The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘I found it,’ continues Annabel, ‘in the study on Saturday. I did not know if I should say anything, but now I feel I must.’

  ‘Annabel, I’m sorry. Are you claiming this item belongs to Jasper?’

  ‘Melissa, I found it, I swear. He must have dropped it there. Don’t you see? He was there that night. When that poor girl was killed.’

  ‘You do not mean to suggest that he had anything to do with it?’

  Annabel looks down at the rug, not meeting her cousin’s stare. ‘I do not know.’

  ‘I know you have an active imagination, my dear, but this is too much. Do I understand you right? You think Jasper is somehow involved with . . . well, what happened at the Casino and this wretch in the canal?’

  ‘I think he knows something about it, at least. Otherwise, why did the same man follow us on Regent Street?’

  ‘My dear, we have discussed this already. It is just an awful coincidence. Or he took some peculiar liking to you. You must learn to curb your fancies.’

  Annabel shakes her head. ‘Melissa, I am sorry to say such a thing, really, but I am just not sure it is safe for me to stay here.’

  ‘My dear, you forget yourself. The man you are talking about is my husband. I dare say I know him a little better than you. You must give up this nonsense – if I did not know better, I would say this whole sorry affair has disturbed your mind.’

  Annabel looks away. ‘I must tell the police, what Lucy said.’

  ‘You are being ridiculous, my dear. Let me go and fetch Woodrow, and we can discuss it. I am sure he can bring you to your senses.’

  ‘No,’ says Annabel emphatically. ‘I am sorry, cousin. I think it best if I go and find a hotel. What is the big one called, on the main road, by the station? You said it was very respectable?’

  ‘Yes, yes, the Midland Grand,’ replies Mrs. Woodrow. ‘It is – but at least stay here tonight. Good Lord, your Mama said you were headstrong, but I would never have believed this of you, Annabel. You are over-excited; a moment’s sober reflection and you will see this is simply nonsensical. You cannot imagine Jasper would harm you in any way?’

  ‘I hope not,’ she replies.

  ‘Where has this come from? I cannot believe it,’ continues Mrs. Woodrow, her features now betraying an increasing annoyance, ‘after all we have done to make you welcome.’

  ‘I’m sorry, Melissa. I’d better go and pack my things.’

  Mrs. Woodrow, for the first time, looks harshly at her young cousin.

  ‘Yes,’ she says with a sigh, ‘I rather think you better. Things are difficult enough. Perhaps when you have calmed down, you will realise you are being quite unreasonable. I’d best tell Woodrow myself – whatever will he think?’

  ‘I think he will be happy to be rid of me.’

  A short time later, a cab is directed to the front door of Duncan Terrace, where Annabel Krout stands waiting with her belongings. Her cousin stands beside her, ensuring the cab-man has proper instructions for the loading of each item of luggage, but there are few words exchanged between Mrs. Woodrow and her American guest. At last, when everything is stowed inside, with half a dozen items upon the rack on the roof, Annabel Krout gets in, and the vehicle rattles off towards Pentonville.

  As it turns on to the City Road, a solitary man makes a note of the cab’s number in his pocket-book, and signals to another cab, parked near by, which immediately follows Miss Krout’s carriage.

  Inspector Hanson, meanwhile, returns his pocketbook to his jacket, and looks back along Duncan Terrace.

  Mrs. Woodrow returns to the morning-room where her husband stands warming his hands before the fire.

  ‘Is she gone then?’ he asks.

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry for it, Melissa, but really, a man can only put up with so much in his own home, eh? If that’s a sample of the average Yankee female, well, thank heavens for the English variety.’

  ‘Woodrow, please.’

  ‘I hope you do not think I ought to have asked her to stay? The girl’s practically determined to give me in charge; and what’s all this nonsense about Lucinda?’

  Mrs. Woodrow shakes her head.

  ‘I need a stiff brandy,’ says Woodrow.

  Mrs. Woodrow nods as her husband leaves the room. She lifts up her hand, and opens the piece of crumpled paper in her palm. Again, she reads the decorous language of the Holborn Casino’s injunctions to its customers; then she squeezes it into a ball for a second time, and throws it into the fire.

