of her night-gown, colouring the fabric dark red, congealing around the curve of her stomach; and upon either side of her, the sheets are blotted with the faint, rusted impression of her body.

  ‘Tell me,’ says Webb, his voice quite dispassionate, ‘when was she found?’

  ‘At about seven o’clock,’ replies Hanson. ‘The, ah, proprietor, a Mr. Brown, became suspicious about how long a particular man had been up here.’

  ‘How long was that?’

  ‘Two hours or so. Brown found that the door was locked from the inside. He had to use his master key, so he tells us, at least. When he finally opened the door, the man had vanished – we can only assume through the window – and Brown found the girl, dead.’

  ‘He went directly to the police?’

  Hanson smiles wrily. ‘Hard to say. I am sure he cleared out all the other girls and their gentlemen friends from the place. He denies that part, of course. Nor does he know the name of the man, so he says.’

  ‘Do you believe him?’

  ‘I don’t know. For one thing “Brown” is just the name he goes by; he’s a Greek, as it happens. Let’s say I reserve my judgment,’ replies Hanson.

  Webb walks over to the window; it overlooks an alley by the side of the hotel. ‘It is a considerable drop from here, if someone jumped. Not impossible, mind you. What do you make of it, Bartleby? You are very quiet.’

  ‘I was thinking she was a fine-look
ing girl, sir, that’s all,’ replies the sergeant, looking at the girl’s face.

  ‘It would be a forgivable lapse if she were ugly, would it? I asked for your professional opinion, man, not your sentiments.’

  Bartleby straightens his stance.

  ‘It’s a knife wound, sir, that much is clear. Deep and all; it’d need a strong arm – a man’s work, I’d be certain of that. Fairly precise too; no messing about with this one.’

  ‘How so?’

  ‘Straight through the heart, sir, between the ribs.’

  ‘Anything else?’

  ‘There’s not much blood. I mean, there is, but it’s not splashed about, not so much as you’d expect. And the sheets aren’t much disturbed either.’

  ‘I noticed that too,’ remarks Hanson. ‘Hardly a struggle.’

  ‘Probably killed her stone dead. A blade through the heart – I suppose she would be hardly likely to wrestle with him,’ continues Bartleby.

  ‘No, I suppose not,’ replies Webb. He frowns and turns to address Inspector Hanson. ‘This is all very intriguing, but I am sure you’ll forgive me if I don’t understand why this regrettable business is a matter for the Yard.’

  ‘Because I am afraid there’s more to it, Inspector,’ replies Hanson. And, without another word, he peels back the drapes from the nearby wall, to reveal a connecting door, half-open, to the next room. He beckons Webb and Bartleby to follow him.

  It is a smaller, plainer, wall-papered room, a little narrower than room fourteen, but large enough to contain a similar run-down assemblage of furniture. It too boasts a smart iron bed-stead, with clean sheets and linen, only this one is unmarked by blood. But, in the lamp-light, there is something on the bed that causes both Bartleby and Webb to stop in their tracks. It is the body of a second woman, dark-haired, of a similar age to the first; she lies quite still, her body stretched out, though clad in a day-dress, its copper-coloured silk hardly creased.