The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘This what you were looking for, Inspector?’ says Bartleby. ‘I thought you might need some assistance.’

  Webb nods, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiping his brow. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’

  ‘You are making a terrible mistake, Inspector,’ growls Woodrow, straining at the handcuffs, to little effect. ‘It is some sort of vile conspiracy, I swear it.’

  ‘Get him out of here, Sergeant,’ says Webb.

  ‘Inspector!’ protests Woodrow.

  ‘You’ll get your say, sir, I promise you that.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  DECIMUS WEBB SITS in his office in Scotland Yard, pondering various pieces of paper laid out upon his desk. He leans forward and adjusts the gas, though it does not quite dispel the rather dismal character of the room. As he does so, there is a knock at the door and Inspector Hanson enters.

  ‘Ah, Hanson,’ says Webb.

  ‘Sir,’ replies the City policeman, rather cheerfully. ‘I understand you caught up with our man, at the Midland Grand?’

  ‘Well, that particular honour rather belongs to Bartleby, but yes, we have him.’

  ‘Have you spoken to him?’

  ‘No, I thought I would wait for you, Inspector, and let him contemplate his situation,’ replies Webb. ‘He assaulted the American girl, Miss Krout, for one thing.’

  ‘So your sergeant told me,’ says Hanson. ‘I have some more good news. We found Brown’s lodgings; a constable in G Division recognised his face when we moved the body – he’d seen him a few days previously in a lodging-house in Shoreditch.’

  ‘Go on,’ says Webb.

  ‘We found this, tucked away in his baggage,’ replies Hanson, taking a small note-book, bound in black leather, and passing it to Webb. Upon inspection, it proves to be a long list of names and addresses, with sums of money against each name, plus various ticks, crosses and annotations.

  ‘It appears to be some list of accounts,’ says Webb, pensively, ‘but the sums involved are too great for Brown’s regular business, I should think; or perhaps I am behind the times?’

  ‘No, indeed,’ replies Hanson. ‘And if you find Mr. Woodrow’s name at the end, you’ll see it’s the largest sum of all.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds. Good Lord,’ exclaims Webb.

  ‘I think it’s blackmail,’ says Hanson. ‘I suspect they were all guests at Knight’s Hotel. The dates and amounts; there’s a clear monthly pattern to it. What better place for a blackmailer to work?’

  ‘And you think Woodrow would not stand for it?’

  ‘There is no tick in the book against his name. Perhaps he began with the two girls, and worked his way up to Brown.’

  ‘Possibly,’ says Webb. ‘Although I can conceive of another possibility, if Brown was as venal as this suggests. What if he was simply blackmailing Woodrow about the murder of Miss Carter and Miss Finch?’

  ‘You think Brown knew Woodrow killed them, from the off – for whatever reason – and tried to gain by it?’

  Webb gets up. ‘It is quite possible. Would that merit five hundred pounds, concealing the deaths of two women? In any case, he has stewed long enough. Let us go and have a word with the wretched fellow.’

  Hanson assents and the two policemen descend the stairs, exchanging a few words as they walk across the muddy cobbles to the squat two-storey Whitehall police station that forms part of the Yard. The building itself is rather unprepossessing in appearance, distinctive only in being illuminated by a single gaslight encased in blue glass, the sign of the Metropolitan Police. Webb briskly leads the way inside, through the outer office and along a narrow corridor. He directs Hanson to follow him, and opens the last door on the left.

  Inside, the small room contains a solitary constable, who snaps to attention as the two men enter, a desk and four chairs. Upon one of the chairs sits Jasper Woodrow.

  ‘Inspector,’ he says, standing up as he recognises his visitor. ‘At last. This has all been a ridiculous mistake.’

  ‘This is Inspector Hanson of the City force,’ says Webb. ‘Please, sir, take a seat. Inspector Hanson here has agreed to take notes of our interview. I hope you don’t object?’

  Woodrow hesitates, but sits down facing the two policemen. ‘Interview? Look, Inspector, whatever you have been told is a lie. Miss Krout is determined to ruin me. I have no idea why, mind you. In fact, I have no idea what goes on in her Yankee head, I assure you.’

  ‘It is not so simple as that, sir,’ says Webb. ‘In fact, it is hard to know where to begin. Let me put it to you as simply as I can. On Tuesday last, two young women were murdered in Knight’s Hotel, St. Paul’s. One, at least, Betsy Carter, was known to you.’

