by Lee Jackson
‘I told them already. You want me to tell you again?’
‘Please.’
The Greek sighs. ‘The man, he stays for long while, two hours. The man, he is still up there. I think, maybe there is something wrong here. That is all.’
‘You bill them by the hour, I understand?’
‘I rent rooms by the hour. That is all.’
Webb smiles. ‘If you say so. Well, I am done here. I wish you a good night, Mr. Brown.’
Vasilis Brown looks on in confusion as the two policemen turn and leave the room. Outside, in the hall, before they can begin to converse amongst themselves, they come upon Sergeant Bartleby.
‘You were right, sir,’ says the sergeant. ‘Same decanters in every room. All the ones I checked, leastways.’
Webb nods, and allows himself a hint of a satisfied smile.
‘We will look into that,’ says Hanson. ‘So, Inspector, was Brown as you expected?’
‘I don’t know,’ replies Webb. ‘I would not trust his sort an inch, but is he a murderer? Anything is possible, I suppose – one should never rely on instinct. Do you intend to arrest him?’
‘I would prefer to let him dangle for now, keep a close eye on him, watch his movements.’
‘A wise course of action,’ replies Webb, putting on his hat. ‘Well, good night, Inspector Hanson. It has been a pleasure. Keep us informed of your progress. I am sorry I could not be of much help.’
‘The pleasure was all mine, sir.’
Webb and Bartleby sit once more in a cab, leaving behind the great cathedral, and the confines of Godliman Street. The former seems more inclined to conversation than previously, his features more animated.
‘You were gone a long time, Sergeant?’
‘I spoke to a couple of the constables, sir. I had a word with the one who knew the girls.’
‘And?’
‘He said they weren’t best pals or anything. In fact, he’d heard they had a falling out over some gentleman friend.’
Webb laughs. ‘A gentleman friend?’
‘No, sir, I mean a particular fellow, a sweetheart, not one of their callers.’
‘Does he have a name?’
‘The man didn’t know the details, sir. Said he would ask around. They were both regulars in the local publics. Did a good trade at Knight’s; always had a good deal of ready money.’
‘Hmm. Doubtless your constable will tell Hanson if he finds anything. It is not really our business. Still, intriguing.’
‘And that was a stroke, sir, noticing that decanter. Something queer in it, you think?’
‘You do not need to butter me up, Sergeant. But, yes, they will find something, I am certain. I just do not know what or why.’
‘And who was it for, sir? I mean to say, if he knifed one and smothered the other, what was the point of that? Or,’ says Bartleby, struck by a sudden thought, ‘did they try to poison him? He discovered it. Turned nasty.’
Webb ponders the idea but shakes his head. ‘Why remove the decanter? You let your enthusiasm run away with you, Sergeant. Think it through.’
Bartleby shakes his head in defeat. Webb, however, continues. ‘But I know which of the two it was for, brandy, poison or whatever; or, at least, I think so.’
‘Sir?’
‘In the first room, Sergeant, I looked in the cabinet. The brandy was there, but there was also a tacky circle on the wood, a stain, matching the outline of the base of the decanter. They must have spilt some liquor down the neck when they poured it, and it had stuck to the bottom of the glass, and then left its mark. I have the same problem with my tea-pot at home.’
‘I don’t follow you, sir.’
‘No, well, I have not finished. The stain was almost a perfect circle, but it was not quite beneath the decanter; it was an inch or so to the right; they overlapped slightly. Nothing remarkable in that, of course. But I lifted the base of the decanter itself and it was not remotely damp, except where it overlapped the stain.’
‘You mean it was not the same decanter as left the stain?’
‘Precisely. I’ll warrant it was from the second room. Miss Finch’s room. Now, why should that be?’
‘The man moved it, from one room to another?’
Webb nods. ‘To conceal the fact the original had been taken. A clumsy attempt, mind you. But it shows our Miss Carter was his intended victim. It shows us that whatever took place in room fourteen is the key; anything else is incidental. And, I suspect, that our man was not a complete madman.’
‘Did you mention this to Inspector Hanson?’ asks the sergeant.
Webb looks out of the window, as the cab speeds along Fleet Street.
