by Lee Jackson
‘Sergeant – well, I am glad the constable found you. I should have gone back to the Yard myself but I wanted a few moments alone here, to think.’
‘I was playing a nice game of whist with the night-watch, sir.’
‘Whist?’
‘Well, a game of skill more than chance, anyhow, sir.’
‘How much did you lose, Sergeant?’
‘I brought you the notes you asked for, sir,’ says Bartleby, ignoring the question, and proffering Webb several sheets of paper. Webb, in turn, takes them eagerly and scans each sheet until he finds something of particular interest.
‘I knew it,’ exclaims the inspector.
‘Knew what, sir?’ asks Bartleby, patiently.
‘Come here, Sergeant,’ says Webb, beckoning Bartleby towards the back of the shop.
‘Have a look at this,’ says Webb, pointing to the open coffin.
‘Siddons.’
‘Quite. I had realised that much, Sergeant. What else?’
Bartleby bends down over the body; it is peculiarly curled up on one side, the eyes open, the mouth almost contorted.
‘Hardly serene, is he, sir?’
‘No. Have a good look at his hands.’
Reluctantly, Bartleby reaches down and holds each one of the dead man’s hands up to the light. His nails are scratched and, in several cases, almost torn from the flesh; and two fingers hang at odd angles, apparently broken. He hurriedly puts them down.
‘Someone left him in here alive, didn’t they?’ says Bartleby.
‘Well done, Sergeant. He tried to push his way out; failed and suffocated. The coffins are lead-lined and quite air-tight. Now anything else?’
Bartleby looks up and down the wooden box. ‘That’s the only queer thing, sir. A penny. By his hand there.’
‘Good. Now, come here,’ says Webb, directing Bartleby to where the coffin lid lies on the floor. ‘See how the fabric is shredded?’
‘Where he tore at it.’
‘Yes, but when he realised he could not escape, he did more than that, Sergeant,’ says Webb, peeling back the torn cloth. ‘Look. He got through to the lead; he knew he would.’
Bartleby crouches down besides the lid. Underneath the torn cloth, the metal is scored with a series of minute scratches. But they are far from random, since they form a sequence of rough characters.
11201
‘Scratched in a hurry, with that coin. And I knew I recalled it from somewhere,’ says Webb, brandishing the paper in his hand.
‘Sir?’
‘Jeremy Munday’s plot. It is the number of Munday’s plot at Abney Park. 11201 B12. “B12” is the grid location, but that is the number. Now tell me, Sergeant, why should this man expend his last moments on this earth, barely conscious, etching that number into his own . . . well, let us say resting place.’
‘He meant to tell us something. But there’s a line through it, too, like it’s crossed out? Did he change his mind?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous, Sergeant. What does it mean, crossing it out? To negate it. What negates a burial? Though, I suppose I must admit, you gave me the clue yourself. You said there was nothing to be found at Abney Park. I think you were right. Because Jeremy Munday was never buried there at all.’
‘Somewhere else?’ say Bartleby, hesitantly, trying to follow Webb’s reasoning.
‘Read through the newspapers again, Sergeant. Munday was bankrupt; he knew he would be tried for fraud and Lord knows what else. It is the one possibility we have ignored, when we wondered what happened to his body. What if he found a unique way to rid himself of the problem? What if he convinced the world he had died by his own hand?’
‘Sir?’
‘A mock funeral, with Siddons’ connivance. It would not take much more – a certificate was easy enough to come by in those days – why, it still is. The coroner would do little more than hear the word of some doctor, suitably corrupt, and the family. I wonder if the wife was in on their little game, or did they trick her too? A resurrection of sorts. It explains a good deal, I think.’
‘Fanciful, sir. And you have no evidence. So you think Munday is still alive? That he did this?’
‘I do not think that. Not quite. But with Siddons dead, I think only one other man knows the truth. And there is only one way to be certain, Sergeant. Come.’
‘Where, sir?’
‘Oh, Sergeant. Please.
Newgate, where else?’ ‘Newgate? They won’t thank you for it at this hour, sir. Not on a whim.’
