by Lee Jackson
‘I am not “involved” in anything, Inspector,’ says Woodrow, indignantly. ‘What does your man mean to imply?’
‘I am sure nothing was meant, sir,’ says Webb, soothingly.
‘I am glad to hear it. It is bad enough this wretched fellow should do away with himself upon our doorstep—’
‘I beg your pardon,’ interjects Webb. ‘You’re of the opinion it was suicide?’
‘Of course. Happens every few months. Some poor wretch throws themself in. They dragged a girl out of the lock only last month.’
Webb tilts his head in a non-committal manner.
‘If you don’t believe me, Inspector, talk to your local chaps. They’ll tell you as much. I guarantee it.’
Webb smiles. ‘Well, perhaps you’re right, sir. Too early to say. Now, we’ll need to interview whoever was there when or immediately after the body was discovered. That makes most of your household, I understand? In particular, it was your daughter who found him?’
Woodrow raises his eyes to the heavens. ‘Is this really necessary? I thought the sergeant might have explained it. The girl sleep-walks, Inspector. Our wretched maid left the door open and she wandered out. I don’t know how much you know about the condition, but she will not recall a thing.’
‘Must be a terrible affliction, sir. Still, I would like to speak to her. And the rest of the house; I understand you were all there?’
‘We thought we had lost Lucinda, my daughter, Inspector. Naturally we formed a search party.’
‘And you found her. One tragedy averted, at least. Still, I should like to talk to her, and the rest of your family, separately if I may.’
‘Good Lord, Inspector, are we under some kind of suspicion?’
‘I merely wish to hear from each in turn. It will help with our inquiry; the chain of events. I am sure you understand, sir.’
‘Well, I’ll arrange it, if I must, Inspector. It is far from convenient. And my wife has had no rest all night.’
‘Still, thank you. Tell me, how old is your girl?’
‘She is only six,’ says Woodrow.
‘Well, perhaps I might see the little girl and her mother together then.’
‘This really is the limit, Inspector,’ replies Woodrow, his annoyance audible in every syllable.
‘We’ll do our best to be brief, sir. I take it, from what you’ve said, you don’t know the man in question, sir, the dead man?’
‘How could I?’ says Jasper Woodrow.
‘Never seen him before?’
Woodrow blinks. ‘Never. Do you know who he was, Inspector?’
‘Oh yes, sir. But I won’t burden you with the unsavoury particulars.’
CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE
‘IS THIS ALL REALLY necessary?’ asks Sergeant Bartleby, in a whisper, as Susan Jacobs, having ended her account of the previous evening, departs the Woodrows’ drawing-room. Bartleby looks down at his note-book, almost full with the household’s accumulated memories of the incident upon the canal. ‘I mean to say, we already know what they saw, don’t we?’
‘I was hoping the little girl might be more forthcoming,’ says Webb.
‘If she doesn’t remember anything, sir, then she doesn’t.’
‘But why did she wander out there, in particular?’ asks Webb. ‘And do you imagine it is merely a coincidence she found Brown’s corpse there?’
‘Well, sir – of course there’s a connection—’
‘Hush, Sergeant. The American cousin is next, and we are nearly done. You can speculate later.’
Annabel Krout knocks and enters the room. The two policemen stand; she offers them a rather nervous smile.
‘Miss Krout, do take a seat,’ says Webb, guiding her to a chair at the drawing-room table. ‘Now, my name is Webb and this is Sergeant Bartleby. You understand we are obliged to ask a few questions? I gather you are Mrs. Woodrow’s cousin, visiting from Boston?’
Annabel Krout sits down. ‘Yes, sir, I am.’
‘Well,’ says Webb, ‘I will not ask you what you make of London. I suspect last night would have been rather an ordeal for any young woman.’
‘Well, I am a little tired, sir. I did not sleep too well.’
‘I am sorry to hear it. I will not keep you long, Miss. Susan Jacobs tells us she alerted you first to young Miss Lucinda’s absence. Can you tell me what happened then?’
‘Of course. I told Jacobs I would help look for her. But then the front door was open, and I could see Lucy had got outside.’
‘You knew all about the little girl’s condition?’
