by Granger, Ann
Waiting there, too, was a familiar cab. Beside it stood the burly form of the driver, Wally Slater, holding the horse’s head, and beaming his terrifying grin. It was like some fantastical bad dream.
I closed my eyes and opened them again. No, I was not hallucinating. At the house door, demanding to know why Constable Barrett was barring the way, stood a tall and agitated young man I did not recognise. But I did identify the young woman with him. It was Miss Wellings, Frank Carter’s fiancée. Behind them stood – oh heaven, was it possible? My wife?
‘Lizzie!’ I gasped.
‘Ben?’ cried Lizzie, spotting me at the same moment. ‘What’s happened here?’
Before I could answer, Britannia, who had followed me into the hall, pushed by me and flung out her forefinger, with its swollen joints, to indicate the young man. ‘Him!’ she shouted. ‘That’s him! He was here last night. That’s the one I was telling you of. I saw him clear in the lamplight, clear enough, anyway. That was him, I’ll take my oath.’
She advanced on the young man like an avenging Fury; and was intercepted by Barrett, who struggled to hold her back. The crowd, scenting fisticuffs, set up a roar of approval.
Over Barrett’s restraining arm Britannia shouted, ‘You done it! You bashed poor Mrs Clifford’s head in. You’re a murderer, that’s what you are, and you’ll swing for it!’
Chapter Six
Inspector Ben Ross
THERE WAS nothing for it but to bring Lizzie, Patience Wellings, and the young man into the house and close the door on the crowd. Deprived of more entertainment, they jeered or whistled. Phipps went back outside to help Barrett disperse what was becoming a mob.
‘What terrible people! Where have they all come from?’ gasped Patience.
I could have told her that the London mob gathers round a disturbance as flies swarm around meat.
‘Why at this house?’ demanded my wife, ever practical, and fixing me with a stern eye, as if I were somehow responsible. I suppose, in a way, I was.
I suggested they follow me and led them into the kitchen, after I had prudently closed the parlour door, so that the newcomers should not see into the room as they passed down the hallway. I sent Britannia to wait upstairs in her attic bedroom. This enraged her.
‘I’ve got questions of me own I want to ask him!’ she stormed. She rounded on the young man. ‘What d’ya want to murder her for? Standing there looking at us so innocent! You hope we’ll all think you too fine a swell to do anything so horrible, eh? Well, I saw you, right? I saw you outside here, last night, on the pavement. Right under that lamppost, you were, taking off your hat and tucking it under your arm, like the young fancy you think yourself!’
Morris gripped her elbow and bundled her, still protesting, out of the hall. We listened as she stamped upstairs, abuse flying back to us partly directed at Morris, who followed her to make sure she did as ordered, and partly at Wellings. The tirade was stemmed when a distant door slammed. Morris returned down the stairs.
‘She fair makes your head ring,’ he muttered.
‘You had better stay here, in the hall, in case she attempts to creep back down again and listen at the door,’ I told him.
I returned to the party in the kitchen. Lizzie and Patience Wellings were obviously brimful of questions but managing, for the moment, not to speak. The young man, however, did address me.
‘I didn’t . . .’ he said, sounding and looking bewildered. ‘I didn’t do anything, to anyone. What’s happened?’
‘Who are you?’ I asked him sharply.
He pulled himself together. ‘My name is Wellings, Edgar Wellings.’
‘He’s my brother!’ declared Patience, bursting into speech and darting forward to take the gentleman’s arm. ‘He hasn’t done anything wrong, whatever it is has happened.’ She glared at me, red in the face, small but determined.
‘What has happened, Ben?’ asked Lizzie in more moderate tones.
A four-way conversation would be disastrous. ‘Ladies,’ I requested them, ‘I see Slater is waiting outside with his cab. Allow him to take you both to your homes. Perhaps you would remain, Mr Wellings. It seems you may be able to help.’
‘I want to stay with my brother!’ stormed Patience, who clearly did not have the quality her parents had hoped to bestow on her when she was christened in that name.
Lizzie, thank goodness, took charge. ‘Come along, my dear,’ she urged and guided Patience out of the kitchen.
‘Let us sit down, Mr Wellings,’ I invited him. ‘I am Inspector Ross of Scotland Yard’s plain-clothes division, by the way.’