‘It is only a theory, Sergeant. And it is not our case.’
‘And it is the City force, sir,’ says the sergeant knowingly.
‘It is not a matter for Scotland Yard, that is all,’ replies Webb in a curt tone.
The sergeant assents, albeit raising his eyebrows.
‘Although I suspect it will be,’ mutters Webb, under his breath.
CHAPTER FIVE
‘GOOD MORNING, MISS. I’ve got the fire going.’
Annabel Krout opens her eyes, uncertain as to her location, or the owner of the peculiar voice addressing her. It takes a few seconds for her to recall that she is in London, England, in her cousin’s house, and that the voice in question belongs to the maid-servant to whom she spoke the day before. She sits up awkwardly in bed.
‘I’m sorry, Miss,’ says the maid-servant. ‘You did say to wake you for breakfast? Shall I open the curtains?’
Annabel nods and smiles weakly. ‘Yes, I did. Thank you.’
‘It’s a beautiful morning, Miss.’
‘The fog has cleared then?’
‘Clear as a bell,’ says the maid. ‘I’ve left you a basin of hot here, Miss.’
‘Thank you, Jacobs,’ says Annabel, looking at the steaming bowl of water upon the wash-stand. ‘What time is it?’
‘Almost eight o’clock. Is there anything else, Miss?’
‘No, I do not think so. Thank you.’
‘Very good, Miss.’
Jacobs walks briskly on to the landing, closing the door behind her. Annabel waits until the maid has left, then gets up and walks to the window. She looks almost unsteady; perhaps she needlessly anticipates the pitch and yaw to which two weeks upon a steam-ship have accustomed her. Peering through the glass, she is struck by the odd dendritic patterns of minute black crystals left upon the surface, a legacy of the fog. Beyond that, outside, there is a frost on the ground in the gardens below, and she can now see the canal across the way. The slumped figures of several labourers are engaged in heavy labour, with ropes and crates, atop a long barge.
She shivers and looks for her dressing-gown, and a suitable dress.
‘Annabel, my dear, did you sleep well? Do take a seat. How was the bed?’
‘Fine, thank you, cousin.’
Melissa Woodrow smiles, and gently taps her husband’s hand, who sits at the breakfast table, his head invisible behind a copy of the day’s Times. He lowers the paper and looks up; his eyes are slightly bloodshot.
‘Ah, Miss Krout,’ he says, repeating the question, ‘slept well?’
Annabel nods. ‘I did indeed, sir. A great improvement upon my berth on the Alathea.’
‘I am glad,’ he replies tersely, without much enthusiasm. He returns his gaze to the newspaper, as if reluctant to meet her glance.
‘I have never sailed myself,’ says Mrs. Woodrow. ‘I understand one needs a strong constitution, Annabel? Is that the case? Were many people bad on the trip?’
‘Bad? Well, I suppose I made a few pleasant acquaintances . . .’
Mrs. Woodrow laughs, and smiles politely. ‘No, no, my dear – you misconstrue me. I mean in ill-health. Mal de mer.’
‘Oh, I’m so sorry,’ replies her cousin. ‘Yes, a good number. We would not put it that way, in Boston.’
‘Well, really, you must accustom yo
urself to our way of speaking, dear,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Mustn’t she, Woodrow? “When in Rome . . .” isn’t that what they say?’
Mr. Woodrow nods, rather stiffly.
‘Ah,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow as Jacobs appears, bearing a tray of bacon and eggs, ‘now I trust you like a good meal to begin the day? A girl your age should eat well; but I can ask Mrs. Figgis to make up something else, if it’s not to your liking.’
‘No, really, that’s fine, cousin. Eggs are a favourite of mine.’
Mrs. Woodrow smiles, but an awkward silence ensues, as both women begin eating, and Mr. Woodrow continues his determined perusal of the newspaper. A plate of cold-cuts follows, together with bread and anchovy paste. Mr. Woodrow makes a series of desultory forays into the meat with his fork, hardly eating anything. At length, he pushes his plate to one side, takes a swig of tea, and stands up.
‘You must excuse me, Miss Krout, but I have business to attend to. I’ll have to leave shortly.’
‘Of course,’ replies Annabel.