‘She had wandered into my room a couple of nights before, Inspector. So, yes, I knew she had these attacks.’
‘And what did you do, when you saw the door was open?’
‘Naturally I went to look for her. And I told Jacobs to wake up the family.’
‘You went out on your own? That was rather foolish, Miss, going out alone at night,’ says Bartleby, ‘for a young lady, such as yourself.’
‘I expect it was, Officer,’ says Annabel. ‘But I did not think there was any time to waste.’
‘And how did you find her?’
‘I saw her go down to the canal, or at least I caught a glimpse of her.’
‘And what was she doing there?’
Annabel Krout frowns. ‘I don’t know. But when I found her she was just standing there, pointing at the . . .’
‘Body, Miss?’
Annabel nods. ‘But she was quite in a trance, Inspector. I can’t explain it.’
Webb smiles sympathetically. ‘No need, Miss. And, I’m sorry to mention it, but, tell me, did you by any chance see the man when they pulled him clear of the water?’
‘Well yes, I did. I insisted upon it, I am afraid. I should have gone back inside, but I had to make sure.’
‘Make sure?’ asks Webb.
Annabel Krout looks puzzled. ‘Did my cousin not say anything, Inspector?’
‘No, Miss,’ says Webb. ‘I am a little lost, I confess. What do you mean?’
‘I’d seen the man before, Inspector. Twice. Even, well, in those circumstances, I knew I recognised him.’
‘Twice?’
‘Once outside the house, and once he spoke to me, in a café on Regent Street.’
Webb frowns. ‘The same man, you are quite sure?’
‘I’d know him anywhere, Inspector.’
Jasper Woodrow paces around the morning-room. His wife sits in the window-seat, overlooking the garden at the back of Duncan Terrace.
‘What is keeping the man? We might as well be prisoners. It’s damned impertinence.’
‘Woodrow, please. I am sure he means nothing by it. They have to make their inquiries.’
‘I cannot imagine what he hopes to learn,’ says Woodrow.
‘Annabel said she was sure she knew him; the fellow who accosted her in Regent Street. She thinks she saw him loitering outside the house last week.’
‘We can hardly be blamed if she attracts such followers.’
‘Woodrow!’
‘Well, damn it, Melissa, is it my fault?’
Mrs. Woodrow bites her lip, and turns to stare into the garden, gazing at the old elm that marks the end of the family’s plot.
‘Woodrow – tell me the truth. This man was not one of our creditors? Was it him who sent those awful notes?’
Woodrow turns round abruptly, walking up to his wife, kneeling down beside her. ‘Good Lord! You did not tell them about our affairs?’
‘Of course not. But was it him?’
Woodrow shakes his head. ‘No, of course not. You do not imagine that I could . . .’
Mrs. Woodrow smiles weakly, taking her husband’s hand in hers.
‘No, of course not.’
Decimus Webb enters the Woodrows’ morning-room some five minutes later, accompanied by his sergeant and Annabel Krout.
‘Well, sir, I believe we are done for the moment. Miss Krout, I hope we did not try your patience over much.’
&
nbsp; ‘No, Inspector. I was glad to help,’ replies Annabel.
‘I trust we will hear no more of this awful business, Inspector,’ says Woodrow. ‘My family have been put to enough trouble.’
‘Yes, well you see, sir,’ says Webb slowly, as if choosing his words with some deliberation, ‘it rather appears the dead man had some interest in your family. Apparently he spoke to Miss Krout here, only a few days ago. It might rather aid our investigation to determine what that interest was, don’t you think?’
‘I don’t care a whit about your investigation, Inspector. I do not expect to be harassed in my own home.’
‘Woodrow,’ says Mrs. Woodrow, a chiding note of caution in her voice.
‘Well, really, Melissa. It is a bit much.’
‘I’m sorry if we’ve caused any difficulty, sir. But a murder is a murder. It demands close attention.’
‘Murder? I’ve never heard such nonsense. The fellow drowned. Most likely drunk.’
‘No, sir. I fear I must speak plainly, since you raise the matter. He was killed; someone propelled his head into a wall, I think. Quite deliberately.’
Mrs. Woodrow blanches a little. ‘Garotters?’