He looked surprised. ‘Then you are Lizzie’s husband?’
‘I am, but that has no bearing on my presence here.’ I again indicated a chair.
This time he did as bid, taking off his gloves, stuffing them inside his top hat and then putting the hat, after some hesitation, on a nearby stool. I recalled the description Britannia Scroggs had given, of a young man – she claimed it to be this one – standing outside beneath the lamppost, and tucking his silk hat beneath his arm. Britannia had also described the visitor as handsome and ‘a swell’. It was a pretty fair description of Wellings. But it would also describe many other young fellows.
I had allowed him enough time to compose himself. But I did not mean to give him so much time he could invent some plausible tale.
‘Now, then, Mr Wellings,’ I said. ‘Why are you here? And why, I am curious to know, do you arrive accompanied by two ladies, one of them my wife?’’
He stared at me, his dark brows puckered. ‘But I came to see Mrs Clifford. My sister and Mrs Ross came with me because we had all three been discussing the – er – situation in which I find myself.’ He grew less certain. ‘Where is Mrs Clifford? The maid was shouting out that she was dead. Surely, that cannot be?’
‘She is dead,’ I told him. ‘Moreover, evidence to date suggests she was murdered in her own parlour.’
He turned so white I thought he might faint. But then he rallied. ‘When?’ he asked bluntly.
‘Yesterday evening,’ I told him.
Now Wellings shook his head decidedly. ‘No, no, she was alive and well yesterday evening.’
‘You sound very sure of that. Were you here, then, as the maid told us? ’
Wellings drew in a deep breath. ‘You might as well know the whole story, but I know nothing of her death! I paid a short call yesterday evening. She was alive then, very much so, and alive when I left here.’
‘Begin at the beginning,’ I invited him. ‘How do you know the lady?’
‘No lady!’ said Wellings with a scowl. ‘A heartless, grasping, unscrupulous old harridan.’
Phipps had returned, slipping into the kitchen and stationing himself against the far wall behind Wellings, unseen and unsuspected. The Deptford man raised sandy eyebrows but, thankfully, remained silent. I understood his surprise. Wellings had not begun to defend his innocence very well. In his first sentence, he had told us he was on bad terms with the deceased.
Perhaps Wellings had also realised that he had spoken out too frankly. ‘Normally,’ he said stiffly, ‘one does not speak ill of the dead – or not immediately, anyway. But the woman was a moneylender and had all the worst traits of that miserable trade.’
‘And that is how you knew her? You are a client?’
‘Yes,’ said Wellings briefly. When I remained silent, he continued. ‘I came to London to pursue my studies at St Bartholomew’s Hospital College of Medicine. I am now a junior doctor, continuing my training on the wards at the hospital itself.’
He fell silent as if he expected I would make some comment. When I merely nodded, he continued, becoming visibly nervous. ‘As a student, I fell in with some rather wild company.’ He leaned forward, ‘You have to understand, Ross, as a student of medicine – and even more so as a doctor – a fellow sees some dreadful sights and tragic, distressing events.’
‘So does a police officer,’ I told him unsympathetically. ‘If
he cannot stomach them, then he is in the wrong line of work.’
That set him back briefly and he flushed. ‘Yes, of course. I did not mean to suggest . . . Well then, you will understand, perhaps?’
‘Try me,’ I invited. ‘I am listening.’
‘One needs to be able to put these things out of one’s mind,’ Wellings said. ‘A fellow needs to get out and about and cut loose, you understand? Among other things, I got in with a crowd who played cards – for stakes. The stakes were quite modest and at first it didn’t matter if I lost from time to time; because on other occasions I was a winner. But— but it moved on from that to more serious gaming. I was introduced to clubs where the stakes played for are very high and— and I was not among friends. When I lost, I had to pay up. I soon found myself short of cash. Then, someone I’d played cards with and knew well from my student days mentioned this woman – the woman who lives here. The chap was willing to introduce me to her. He said he’d dealt with her himself and everything was very businesslike. As she lives across the river here in Deptford, my visits to her would be unremarked by anyone who might recognise me. So, that is how it began.’ Now Wellings did fall silent and waited for me to speak.
‘So last night, did you come to borrow money?’