  Woodrow begins to disagree, but Webb raises his hand. ‘Allow me to continue, sir. Then a young girl in your employ was killed at the Holborn Casino. Then one Vasilis Brown, proprietor of Knight’s Hotel, killed outside your door-step. Are you telling me this is all a coincidence?’

  ‘Of course.’

  ‘Miss Krout tells us you were seen brawling with Brown.’

  ‘It is ridiculous. She could have seen no such thing.’

  ‘Your daughter saw it. She told Miss Krout.’

  Woodrow shakes his head. ‘Fabrication.’

  ‘We have a witness who will testify to your friendship with Betsy Carter, sir.’

  Woodrow avoids the inspector’s gaze. ‘Do you, indeed? What of it?’

  ‘So you do not deny that you knew her?’

  Woodrow looks a little more thoughtful for a moment. ‘No, I do not. Is that a crime?’

  ‘That rather depends. In turn, this means you knew Vasilis Brown.’

  ‘It depends what you mean by “knew”,’ says Woodrow.

  ‘You said nothing about Mr. Brown to me, sir,’ says Webb. ‘You denied knowing him at all.’

  ‘Do you really think I would claim acquaintance with such a man?’ asks Woodrow.

  Webb shrugs. Hanson looks up from his writing. ‘Where were you when Betsy Carter was killed, sir?’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Four o’clock on Tuesday last, sir.’

  ‘Tuesday of last week? I seem to recall I was out walking. I often go for a stroll to clear my head.’

  ‘Anyone who can vouch for that, sir?’

  ‘No, only to say that I left the Warehouse. I find walking the streets soothes the nerves.’

  ‘Now, I find the opposite, most times,’ says Webb, ‘at least in London. I seem to recall, in fact, there was a fog. Did anyone else see you “walking”?’

  ‘I could not say.’

  ‘Did you visit Knight’s Hotel that day?’

  Woodrow pauses. ‘No.’

  ‘What about the Casino on the Friday night, when Miss Price was there?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Richard Langley says otherwise, sir.’

  ‘Langley? Ah. Well, it was only for his sake I was keeping it quiet – yes, we both did.’

  Webb sighs, putting his palm to his forehead. ‘Sir, the more you change your story, the worse it looks for you. You must realise that?’

  Woodrow says nothing.

  Hanson reaches into his coat pocket, and brings out a folded silk scarf, which he opens up upon the table, to reveal the two bloodied shirt cuffs stored within.

  ‘Recognise these, sir?’ asks Hanson.

  ‘Never seen them in my life,’ replies Woodrow.

  ‘They were found in your laundry, sir.’

  ‘Don’t be absurd,’ exclaims Woodrow.

  ‘You deny they are yours?’ asks Hanson.

  ‘Of course, I do,’ says Woodrow, pausing for a moment, a look of peculiar realisation passing over his countenance. ‘By God, I see it now. You are party to it!’

  ‘To what, sir?’ says Hanson patiently.

  ‘Not you too, I hope, Inspector?’ says Woodrow, looking at Webb, who merely replies with raised eyebrows. ‘This wretched conspiracy – all of you, to make me out as some kind of homicidal lunatic.
I have done nothing wrong, I swear it. Webb – you seem a decent sort of fellow, you must believe me.’

  ‘I am having all sorts of difficulties in that department, sir,’ replies Webb.

  ‘Why did you kill Betsy Carter?’ says Hanson, ignoring Woodrow’s pleading.

  ‘I did nothing of the sort.’

  ‘And what about Annie Finch?’

  ‘I never even saw her. The whole thing is madness.’

  ‘But you saw Betsy Carter?’ says Hanson, with a knowing glance at Webb. ‘You saw her, didn’t you?’

  ‘You are twisting my words.’

  ‘I do not think so,’ says Hanson. ‘Tell me, sir, why did you drug her drink? Did you think she’d struggle too much without the laudanum? Or weren’t you man enough to do it when she could still look you in the eye?’

  Woodrow raises himself from his chair at this insult, as if about to lean forward and grab Hanson, but the constable beside him places a restraining hand on his shoulder. Woodrow looks up at the policeman with the same angry expression but, nonetheless, reluctantly sits back down, brushing the constable’s hand aside. As his anger subsides, however, he frowns in thought.