‘No, not robbers, ma’am. I’m afraid it probably was someone who knew the man. Who took him down to the canal, for whatever reason. Probably thought it was a nice quiet spot.’
‘Well,’ interjects Woodrow, ‘I think we have heard enough.’
‘Oh, I expect so, sir,’ says Webb. ‘You must forgive me. Well, we can see ourselves out, no need to call your man. Ah, no wait, there is one thing. I understand there was a dinner party last night, earlier in the evening?’
‘Not a grand affair, Inspector. Just a couple of acquaintances,’ says Mrs. Woodrow.
‘Perhaps you might give me their names and addresses, ma’am, all the same. I would like a quick word with them too.’
‘What good can that do?’ asks Woodrow.
Webb shrugs. ‘It is possible they saw the fellow outside; one never knows.’
‘Very well,’ says Woodrow. ‘I can tell you now, if you like. Mr. Joshua Siddons, of Salisbury Square, Fleet Street, and Mr. Richard Langley, 4 Alpha Road, St. John’s Wood.’
‘Ah, really?’
‘Yes, Inspector, really. Is something the matter?’
‘No, sir. Just another curious coincidence. We happen to have had some dealings with Mr. Siddons recently. Bartleby, did you get the other gentleman’s name?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Well, then we are finished here. Again, I thank you for your time. Good day.’
‘Good day, Inspector,’ says Woodrow.
As Webb and Bartleby depart from Duncan Terrace, their attention is caught by a shout from the canal.
‘Inspector!’
‘Ah, Hanson,’ says Webb, walking briskly over to the City policeman. ‘It rather seems we have found your Mr. Brown. A little the worse for wear, though.’
‘So I see. You’ve just been speaking to the people that found him. An odd business?’
‘More than you know, Hanson,’ says Webb, briskly ushering Hanson to one side. ‘Come, walk with us a while.’
‘You seem in a hurry, sir?’
‘I would rather you were not observed, Inspector,’ says Webb, ‘by certain parties. Certain parties whom we may need to keep an eye upon presently.’
‘I had hoped to speak with the family, Inspector,’ says Hanson, sounding a little aggrieved.
Webb shakes his head. ‘We have already been quite thorough in that regard. Now, I trust you are better at shadowing a man than the fellow you employed to watch Brown?’
‘I should hope so.’
‘Then, whilst we make further inquiries, I have a suggestion.’
CHAPTER THIRTY
‘DO YOU THINK HANSON and his lot are up to it, sir?’ asks Sergeant Bartleby, as the clarence cab in which they travel rattles along the Euston Road, then past Portland Place and the southern boundary of Regent’s Park. ‘If I didn’t know better, I’d say you were just keeping him busy.’
‘Sergeant, really,’ says Webb. ‘He has an interest in the case and, if truth be told, his is the prior claim – assuming we are looking for the same man, of course.’
‘That must be odds on, sir. The girls and Brown: I’d say the same fellow’s done for them all. If he has something against the girls, not surprising he should go after him too.’
‘Or simply silence the only witness? Regardless, I am not convinced of his supposed religious mania, Sergeant, not by a long chalk. Our Mr. Woodrow is the key; I am sure of that much.’
‘You think he knew Brown, sir? He was awful nervous, I thought, when you spoke to him.’
Webb pauses, looking out of the cab window at the entrance to Baker Street railway station, as they pass by. ‘I thought so too. He knows something, but what? You must find me a little more about his background.’
‘I will do, sir, when there’s a spare moment.’
Webb looks sharply at the sergeant.
‘I’ll do it today, sir,’ says Bartleby.
Webb does not reply. Bartleby, however, cannot resist a further query.
‘You don’t think Woodrow’s the guilty party, sir? He acts rather too high and mighty, don’t you think, as if he’s something to hide?’
‘You will find most people have something to hide, Bartleby. Mr. Woodrow is concealing something; a fool could see that. The question is whether that something is actually what we are trying to uncover.’
‘I don’t quite follow, sir.’
‘For example, he might simply know Brown because he has paid a visit in the past to Knight’s Hotel. He is hardly likely to admit to such a thing, with his wife sitting downstairs. That does not make him our murderer; not yet, at least.’
