The Welfare of the Dead

by Lee Jackson

  ‘Mr. Langley, who do you—’

  ‘Siddons, Miss Krout. If you had heard him speak, like I had, speak such filth about you and your sex, you would not have encouraged him, I am sure of that. But you should not have done it, all the same. It is a contagion, you see, Miss Krout. It spreads so easily, with men like that.’

  ‘Mr. Langley,’ replies Annabel, standing, ‘I suppose you can only be drunk. I must ask you to leave.’

  ‘No,’ says Langley, grabbing Annabel’s arm and pulling her roughly towards him. ‘I cannot allow that. Not when I know that she can still be saved, at least.’

  ‘What in . . . ?’ exclaims Annabel Krout. But before she can protest any further, Richard Langley has twisted her arms behind her back and, holding her wrists firm with one hand, with the other forced his silk handkerchief into her open mouth, crushing it between her lips.

  ‘Please,’ says Langley, pulling loose his cravat, and roping it around Annabel Krout’s wrists, ‘don’t struggle. It will be easier on all of us.’

  Annabel Krout looks on in helpless disbelief as Langley tumbles her on to the Woodrows’ sofa. ‘Forgive the indignity, Miss Krout,’ he continues, as he tears at her dress. ‘No don’t struggle. You make it worse.’

  Annabel Krout, despite this admonition, kicks out. Langley, in turn, pulls an ivory-handled clasp knife from his pocket, flicking open the blade. He reaches forward, pushing down on Annabel’s legs with one arm, bringing the knife close to her face with the other.

  ‘Don’t struggle, damn it,’ mutters Langley, reaching out with the blade, so that it touches Annabel’s neck, the metal pressing into her pale skin.

  ‘Do you hear me?’ says Langley, wrapping the torn material of Annabel Krout’s skirt around her ankles, ‘do not struggle and it will soon be over.’

  Richard Langley tentatively opens the nursery door. Lucinda Woodrow stands in the shadows, dressed in her day-clothes.

  ‘Are we playing a game?’ she asks.

  ‘I told you before, we are going on a holiday,’ says Langley. ‘A secret holiday.’

  ‘Is Mama coming too?’

  ‘No, she will come afterwards.’

  ‘And Annabel?’

  ‘No, I do not think so. Come.’

  Lucinda Woodrow obeys, taking hold of Richard Langley’s hand, and letting him lead her outside on to the landing and downstairs. They descend past the drawing-room, with Langley casting a furtive glance in the direction of the closed door, but nothing more. It is only when Lucinda Woodrow sets foot in the hall, that rapid footfalls can be heard, ascending the kitchen stairs. Langley instinctively pulls the little girl back towards him, clutching her in front of him. Lucinda squirms in discomfort, unhappy at the game’s progress.

  ‘Let the little girl go, sir,’ says Decimus Webb, breathless and red-faced, appearing from downstairs, with Bartleby immediately behind him. Langley stares at the policemen in disbelief.

  ‘Just let her go, sir. Then we can talk.’

  ‘No,’ says Langley. ‘I have a blade.’

  And, indeed, the glint of a knife suddenly shines in Langley’s right hand, close to Lucinda Woodrow’s neck. Webb steps back, making a placatory gesture.

  ‘The game is up, sir. We know the whole story now,’ says the sergeant.

  ‘Have they won?’ asks Lucinda, looking up at Langley, bemused.

  Langley shakes his head. ‘You must let us go. Both of us. I am the only one who can care for her.’

  ‘Where is Miss Krout? Mrs. Woodrow?’

  Langley says nothing.

  ‘Melissa Woodrow knew nothing of his past,’ says Webb. ‘She had no part in anything that has befallen you.’

  ‘Befallen me? Please. I have been extraordinarily lucky, Inspector. I have no complaints.’

  ‘Then,’ says Webb, ‘what has all this been for? Some petty act of revenge?’

  ‘Not petty, Inspector,’ says Langley, glancing at Lucinda. ‘Justice. For my mother’s sake, if nothing else. For my sister.’

  ‘Your mother was Eliza Munday? Your father, well, we must call him Jasper Woodrow now, I suppose.’