  INTERLUDE

  MR. BROWN? YES, I saw him lurking in the road, outside the house. It was rather comical, a large man like that skulking about behind the shrubbery. It is a miracle the whole street did not remark on it. Well, you saw the fellow yourself – it would take more than a couple of twigs to conceal a man of his size, eh? He recognised me too, of course – he was not the sort to forget a face, I should think – but I do not think he knew what to make of it.

  Did I intend to kill him?

  I should hope so, Miss Krout. One would not want to leave such things to chance.

  It was not so difficult as all that. I could see what had happened. It was Brown who had been through the rooms at the hotel and hid the evidence; though I suppose I was a little naïve to imagine that a procurer should behave with integrity under such circumstances. I should count myself lucky he did not dispose of the girls entirely; I would have had to begin from scratch.

  I am sorry, Miss Krout. You ask these questions, after all. If you do not wish to—

  No? Very well. I could see what he was about. It was simply a matter of money. In any case, I made the appropriate noises; said that I might act as agent for a certain party, and so on. I said I was going home along the canal, that we might talk along the way. He was a little shy, but I expect he was curious to know more, to see where I lived, if nothing else. Doubtless he set me down as one of his future marks; the man was nothing if not a thorough rogue. We went down the path together, and then I stepped to one side and pretended to see something in the water. He was not so strong as you might expect. Besides, my limited experience in these matters suggests that surprise more than compensates for muscle. And he did not think that I was dangerous, I am sure of that. He certainly did not expect me to dash his brains against the wall. Indeed, I recall, he did look rather surprised. But, then, I suppose anyone would.

  Remorse? I do not think so. The fellow was a parasite; a leech. What else do you call a man who makes his living in such a manner, off the backs of profligates? And then to add blackmail to his crimes! God’s judgment awaits all the whoremongers and adulterers, Miss Krout, you may mark my words. It is a terrible thing to defile the marriage bed, you see?

  Of course. Again, forgive me. I did not mean to sermonise; it is too late for all that. Yes, I made quite sure that he was dead, then toppled him into the water; I intended to hide him, at least until I might make my escape. I had an idea that he might sink, but he was too full of wind for that. And I was foolish to go along the canal, of course; I might have been seen by the lock-keeper. I ought to have gone directly back to the road.

  In any case, it did not matter. It served my purpose well enough.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  HAVING FINISHED HER breakfast, Annabel Krout wanders through her new suite at the Midland Grand Hotel. It consists of two substantial rooms, bedroom and sitting-room, upon the second floor of the great building. Both are lavishly decorated, walls panelled with perfect oak wainscoting, and each possessing a fire-place with a surround of blue-green marble supporting the mantel. A great gilt mirror hangs above the hearth, confidently reflecting the entire room back at the occupant. Above the carved, floreted wood of the wainscot is a stencilled wall-paper of spectacular colour, coruscating patterns of flowers in deepest red and green, the like of which Annabel has never quite seen before. And yet, once alone in the sitting-room, Annabel pays little attention to her surroundings; certainly there is no outward impression that they g
ladden her in the least. Rather, she merely stands, staring out of the room’s tall windows, looking over the smoky rooftops of Bloomsbury, at the spires of distant metropolitan churches that penetrate the haze, then she lowers her gaze to watch the parade of morning traffic on the Euston Road below.

  She is interrupted, however, by a delicate knock at the door.

  ‘Come in,’ says Annabel.

  A maid-servant, dressed in the uniform cap and apron of the hotel, opens the door.

  ‘Yes?’ says Annabel.

  ‘There’s a gentleman, Miss, sends his card.’

  ‘A gentleman? Let me see.’

  The maid passes over a small carte de visite, which bears the name of Richard Langley, and a brief handwritten note that begs the pleasure of her company.

  ‘Where is he? Downstairs?’

  ‘In the lounge, Miss.’

  ‘The lounge?’

  ‘Beg pardon, Miss. At the bottom of the main stairs, and then right, round to the entrance hall. You’d have passed it on your way in. May I tell him to expect you, Miss?’

  Annabel falls silent for a moment. ‘Yes,’ she replies at last, ‘you may.’