‘Well, I hope Hanson can keep an eye on him, sir.’
‘So do I. Ah, at last, we are here.’
Richard Langley’s home in St. John’s Wood, whilst not a mansion, is a slightly grander affair than the Woodrows’ home in Duncan Terrace. For, though part of a row of substantial houses, it is situated upon a corner plot, surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall and neatly tended shrubbery upon all sides. The house itself stands three storeys high, a large, square suburban temple of white stucco, Grecian in style, with little exterior decoration, save for an imposing Doric porch. The two policeman quit their cab and proceed through the gate to the front door, where Bartleby rings the bell. The formalities of announcing themselves completed, the two men are led inside by a maid-servant whose face betrays a degree of anxiety at the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives. Nonetheless, she promptly directs them to her master’s library, where Richard Langley sits at a desk, with large sheets of paper, bearing pencilled designs and hastily written notes, scattered about him.
‘Ah,’ says Langley, getting up to greet his guests. ‘Inspector . . .’
‘Webb, sir. This is my sergeant, name of Bartleby. Sorry to trouble you, sir, but we’re making inquiries relating to an unfortunate incident last night; well, a murder to be precise.’
‘Murder? Good heavens. I confess, I am quite at a loss.’
‘A gentleman was found dead, sir. Not far from the residence of your acquaintance, Mr. Jasper Woodrow – I gather you had dinner with the family last night?’
‘Oh, good heavens. Well, how unfortunate. Yes, of course, I did indeed. But how does any of this pertain to me?’
‘Well, you were in Duncan Terrace, sir. Did you see anything suspicious?’
‘I can’t say as I did, Inspector,’ replies Langley. ‘I took a cab directly there, and hailed one on the City Road on my way back.’
‘No foreign-looking gentlemen in the vicinity of the house?’ suggests Bartleby.
‘Not to my recollection, Sergeant. Was the man foreign?’
‘The dead man was a Greek, sir,’ says Webb. ‘Swarthy-looking type; a big man.’
‘I don’t recall seeing anyone of that description.’
‘Well
, if you think of anything, be sure to contact the Yard, sir, if you please. May I ask, do you know the family well, the Woodrows?’
‘I confess, it is more a matter of commercial rather than social ties, Inspector, though Mrs. Woodrow was good enough to invite me to dine,’ says Langley. He gestures at the plans upon his desk. ‘I have been designing Mr. Woodrow’s new Warehouse. I even had a mind to invest in the business, before . . . well, recent events. The poor girl who was . . . well, I am sure you have heard about it.’
‘Ah,’ says Webb, nodding, ‘I see you are appraised of the unfortunate incident at the Casino on Saturday. Another investigation of mine, I am afraid, Mr. Langley. I have all the luck.’
‘It is bound to affect the business, Inspector. I was obliged to withdraw. It has rather soured my relations with Mr. Woodrow, I fear. Still, he shall have his plans complete, if nothing else.’
‘If you don’t mind me asking, sir,’ says Webb, ‘how long have you known Mr. Woodrow?’
‘A couple of months, Inspector. Why?’
‘Oh, I just wondered, sir.’
‘Inspector – forgive me – these two incidents, the poor girl and now this man, are they connected in some way?’
‘Why do you ask that, sir?’
‘Surely it seems an odd coincidence, to say the least?’
‘We are much of the same opinion, sir.’
‘Well, but this is terrible. I should not wish to think Mrs. Woodrow or her cousin were in any danger.’
Webb smiles. ‘Ah, I see. Well, your concern for, ah, Mrs. Woodrow is admirable, sir. We will keep an eye upon them, rest assured.’
‘I am glad to hear it.’
‘We’ll bid you good day, Mr, Langley. Remember, be sure to let us know if anything comes to mind about yesterday evening, anything remotely unusual may be of interest.’
‘I am sure I cannot think of anything.’
‘Still, if it does.’
Annabel Krout sits listlessly before the fire-place in the morning-room of Duncan Terrace, idly staring at The Bride of Lammermoor but hardly reading a word. As she turns a page, Jasper Woodrow appears at the door, dressed for the office, his great-coat slung over his arm. His face appears rather flushed and aggravated.