  ‘I was born eight months after he “died”, Inspector. An unlucky child to be born of a dead man; that’s the superstition.’

  ‘It does not sound a particularly fortuitous start.’

  ‘I was given up and adopted, Inspector. I was raised by a decent Christian family. That was my good fortune. I had everything any boy might ask for.’

  ‘You knew your own history?’

  Langley shakes his head. ‘I only found out after my parents died, last year.’

  ‘Ah, of course. So you sought out your natural mother?’

  ‘I found her too. Or, at least, what was left of her, in St. Luke’s Workhouse.’

  ‘She told you about your natural father?’

  ‘She even gave me his picture. I wanted to know the truth but it was not a pleasant revelation, I admit. Except I was misinformed, even then.’

  ‘Because your father was alive?’

  Langley hesitates. ‘I had some pity for him, when she told me about his death. For a man to take his own life – it is a sin – but I had pity. And when I looked at that wretched creature in the workhouse . . . Did you know, at the end, before they took her in, she had been digging for scraps in the dust-heaps by the canal, grubbing in the dirt for a living, if you can call it that? Did you know that?’

  ‘Yes, I did.’

  ‘I blamed him. I cursed my own father’s name. But I consoled myself that the matter was in His hands; that he had long since been judged for his crime.’

  ‘But you were proved wrong?’

  ‘Quite by chance. Fate, I suppose. Or perhaps divine providence. I found myself working for him. I recognised the face, you see, from the photograph. But I was not sure of it, even then.’

  ‘So you dug up the grave? You could have consulted the authorities; talked to the police.’

  ‘I knew what would happen if I left it in your hands; he would not pay, but not half so much as he ought.’

  Webb frowns. ‘I confess, sir, I do not quite understand the rest. You planned it all?’

  ‘I have no time for this, Inspector. You must let us pass. I warn you Inspector.’

  ‘You will not harm your own sister.’

  ‘You do not know what I am capable of, Inspector,’ says Langley. He is about to say something more, when a noise behind him distracts his attention.

  ‘I do,’ says a dishevelled-looking Annabel Krout, as she swings a lead poker roundly into Richard Langley’s arm, so forcefully that he instinctively releases Lucinda Woodrow.

  ‘Quick, Sergeant!’ exclaims Webb as he grabs the little girl to protect her. Bartleby obeys, jumping forward and tackling Langley, forcing him to the ground, holding him down with relative ease.

  ‘I think you will have time now, sir,’ says Webb.

  ‘Is this to be my confession, then, Inspector?’ asks Richard Langley, handcuffed, seated in the Woodrows’ morning-room. ‘In this parlour?’

  ‘We have time until the van comes for you, sir. Miss Krout is trying to calm down Lucinda. My sergeant is keeping an eye on Mrs. Woodrow.’

  ‘Miss Krout is a remarkable woman; my arm still aches. I fear she has broken something.’

  ‘You should have worked on those knots a little more,’ suggests Webb, with a distinct lack of sympathy. ‘I am surprised, frankly, that you did not despatch her like the rest.’

  Langley looks surprised at the suggestion. ‘She is an innocent, Inspector. Misguided, but innocent. Shouldn’t you be taking notes?’

  ‘There will be enough time for that. Just tell me the facts, if you care to.’

  ‘Very well. You may as well hear it, though you seem to have guessed a good deal. I took the commission for the new Mourning Warehouse on a friend’s recommendation. But it was not long before I realised “Jasper Woodrow” was . . . forgive me, it sickens me to call him my father. At first, of course, it was merely an awful sus
picion; there were a few clues, a few things he said when drunk – and he is often inebriated, I assure you – but nothing certain. I had to be sure, and so I went to Abney Park. When I found the grave was empty, I knew the truth.’

  ‘That still explains very little.’

  ‘I cannot describe my anger, Inspector. It blazed inside me. I doubt you can comprehend it. Had you seen my mother in that place, the state of her, perhaps you would understand. She was once a decent woman; I am sure of that. I have half-formed memories of . . . well, I determined to pay him back, for every indignity he heaped upon her, for every night she went without food, for every time she gave herself up to . . . for his cowardice. So I wormed my way into his good graces; I did not merely work for him but played up to him; I went drinking with him, I boasted of money, of investments. He, in turn, told me all about his little vices, his tame whore at Knight’s, his favourite gambling dens. I learnt a good deal.’