‘Now, do not allow my wife to exhaust you on your first day – she has a mania for “sights”.’
‘I have nothing of the sort,’ protests Mrs. Woodrow.
‘I expect we will have an opportunity to talk this evening,’ continues Woodrow, even as he passes his house-guest and leaves the room.
Annabel turns to bid him goodbye but finds herself addressing the empty doorway. She turns back to face her cousin, whose features betray a certain displeasure with her husband’s abrupt manner. Nonetheless, Mrs. Woodrow immediately forces them into a more benign arrangement.
‘Do ignore Woodrow; he is awfully busy. He means nothing by it, my dear. Now, what shall we do today? We must see something, I think – when one is fortunate enough to enjoy the advantages of travel, one must see something.’
‘Whatever you suggest, cousin, though I should most like to see the Crystal Palace, and St. Paul’s, and the Abbey . . .’
‘Yes, yes, naturally, my dear. I am just thinking what might be for the best today, to begin with. Perhaps, first, I should introduce you to Lucinda – I had thought we might take her on a little outing.’
‘Yes, I have been looking forward to meeting her,’ says Annabel, brightly. ‘Your letters have painted such a lovely picture. And that photograph you sent Momma and Poppa was so pretty.’
Melissa Woodrow smiles, a glow of maternal pride suffusing her cheeks.
The Woodrows’ nursery is located on the third floor of the house, above Annabel’s room, overlooking the street. The room itself is a light and airy space, which commands a good view of the terrace’s rooftops, and the canal opposite. The walls are plain and whitewashed, the floor carpeted with a mat of dark felt. The only substantial items of furniture are a bed, a small table and chairs, a dresser and a wicker toy-hamper, the lid of which is rather poorly secured, so that the bow of a brightly painted wooden ark projects from the top.
The room’s solitary inhabitant is a little girl, about six years old. She sits on a small stool in the corner, in front of a miniature wooden desk, engaged in the contemplation of a book. Dark-haired, like her parents, she bears a rather earnest expression. As Mrs. Woodrow and her cousin enter, she looks up at the two adults expectantly. Mrs. Woodrow meets her daughter’s gaze with a smile, but bustles over to the hamper, straightening the toys.
‘I do wish, Lucinda, you might keep things in better order,’ she says, fastening it shut.
‘Sorry, Mama,’ says the little girl. She puts the book to one side, a railway alphabet, open at ‘T is for Tunnel’. Her mother bends down and strokes her face.
‘This, Lucy, is your cousin Annabel, from America. Do you remember I said that she was coming to visit us?’
Lucy nods.
‘What do you say to Annabel?’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ says the little girl, after a pause for thought.
Annabel Krout smiles. ‘Likewise,’ she replies, crouching down to Lucy’s level. ‘You are every bit as pretty as your picture. I hope you and I will become the best of friends.’
Before the girl can reply, however, a voice interrupts from the landing, behind the two visitors.
‘Good morning, Lucinda.’
It is the voice of Mr. Woodrow, dressed for the outdoors, in his large black great-coat, holding a walking stick and hat.
‘Good morning, Papa,’ replies Lucy, sitting up straight.
‘I see you have met my daughter, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow. ‘What do you make of her? I am inclined to think that she needs bringing out of herself. My wife is against the idea of a governess, although I do not see why.’
‘I find her charming, sir,’ replies Annabel.
‘Yes, well. It is hard to judge on first meeting, I suppose.’ He seems to pause for a moment, as if on the verge of saying something more about her. Instead, however, he merely continues with, ‘Have you made plans, Melissa?’
‘Nothing as yet, my dear,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Really? Well, I have told Jervis to have the carriage ready for ten sharp – I thought that would suit. But I am late already.’
‘I will speak to Jervis, my dear,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘Don’t let us detain you.’
Mr. Woodrow nods farewell once again, and departs. The sound of his boots echo on the stairs. Mrs. Woodrow waits until he is out of ear-shot before she speaks.
‘He so wants the best for her,’ she says at last, patting her daughter on the head, ‘but, to tell the truth, I am so loath to give her routine over to a perfect stranger. She is a sensitive child. Do you think me foolish?’
‘Not at all. I am sure it is very natural in a mother,’ replies Annabel.