‘It is more than that, Sergeant. I don’t care if we have to kick the warden himself out of bed. I will tell you more on the way.’
Newgate Prison is at its most dismal by night. The great granite blocks, which form its windowless walls, give the gaol the appearance of some vast pagan monolith, black enough to absorb the light of a thousand street-lights, let alone the dozen or so clustered around it. The Lodge, at which visitors must seek admission, is equally grim, resembling a medieval prison in miniature set into the great walls, fronted by a small door, no more than four and a half feet in height, topped with metal bars, tipped with iron spikes. Bartleby’s estimation of their welcome proves correct, for it takes some half an hour before the two policemen are admitted and various bolts and locks released, in groaning complaint at such nocturnal irregularity. But, at length, they are indeed led inside by lamp-light, through several small rooms into the principal cell-block. Its dark iron-railinged walkways and galleries, extending over several floors, form the heart of the male wing of the prison. On either side are the cells of more than two hundred men, most awaiting trial at the Criminal Court. But it is at one end of the block, upon the first floor, where two cells for condemned men are located.
Webb ignores their guide’s comments upon ‘keeping odd hours at Scotland Yard’, and follows the light of the guard’s lantern in stony silence, until it shines into the cell of Jasper Woodrow.
‘Visitor for you,’ says the guard, addressing not Woodrow, but another officer who maintains a solitary vigil outside his room, seated on a wooden stool. The latter gestures magnanimously towards the bars.
‘Mr. Woodrow,’ says Webb, ‘I would rather like to speak to you.’
The man, lying recumbent upon the solitary wooden bed within, stirs a little, but does not look up.
‘He ain’t asleep, sir, I promise you,’ says the seated guard. ‘Been tossing and turning all night.’
‘You,’ says Webb to the first guard, ‘give me that light and let me in.’
‘But how should I get back then, sir, without it?’
‘Wait or take your chance. I expect you know the way well enough. Or do I charge you with obstructing the police?’
The guard sullenly hands over his lantern and unlocks the cell door, letting Bartleby and Webb enter, and pointedly slamming it behind them. It sends an eerie metallic reverberation that echoes along the entire floor, and distant complaints, the shouts of prisoners woken from their rest, answer it in return.
‘Woodrow, rouse yourself,’ says Webb. ‘I must speak with you.’
The man in grey prison uniform merely turns over upon the bed.
‘You must hear me out, sir,’ says Webb. ‘Your friend Siddons is dead. Killed. I think you must know who did it.’
At this, Woodrow sits up and turns to look at his visitors. His eyes are bloodshot and tired, his face somewhat thinner than is natural.
‘Dead? You think I killed him, I suppose.’
Webb ignores Woodrow’s sarcasm. ‘No, sir. I don’t think that. But I think you know who did. The same man who dug up your grave, I expect.’
‘My grave?’
‘Don’t play the innocent, sir; although, I suppose, it seems possible now that you are innocent, in a sense. Come, you are Jeremy Sayers Munday, are you not?’
CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
‘WHO?’
Webb shakes his finger at the prone man. ‘It is too late for that lark, sir. Far too late. I have my man, do I not? I am
sure we can find someone in this city who might identify you, even now; there will be plenty willing to come and have a look. How would you like that, sir, eh? You cannot have changed beyond all recognition. It is a miracle you weren’t recognised at the trial.’
‘Good God,’ says Woodrow, his voice trembling, ‘it has all been for nothing.’
‘You said nothing throughout the trial,’ says Webb. ‘To spare your wife, yes? You thought, you hoped that you might be found innocent, despite it all? But surely you realised this was at the heart of it? If anyone has been hounding you, if anyone could go to such lengths, it is surely Jeremy Munday that they are after?’
‘I was not sure,’ says Woodrow wearily. ‘At one time, I thought it was Siddons, toying with me, though I could not say why he should turn on me. I have been on the verge of madness, I swear it. Inspector, you believe me, don’t you? That I did not kill them? Any of them?’
Bartleby gives Webb a discouraging glance, but it goes unnoticed.