  ‘But you did not approve?’

  ‘The man is the devil incarnate, Inspector. You must see that?’

  ‘So you decided to punish him?’

  ‘No, I was not that ambitious, not at first. I decided to do away with him. But I wanted to expose him, too. Then it came to me – Knight’s Hotel. What better place for such a specimen to be displayed, eh? It could not be hushed up; the world would see his true character.’

  ‘You even prepared an epitaph.’

  ‘More a lesson, really. “He uncovers deep things out of darkness, And brings the shadow of death to light.” Apt, was it not?’

  ‘And did one of the girls help you?’

  Langley nods. ‘Annie Finch. I made “pals” with Annie. I even told her I was a detective; that I was working for Mrs. Woodrow. Wanted to catch the old man in flagrante for the divorce. She had had some spat with the other girl, Betsy, Woodrow’s favourite. It was quite easy to accomplish.’

  ‘You got her to drug their drinks?’

  ‘Not quite. I knew Woodrow’s routine. He told me, in glorious detail, when I got him drunk. Revolting; it made me quite sick to the stomach. Still. I made sure I was with Betsy Carter myself before he was due to see her. I knew they would share a drink together after he had done with her. A few drops of laudanum into the brandy. I had tested it on myself the previous night.’

  ‘Ah, I see. Then you returned later?’

  ‘Annie let me in, through the back door. She thought it was a marvellous adventure.’

  ‘But then she became redundant, and so you simply killed her?’

  ‘What kind of madman do you take me for, Inspector? She saw what I was up to; saw the knife. I had to silence her, quickly.’

  ‘You smothered her?’

  ‘I simply wished to keep her quiet. But she struggled, you see?’

  ‘I see. Continue.’

  ‘I had intended to kill him outright. I went into the room, saw him slumbering there. It was not pity that stayed my hand, I assure you. Merely the thought he would die in ignorance of being found out; that he would not suffer enough. I changed my mind; I had an idea.’

  ‘So you killed Betsy Carter in cold blood?’

  ‘She was a fool to love such a man.’

  ‘But she was quite innocent of any crime.’

  ‘Innocent? Hardly. She was soiled already, Inspector. She was never an innocent. She served her purpose. I merely brought her closer to the judgment we all must face. That is all.’

  ‘Your “idea” was that Woodrow would wake up next to a corpse – that he would be charged with murder?’

  ‘He had as good as condemned my mother to a slow death. I wanted to see his face when they pronounced him guilty. I did see it today – it was rather satisfying.’

  ‘Did you know about his sleep-walking?’

  ‘No. That was simply a fortunate coincidence. Tell me, did he actually believe he had done it himself?’

  ‘Half-believed it, perhaps.’

  Langley merely smiles.

  ‘But Brown got in your way, in some fashion?’

  ‘I left a clue for you at Knight’s, Inspector. A business-card from the Warehouse. It puzzled me how you had not found it. But then I saw Brown by the canal, it fell into place. He had removed it himself; he hoped to gain by it, to blackmail Woodrow like his other victims – I had heard something of his character from Annie, you see. And, of course, the wretched man saw me too, that night. He did not quite understand the situation, mind you. I had to explain it to him.’

  ‘I think you made yourself pretty clear. You like leaving clues, don’t you, sir? What about the cuffs we found at the house? Whose blood is on them?’

  ‘Why, the girl at the Casino, of course. Price.’

  ‘And how did they get here?’

  ‘Simple enough. I excused myself during our little dinner party.’

  Webb sighs. ‘I see. And what of Catherine Price? Why did you do it?’

  ‘Another whore. I thought I should try again, Inspector. I thought I could not make it any plainer for you.’

  Webb shakes his head. ‘No, sir. I don’t think so. Brown was a matter of necessity for you. But I think you took some perverted pleasure from despatching these poor women.’

  ‘They were a means to serve an end, Inspector. In death as in life.’

  ‘And Siddons? It was today, outside the court, wasn’t it?’

  ‘I knew what he had planned for Miss Krout, Inspector. And I feared for Lucinda. I knew precisely what sort of man he was.’