  ‘Laudanum?’

  ‘Don’t play the innocent, sir,’ says Hanson. ‘You know full well.’

  ‘In the brandy,’ says Webb, watching Woodrow’s expression closely. He is surprised to find that Jasper Woodrow suddenly laughs, a strange exclamation of relief that momentarily brightens his troubled face.

  ‘What is it?’ asks Webb.

  ‘It is a conspiracy!’ says Woodrow, almost gleefully. ‘If I am honest, Inspector, I almost doubted myself, thought I had lost my senses, but now it is quite clear. You say the brandy was drugged?’

  Webb nods.

  ‘Then I am quite innocent. Good Lord, the whole thing is one monstrous plot.’

  Webb frowns. ‘I think you had better explain yourself a little more clearly, sir.’

  ‘I was there, Inspector. I admit it, when the poor girl was killed. The whole thing is grotesque and I cannot explain it. But I tell you, I am quite innocent.’

  ‘And how is that?’ asks Hanson.

  ‘I drank the same liquor, you see. I must have slept through the whole thing.’

  ‘You are joking?’ says Hanson, exasperation in his voice. Webb, however, waves his hand for silence.

  ‘Tell us exactly what happened,’ says Webb. ‘The truth, please, if you can.’

  Woodrow sighs. ‘Very well. I suppose it must all come out. I went to see Betsy that day, Inspector. We had a regular arrangement, she and I. She was a lovely creature.’

  ‘I am sure,’ says Webb.

  ‘There was nothing out of the ordinary – I paid off Brown, went up to see her and, well, you can imagine the rest.’

  ‘You had carnal knowledge of her?’ says Hanson.

  ‘Well, I rather suppose I did,’ says Woodrow, allowing himself a slight sardonic smile. ‘A fellow doesn’t pay good money for nothing. But that was it, you see – the brandy. We always had a couple of glasses, before and after our . . . well, dalliance. The next thing I knew . . .’

  ‘What?’ says Webb.

  ‘I woke up, Inspector. She was lying next to me, still warm. I saw the wound of course; she was cut open like some wretched piece of meat, and the blood, all down the side of my shirt. You cannot imagine what it was like, to see that.’

  ‘I saw it,’ replies Webb.

  ‘No, no, you do not understand. For a moment, I truly thought it was me.’

  ‘Did you now?’ says Hanson.

  ‘Please. I suffer from a condition, Inspector – somnambulism. I regret my daughter inherited the disease. I walk about in my sleep, or at least I used to, until I conquered the habit. Not only walking, either. I used to get dressed, stoke the fire, all sorts, never knowing what I was doing.’

  ‘Ah,’ says Webb, ‘I see what you are getting at, sir.’

  ‘But I do not,’ says Hanson, sourly. ‘Perhaps you could elaborate?’

  ‘Don’t you see? I feared that somehow I had killed her in my sleep. One hears of men who strangle their wives in bed, or some such, does one not? But I knew I had not done it, in my heart, I knew it. For a start, I do not carry a blade.’

  ‘Still,’ says Hanson, skeptically, ‘just so we have this on record, sir, you feared the worst, and fled the scene?’

  ‘I am not a fool, Inspector. I confess I panicked, I was terrified. But I knew what would happen if someone called the police. I had her blood on my shirt. It was a common bawdy house. No sane man would do otherwise.’

  ‘Via the window?’ asks Webb.

  ‘It was not too far to jump down, holding on to the ledge.’

  ‘And what did you do next?’

  ‘I walked . . . I cannot say quite where. I lost my way in the fog. You must understand, Inspector, I was not myself. It was a good couple of hours or more before I could even bring myself to go home.’

  ‘I see. And why did you swap the bottles of brandy?’ asks Webb.

  ‘Swap? I do not understand. There was only one.’

  Hanson takes a wallet from his pocket and places a folded piece of paper upon the table. ‘I suppose you never saw this in your life before either?’

  ‘“He uncovers deep things out of darkness, And brings the shadow of death to light,”’ says Woodrow, picking up the paper and reading it aloud.

  ‘Book of Job,’ says Webb.

  ‘Is it? Well, I’ve never seen it, Inspector.’

  ‘It was left by the bodies.’

  ‘Really? Well, you must see it – this whole business is some awful attempt to make me a scapegoat. Some lunatic has a grudge against me.’