  Annabel leaves her room and makes her way along the corridor, and down the grand serpentine staircase that winds in elegant twin coils from top to bottom of the building. The public spaces of the hotel are no less sumptuous than its rooms and, like the exterior, are in the manner of a great medieval cathedral, albeit one devoted to comfort and ease of visitors, rather than worship. A single Axminster carpet covers the floor, a seemingly unending train of royal red cloth; the walls around the staircase are likewise papered in a deep red with a pattern of golden fleurs-de-lis; moreover, every window, corridor and door is framed by a Gothic arch, supported by dark green marble columns, tipped with carved stone capitals, which on close inspection prove to be sculptures of pygmy dragons that cast a wary eye over the steady procession of guests who saunter past. What most strikes Annabel Krout, however, is the muffled sound of the adjoining St. Pancras station, the muted snort of steam engines, the shouts of porters, the clatter of carts full of luggage. For the Midland Grand Hotel sits directly in front of the station, rising high above it, elegantly masking the arrivals and departures facilitated by the Midland railway company, and it is impossible to conceal thoroughly the noise from guests. For some guests it is a minor irritation; for Annabel Krout, if anything, it calls to mind her journey from Liverpool, and, in turn, makes her think of quitting London as soon as possible and returning home.

  She finds the coffee-lounge with little difficulty, for the chimes of the hotel’s silver and china being fetched and carried echo along the ground-floor corridor. Indeed, the lounge rather belies its name in being larger than any great dining-room Annabel has ever visited, and thus proves impossible to miss. It extends some hundred feet in length, in a great bow-shaped curve, following the distinctive arc of the building, and it is only with the assistance of the maître d’hôtel that she finally locates Richard Langley, seated at a table for two, by one of the green pillars of polished limestone that ornament the interior wall. As she approaches, escorted by a waiter, he rises to greet her.

  ‘Miss Krout, how good of you to see me.’

  Annabel Krout takes the seat opposite him. ‘Not at all.’

  ‘Can I bring you anything, Miss?’ asks the waiter.

  ‘Not for the moment, thank you.’

  The waiter departs with a bow, leaving Annabel and her visitor alone.

  ‘I am afraid we are not good for their business,’ says Langley, looking at the empty table. ‘Are you sure I cannot order some tea?’

  ‘Not for me, sir,’ replies Annabel.

  ‘No?’ says Langley, a little nervously. ‘Well, Miss Krout, as you may have gathered, I visited Mrs. Woodrow this morning. But it appears you have broken our arrangement.’

  ‘Sir?’

  ‘I had thought we planned a tour of the cathedrals,’ says Langley, in a mock aggrieved tone. ‘I wondered if I might tempt you?’

  ‘No, not today.’

  ‘Forgive me, Miss Krout,’ says Langley, blushing, ‘I can see my levity is not appropriate.’

  Annabel shakes her head. ‘There is no need to apologise. What did my cousin tell you, Mr. Langley?’

  ‘Well, simply that you have had a falling out with Mr. Woodrow. That you were rather upset by this awful business at the canal.’

  ‘You have heard about it?’

  ‘The police came and spoke to me. They thought I might have seen something,’ says Langley, ‘but, of course, I could tell them nothing.’

  ‘I was not “upset” by that so much, sir, though it was far from pleasant. I . . . well, you’ll forgive me, but I am not sure if I should confide in you.’

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Langley, rather hesitantly, as if plucking up courage as he speaks, ‘I confess, I did not come here in anticipation of acting as tour guide. It is probably not my place, given our brief acquaintance, but I was concerned for your welfare. You may tell me anything you wish; you have my word.’

  ‘Even if it relates to Mr. Woodrow?’

  ‘Mr. Woodrow, Miss Krout, is . . . well, an acquaintance, nothing more. I have no intimate connection to him. I would be honoured to be taken into your confidence, I assure you.’

  ‘You honestly mean that?’ asks Annabel.

  ‘Of course, upon my word, as a gentleman,’ says Langley.

  ‘Very well,’ she replies, steeling herself to speak out. ‘I believe he had something to do with the death of that man. I even have reason to think that he was at the Holborn Casino the night that poor girl was murdered.’

  Richard Langley raises his eyebrows. ‘Are you quite sure?’

  Annabel frowns. ‘I am not sure, sir. I am not a detective. But Lucinda saw him fighting with the man who was killed in the canal. She as good as admitted it to me. She kept it from the police; I do not know why – loyalty or fear perhaps. Her father is a complete tyrant.’