  ‘You think so? Still, a cruel death for an old man.’

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘And so we come to Lucinda Woodrow,’ says Webb. ‘Your sister.’

  ‘I saw how her father treated her; and everyone else. I planned to give her a new start, away from all this filth and corruption. Surely you can understand that?’

  ‘She belongs with her mother and father. In fact, I am rather surprised you let Mrs. Woodrow live. I suppose we must be grateful for small mercies.’

  ‘I thought she had suffered enough. In truth, Inspector, she reminds me a good deal of my natural mother. I hoped to spare her my mother’s fate.’

  ‘And you are a good judge, sir, of who lives or dies?’

  Langley shrugs. Then he looks up. ‘Will they release him now?’

  ‘There are other matters to settle; in time, yes, I should expect so.’

  ‘At least everyone will know him for what he is; at least he will live with that over him.’

  ‘And how do you think they will remember you, Langley?’

  Any answer is interrupted by Bartleby knocking on the door.

  ‘The van’s here, sir.’

  ‘Very good. Take him to the G Division station house, Sergeant. It will be convenient for Hanson in the morning. Doubtless he will want to have a little chat.’

  Langley looks back at Webb as Bartleby moves him off his chair.

  ‘Tell Miss Krout, will you, Inspector? Tell her that I am sorry for her part in all of this, and that, if she can forgive me, I should like to speak with her.’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ‘MY MOTHER? MY real mother? Yes, I have some memories of her before she gave me up. When I was a child, growing up in St. John’s Wood in that great house, I used to think they were only dreams. But I had them again and again. A woman sitting, dressed in black, always black, in the corner of a wretched cold room, a tiny closet of a room with a solitary bed, watching me, smiling at me, even as she shivered. It was her. I am sure of it.

  ‘Do you know what else I would dream? That I was locked outside that little room whilst she took men inside. I used to have that dream a good deal, different faces, different men. I did not know what it meant; not at the time. What a fine widowhood, eh? You know, even now, I particularly recall the sound of the bolt being drawn.’

  Langley looks away and smiles.

  ‘Or perhaps it is just my current situation that calls it to mind?’

  Annabel Krout puts down her note-book and looks at Richard Langley t
hrough the wire mesh that separates them.

  ‘It is not too late to make your peace with God.’

  Langley shakes his head, nodding at some movement in the distance. ‘I made my peace long ago. The warder is coming down the corridor. I think this must be your last visit. I know what day it is tomorrow.’

  Annabel pauses, about to say something more, when Langley signals for her to keep silent.

  ‘No more. They will bury me in the yard with the others. I have already seen the spot – they show it to you on the way to the Bailey. Give Lucy my love; I rather fear for her, you know.’

  ‘Mr. Langley. Richard, please . . .’

  ‘I am in the same cell as my father was, do you know that? Put that in your article, Miss Krout. It seems quite apt, somehow, eh? I am sure you will find a publisher.’

  Langley motions to the warder behind him. Before Annabel Krout can speak, he is taken back, through the iron-barred door, into the black corridor that leads to his cell.

  EPILOGUE

  ANNABEL KROUT STANDS in the Golden Gallery of St. Paul’s, helping Lucy Woodrow to look over the balcony, and see the bird’s-eye view of the capital, spread before them without the obstruction of the railings. Yet, athough it is free of fog, the sky is still liberally smeared with dirty smudges of smoke, seeping from countless chimneys. Only the metropolitan churches are quite visible, however, dozens of steeples and towers pointing to the heavens whilst, in the distance, the royal parks resemble faint green islands, set in a swirling sea of dust. The smoke is worst along the river, the product of the factories that line the southern bank of the Thames, generating a thick haze, like dirty muslin, draped over the entire Surrey shore. In some parts it is difficult to make out where the city ends and the heavens begin.

  Lucy Woodrow leans forward, peering down at the minute carts, cabs and omnibuses streaming along Ludgate Hill.

  ‘Can I go round again?’ she asks.

  Annabel nods, lifts her down and lets the little girl walk round the Gallery on her own for the third time. She follows behind, keeping a watch on her young charge, not noticing the gentleman coming up the stairs.