‘Sir, I have said it before, if you will only tell me the truth. The absolute truth is the only thing that can save you. Do you not wish to see your wife and child again?’
‘I am doomed, whatever I tell you.’
‘But a twenty-five-year-old fraud does not lead to the gallows, Mr. Woodrow. Or should I call you Munday?’
‘Woodrow is my name. It was my mother’s maiden name. Munday is dead.’
‘Dead? After a fashion,’ says Webb. ‘But surely you do not wish to actually die, choking for breath, hearing you own neck snap, for something you have not done?’
Woodrow looks up and shakes his head.
‘Then tell me everything, from the beginning.’
‘It is a long time ago. Another life.’
‘No, sir. It is the same one. Out with it.’
Woodrow sighs. ‘It was my idea, Inspector, I confess that much. To feign my own death after the business fell apart. The chapel had fallen prey to its own success. I expect you know the story.’
‘Well enough. You were disposing of the bodies a little too readily?’
‘Good Lord, not me, Inspector. I had several men working for me. It was nothing that a thousand others had not done before me.’
‘But not on such a scale?’
‘No. They were discovered on Hackney Marsh. It was most unpleasant for all parties.’
‘Not least the deceased and their families, I expect,’ say Bartleby.
‘Ignore my sergeant, sir. Carry on.’
‘I knew there was a trial coming; I would be implicated; responsible. I could not face it; I could not face prison – ironic, sitting here, is it not? Siddons did not take much persuading – I took what money I had left from the company and paid him off. He arranged the whole thing.’
‘And your wife?’
‘Liza? Yes, I am still sorry for that.’
‘She knew about your plan, though, surely?’
‘No. Siddons found some excuse; told her it would distress her too much to see the body, something of that kind,’ replies Woodrow. ‘She was a good woman. My only regret is that . . .’
‘What?’
‘I swore to myself that I would come back for her.’
‘Ah, I see. And you never did.’
Woodrow hangs his head. ‘No.’
‘You abandoned your own wife?’ asks Bartleby.
‘I thought, when I was decent again, when I had raised myself up. But there never was a right time. Months went past so quickly – years—’
‘Never mind your self-pity, man,’ says Webb. ‘Then what?’
‘Siddons arranged a position for me in Manchester. Away from anyone who knew me. I did quite well for him. I built up his firm there.’
‘Until you returned to London.’
‘Twenty years had passed, Inspector. As I say, it seemed like another life. It seemed safe; the principal investors in the chapel had all long since died. And I had just met Melissa.’
‘So you returned for love,’ says Bartleby with deep cynicism in his voice.
‘Yes, Sergeant, I did,’ says Woodrow, completely serious.
‘And you did quite well, too,’ says Webb. ‘A new business, a fresh start, again.’
‘Melissa’s father died. There was an arrangement. It was not wholly my doing.’
‘Sir?’
Woodrow sighs. ‘We knew he was ailing. Siddons brokered it; persuaded him that I was suitable for his daughter. That I might run the business after he died.’
‘To what end? What was in it for Mr. Siddons?’ asks Webb.
‘That I paid him a share of the profits.’
‘Charming.’
‘It was just money, Inspector. But I have always loved Melissa, you must believe me.’
‘And Betsy Carter?’
‘A man’s appetites are a different matter. Surely you are a man of the world, Webb? You must see the same thing every day, in your line of work.’
‘Men and whores? Of course. But it is the dead ones that principally concern me, sir,’ says Webb, dourly.
‘I did not kill her, Inspector.’
‘How much of what you said in court was true?’
‘All of it, Inspector. Every detail.’
‘You fought with Brown?’
Woodrow hesitates. ‘No.’
‘He’s at it again, sir,’ exclaims Bartleby. ‘You surely aren’t taken in by all this?’
‘Quiet, Sergeant. No, you say? But your daughter saw you.’
‘Miss Krout has persuaded her of it. Perhaps she saw somebody – it was not me, Inspector.’
‘And you lied . . .’
‘To spare her the court-room. The sight of me there. The last thing she ever saw of me.’
‘How noble,’ sneers Bartleby.