Melissa Woodrow smiles, and gently touches her cousin’s arm. ‘I am glad you agree, my dear. But, I should say, best not to discuss the matter in front of Woodrow. He detests arguments. Now, young lady,’ she says, addressing the little girl, ‘we are planning an excursion. Where should you like to go today?’
‘Today, Mama?’
‘Yes, today.’
The girl looks pensive, twisting a lock of her dark curly hair about her finger.
‘The Zoo!’
Melissa Woodrow smiles. ‘It is always the Zoological Gardens! But I can recommend them, Annabel – we can take the brougham and have a pleasant stroll round the park?’
‘I should be delighted.’
‘Excellent. Do you have a day-dress, my dear?’
‘Well, the one I am wearing,’ says Annabel, unconsciously looking down at her clothing, a mauve dress of a rather plain design.
‘Oh, I do not think that will do, my dear. We do not follow the American fashions here, you know. I will see if I can find you something from my wardrobe; and I just bought a delightful new cloud from Whiteley’s – that might be just the thing. It is still so cold. I am sure Jacobs will have an idea – she is quite the last word on such matters, although you would not know to look at her!’
‘Really, cousin, there is no need to—’
‘My dear, there is every need. You cannot be seen in Regent’s Park with nothing from this season . . . Well, anyway, do talk to Lucinda while I go and have a look.’
Melissa Woodrow hurries back to her dressing-room, calling for her maid, ignoring the slight look of annoyance on Annabel Krout’s face. Annabel, however, does not protest any further, beyond a quiet sigh of resignation. Conscious that her little cousin is watching her, she bends down over the child’s desk.
‘How old are you, Lucy?’
‘Nearly seven.’
‘That is grown up, isn’t it? Have you been to the Zoo before?’
‘Yes,’ says the little girl, a slight note of childish contempt in her voice, as if insulted by the suggestion that she might want for such an experience.
‘With your Momma, I mean, Mama and Papa?’
‘Papa doesn’t go anywhere.’
‘No, well he is a busy man. I suppose he must go to work, to earn a living, to keep you and
your Mama happy.’
The little girl frowns. ‘I wish he was happy,’ she says.
‘Isn’t he?’ asks Annabel, puzzled.
Lucy Woodrow shakes her head, very firmly.
‘Why, dear?’ persists Annabel. ‘What do you mean?’
The sound of Mrs. Woodrow’s voice, calling Annabel Krout from down the hall, interrupts the conversation.
The little girl returns to looking at her alphabet.
‘I like the Zoo,’ she says.
CHAPTER SIX
‘THAT,’ SAYS LUCY Woodrow, pointing emphatically at the large animal approaching step by step, ‘is an Indian elephant. Because it has small ears.’
‘For an elephant,’ suggests Annabel Krout.
The little girl looks up at her cousin, unsure if she is being teased. ‘Yes,’ she replies at last, with considerable seriousness, ‘for an elephant.’
The grey beast lumbers slowly along the tree-lined path towards them. Annabel and Lucy, together with Mrs. Woodrow, stand to one side. Led by a peak-hatted keeper, the animal bears a load of half a dozen passengers, also visitors to the Zoological Gardens. All of them, a man, woman and four children, are balanced precariously upon a wooden knifeboard seat, roped to its back.
‘It’s a miracle they don’t fall,’ says Annabel.
The keeper, over-hearing the comment, politely raises his whip, held firmly in one hand, to touch his cap.
‘Don’t you fret, Miss,’ he says. ‘Safe as a regular omnibus, if you care for a ride?’
‘She cares for no such thing,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow, ushering her cousin along.
‘“Safe as a regular omnibus” indeed,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, once the man and his charges have passed by. ‘Let me tell you, my dear, that is no great recommendation.’
‘But can’t we have a ride, Mama?’ says Lucy, tugging her mother’s skirt.
‘Don’t do that, dear,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow, grabbing her daughter’s hand. ‘You will tear it. And, no, we cannot have a ride. I have told you before, it would not suit my constitution. Have some thought for your mother’s feelings.’
The little girl’s face darkens considerably, but she says nothing. Her mother looks sharply at her.