  Hanson shakes his head.

  ‘Are these your shirt cuffs?’ asks Webb, nodding to the items on the table.

  ‘They can’t be, Inspector. I burnt my shirt, you see, as soon as I got home.’

  ‘And you are suggesting these are the actions of an innocent man?’ asks Hanson, incredulously.

  ‘You do yourself no favours, sir,’ says Webb, ‘my colleague is quite right. Tell me, how did you conquer your sleep-walking, if you don’t mind me asking?’

  ‘Will-power.’

  ‘Nothing else?’

  ‘Well, I do take a patent remedy to assist me.’

  ‘Does it contain laudanum?’ asks Webb.

  ‘It may do,’ says Woodrow. ‘Look here, Inspector, that is neither here nor there.’

  ‘So,’ says Hanson, ‘you are familiar with the properties of that particular drug, though?’

  ‘Damn you!’ exclaims Woodrow, abruptly thumping his fist upon the table. ‘Cannot you see the truth? There is some lunatic out there laughing at you, whilst I stew in this wretched room.’

  Hanson looks wearily at his notes. ‘Let’s discuss another matter, then. When did you last see Mr. Brown?’

  ‘Brown? Wait, of course – it was him who wrote my wife the letters – he must have been part of it.’

  ‘Letters, sir?’ says Hanson wearily.

  ‘Blackmail – he meant to blackmail me, Inspector. He sent my wife threatening notes.’

  ‘That is why you killed him?’

  ‘I tell you I killed no-one!’

  It is a full two hours before Hanson and Webb quit the room, leaving Jasper Woodrow no calmer than when they found him. The two policemen walk back in the direction of Webb’s office.

  ‘I’ve never heard such a string of lies,’ says Hanson, as they step outside into the cold night air.

  ‘You do not believe his story?’

  ‘Heavens! Do you?’ exclaims Hanson. ‘He has changed it half a dozen times already.’

  ‘He seems settled now,’ says Webb. ‘The problem is, Hanson, even if he killed the women, there is still much unexplained. The brandy, the notes – why he should even attack Catherine Price in the first place.’

  ‘As to the notes – well, it is some perverse joke, that is all. And perhaps Catherine Price knew too much about hi
s habits.’

  ‘Two blackmailers? Even I find that a little farfetched, Hanson.’

  ‘It need not be that – perhaps she merely saw him in a compromising situation. He would not have expected one of his shop-girls to be at the Casino, after all. He’d already found out how easy it was to do away with these women. Who knows? Perhaps she threatened to tell his wife? Or perhaps he just had got a taste for it.’

  Webb shakes his head. ‘But why did he kill Finch and Carter?’

  ‘The blackmail – he knew what Brown was up to, got himself into a rage, and took it out on them. But Brown thought he could make one last attempt – threatened to tell the police what he knew.’

  ‘It’s an awful hodge-podge of an explanation, Inspector.’

  Hanson looks at Webb in disbelief. ‘You do not think he is innocent? Or that he killed them in his sleep?’

  Webb sighs. ‘No, I doubt it. It is just an awful mess of a case. Too few witnesses and too many suppositions. There is something missing.’

  ‘I still say we charge him with murder, Inspector. We must. Do you agree? I would not care to bring a prosecution without the support of the Yard.’

  ‘Yes,’ says Webb, thoughtfully, ‘I suppose so.’

  ‘He may plead insanity, of course,’ says Hanson.

  ‘I don’t think he is mad, Inspector,’ says Webb. ‘I am just not sure—’

  ‘What?’

  Webb shakes his head. ‘Yes, charge him. You are quite right. It must go to trial.’

  ‘In any case,’ says Hanson, dismissively, ‘if there is some master-mind behind this affair, as he claims, it will come out in court.’

  ‘One would hope so,’ says Webb.

  ‘Mr. Siddons!’ exclaims Melissa Woodrow. ‘Oh, thank heavens! I did not know where to turn.’

  ‘My dear Mrs. Woodrow,’ replies Siddons, taking off his coat, ‘what on earth is the matter? I came immediately, of course, but it is rather late, you know.’

  ‘Woodrow . . . well, he has been arrested. I fear the police intend to charge him with the death of that poor man from the canal. And there are other things too . . . it is all quite impossible. I swear, I can hardly breathe.’