‘Sergeant, you are not helping matters,’ says Webb. ‘Let us just suppose, sir, that you are right. A conspiracy against you. That a single guiding spirit is behind all of this – the same person who unearthed the grave – who killed Miss Carter and Miss Finch – Miss Price too – then Brown – all of it to implicate you. All of it calculated to see you hang. They might have exposed you – but no, it was all to make you suffer. Oh, and of course, we have Mr. Siddons for good measure. Who might it be?’
Woodrow clutches the side of the bed. ‘Do you not think I have been racking my mind these past weeks?’
Webb throws his head back and sighs.
‘If you want my opinion, sir,’ says Bartleby in a low voice, ‘he’s stringing you along.’
Webb frowns. ‘Wait a moment, sir. You said you did not come back for your wife. But you found her in the end, did you not? Just before she died; you visited the workhouse to see her?’
Woodrow shakes his head. ‘The house? Good God. I thought she would not suffer so much. When did she die?’
‘Wait a moment, sir. You claim you do not know anything of this? She died last year at St. Luke’s infirmary.’
‘Good God. No, I never . . . I could not bring myself to find her. What good would it have done?’
Webb looks startled. ‘A man, claiming to be a lawyer on behalf of her family, visited her just before her death.’
‘It was not me,’ says Woodrow, catching Bartleby’s disbelieving expression. ‘Why on earth should I lie about it now?’
‘Did she have much family?’
‘Of course. There were two uncles, and a cousin . . . they would not have seen her go to ruin. I had thought they would support her – that was how I comforted myself, at least. They would not have let her go to the parish, unless . . .’
‘They disowned her?’ suggests Bartleby.
‘But there were no brothers, sisters? And you had no children?’
‘None, Inspector.’
‘Then who would care so much, Woodrow, about your wife, to track her down? Or you, for that matter. Why should they give a false name? Why this sudden interest in Jeremy Munday? Why now?’
Woodrow looks blankly at Webb. ‘It is all twenty-five years
ago, Inspector. I have no idea.’
Webb, however, suddenly looks at the guard. ‘Get us out of here.’
‘In a hurry, sir?’ asks the guard, getting slowly to his feet.
‘What is it?’ asks Woodrow, perplexed. Bartleby looks equally confused.
‘I have another theory,’ says Webb. ‘And we had better hope I am wrong; for if I am right, I have no idea what the man will do next. Guard! What are you waiting for? Let us out! Sergeant – go and get a cab. We must end this tonight. There is no telling what risks we run, if we do not.’
‘For heaven’s sake, Inspector,’ says Woodrow. ‘What is it?’
‘Later, sir,’ says Webb, breathless, ‘and only if I am proved right.’
And with that, the two policemen hurry through the open door. The guard steps in and slams it shut once again.
‘Shame they’ve gone, ain’t it, mate?’ says he, as he turns the key in the lock. ‘Better than a night at the Alhambra – I was just beginning to enjoy it.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘MR. LANGLEY, IT IS rather late to be calling,’ says Annabel Krout, seated in the Woodrows’ drawing-room.
‘Yes, I rather suppose it is,’ says Richard Langley, taking out his pocket-watch and looking at the time. ‘I did not mean to startle you. You had not retired, I trust?’
‘No, well, not quite. But Mrs. Woodrow is already asleep, so please be brief. What is it, sir?’
He takes a breath.
‘There are certain things I must tell you, Miss Krout,’ says Langley, a faint hint of perspiration upon his brow. ‘Things of an intimate nature.’
‘Sir,’ replies Annabel, blushing, ‘I do not think this is the time—’
‘I have admired you since we became acquainted, Miss Krout. Your honesty, your obvious strength of character. I did not think that you or Lucinda would be in any danger. You must believe me. I did not see how far things had gone. I did not realise how he had insinuated himself into your affections.’
‘Forgive me, sir,’ says Annabel, frowning, ‘I don’t understand you at all. Who? What danger?’
‘Moral danger, Miss Krout. It was quite plain to me when I saw him today, the manner in which he touched you. Come, did you not look into his eyes? Could you not see what was stirring there?’