  ‘He has something of a temper, I know,’ replies Langley.

  ‘I fear it is much worse than that, sir. What should I do? Should I go to the police?’

  Langley looks down, not speaking for a good few seconds.

  ‘I suppose,’ he says at last, ‘perhaps you must.’

  Annabel sighs. ‘I do not know even where to begin. The whole business is so awful. What if I am wrong?’

  ‘Miss Krout,’ says Langley, ‘if I may, would it help if you told me the facts?’

  ‘It might,’ she replies.

  ‘Very well, begin from the beginning. And then, if necessary, perhaps we shall speak to the police together?’

  Annabel smiles. ‘Thank you, sir. You have been very kind.’

  ‘I assure you, Miss Krout, I will do whatever I can to help.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  IT IS GONE TEN o’clock in the morning, as two men approach the stone lodge and the gates of the City of London Cemetery, Little Ilford. The cemetery itself is a little larger than Abney Park, and considerably further from the heart of the capital, built not for commercial gain, but by the City authorities. Nonetheless, looking through the gates, it bears a similar likeness to a well-kept arboretum, with its landscaped vista of kempt gravel lanes, further delineated by carefully planted trees, rhododendrons and azaleas.

  ‘We’re too late,’ suggests Sergeant Bartleby to Webb, peering down the central avenue. ‘We should have caught the earlier train.’

  ‘My dear sergeant,’ says Webb, ‘please. I strongly suspect that the Eastern Counties Railway is still considerably quicker than any carriage obliged to travel the length of the Romford Road. Have some patience.’

  Sergeant Bartleby says nothing for a few moments, but then adds, ‘Well, call me a heathen, sir, but I’m getting heartily sick of cemeteries.’

  ‘It is not my fault that you found nothing at Abney Park yesterday,’ replies Webb, looking reproachfully at his companion.

  ‘There was nothing to find, if
you don’t mind me saying so, sir,’ replies Bartleby. ‘Except, maybe, that the grave-diggers are a little partial to drink.’

  ‘I am sure,’ says Webb dismissively. ‘Well, nonetheless, this little excursion is the least we can do, given Hanson’s efforts on our behalf.’

  ‘You think it will help, sir?’

  ‘It is not a bad idea of Hanson’s, Sergeant. Funerals attract all sorts, in my experience. Let us see who turns out for Miss Carter and Miss Finch. Ah, hush, here they are, if I am not mistaken.’

  Webb nods in the direction of the rural road that leads west back into the City of London. Coming round the bend that leads to the cemetery’s gates can be seen three distinctive vehicles. The first is a regular hearse of painted black wood and cast iron. It is, however, of a rather second-hand appearance, with the etching on any one of its glass panels bearing no resemblance to that upon any of the others, and the iron scroll-work upon its roof, a black tiara of roses and thorns, marred by a number of missing blooms. Following the hearse are two machines of the funeral-omnibus variety. Half funeral carriage and half mourning coach, each bears five or six mourners, visible through the coach windows, sitting in some discomfort on the narrow unpadded benches within.

  ‘I’ve never seen a more miserable-looking crowd,’ suggests Bartleby.

  ‘It was never going to be a grand affair, upon parish money, Sergeant,’ replies Webb. ‘They are probably burying a few together, I should think.’

  And, indeed, as the carriages pass by the two policemen, who swiftly remove their hats, it becomes clear that at least seven or eight coffins are contained within the procession, under loose black cloths; seven or eight bodies with only a dozen souls to mourn their passing, paupers destined for a common interment.

  ‘They’ll stop at the chapel,’ says the sergeant. Webb nods, and the two men follow behind the slow progress of the three carriages, to the cemetery chapel. But only the mourners are unloaded, swiftly shepherded by the waiting parson into the church; the dead are left behind. Whether this haste reflects a degree of social embarrassment at the prospect of officiating over the grief of such a poor collection of individuals, it is hard to say. Nor is it perhaps fair to suggest that it may coincide with a comparative dearth of gratuities at funerals of the collective parish variety. But, for whatever reason, the progress of the living indoors is quick enough, and the deceased are not provided for.