He shook his head and looked miserable. ‘No, to ask for more time to repay what I had borrowed. I had a losing streak. I kept playing because I thought, sooner or later, my luck must change. But it didn’t.’
How familiar a story this was and how many youngsters like this one had tried to beat the odds. And how many desperate actions had originated in this way!
Wellings looked even more despondent. ‘I swear to you, Ross, I began to feel I must be cursed! She – Mrs Clifford – she charges interest, of course. That is how she makes her profit. When I couldn’t pay, even something on account, she became unpleasant. She threatened to inform Bart’s. That would finish me. My medical career would be over before it had hardly begun!
‘Of course, I could go to my father, cap in hand, and explain. I could ask him to pay what I owed. But I didn’t want to do that. The very thought appalled me. I dreaded not only his anger, but also his disappointment. I thought— I hoped there was another way.’
‘Which would be?’
Now he turned brick-red and fixed his downcast eyes on his clasped hands. ‘You will think me a cad,’ he said dully. ‘And you will be right, because that is what I am. There is no pretending otherwise. You see, my sister, Patience . . .’ He paused and raised his eyes to my face, a question in them.
I nodded. ‘I have met Miss Wellings.’
‘She is engaged to be married to a chap called Carterton. He’s the Member of Parliament for our town. Patience has some money in her own right. It was left to her by our grandmother. The legacy stipulated that if Patience became engaged to be married before she reached the age of one and twenty, the money would become available to her to spend on wedding preparations, her trousseau, that sort of thing. My grandmother wanted to be sure Patience’s prospects would not be harmed if my father lost his business. Such a thing can always happen in trade or industry. My father is not a landowner, able to sell off a few acres when he is short of cash. Well, happily our father did not lose his business; he prospered, and is well able to marry off Patience in style. So she does not need our grandmother’s money right away, and I thought . . .’ His voice tailed away.
Behind his back I could see Phipps scowling. But mercifully he kept silent.
‘You thought to borrow money from your sister, money intended for what they call her “bottom drawer” or “hope chest”,’ I said.
He looked up and met my eye. ‘Yes,’ he said simply. ‘I can see you think me a scoundrel and I don’t blame you. I would pay her back. Once I am established as a doctor, I will have the funds to do that. It might not be for a few years, but as a family arrangement, that would be all right, and my sister would get her money eventually. The situation would be quite unlike that I find myself in with Clifford.’
‘And did Miss Wellings agree to make the money available to you?’
‘No,’ said Wellings disconsolately. ‘She didn’t. She told me to go to our father. I should go and own up and throw myself on his mercy.’
Sensible girl, I thought to myself. If she lends this young wastrel money, she will never see it back, no matter how brilliant a medical career he may make for himself. This sort will owe money somewhere, to someone, all his life.
‘So, let us come to last night,’ I said. ‘Why did you come to see Mrs Clifford? To tell her you could not pay?’
‘Yes, and no,’ young Wellings told me. ‘You see, I thought that Patience would relent – eventually. If I kept at her, you know, I thought she’d agree.’
Behind him, over by the wall, Phipps’s scowl was now so ferocious that, with his foxy colouring and features, he really did look as though he might attack the speaker.
I began to think that Frank Carterton was going to acquire just the sort of brother-in-law a man making a political career doesn’t want. That would worry Lizzie. What worries her also worries me.
‘Mrs Clifford presumably holds – or held – some kind of note from you, acknowledging the debt? An IOU?’
‘Yes, yes,’ he muttered resentfully. ‘She had proper forms printed out, very much the businesswoman. They show the amount borrowed, interest it will attract, date it is due to be repaid. If you look around the place, you’ll find them – mine and those of other clients.’
Phipps and I had looked around the place very thoroughly, but we’d not found the all-important IOUs. We’d found the ledger but that, in itself, was not enough. What had happened to the all-important signed documents described by Wellings?
‘How did you get here, last night?’ I asked. ‘By what means did you travel, when did you arrive and how did you gain admittance?’
‘I took the train from Charing Cross, across the river,’ said Wellings. ‘I descended at the station at New Cross.’
‘Did you keep the return ticket?’
‘No, I had to give it up. There was a guard collecting the stubs at the exit at Charing Cross. Anyway, from New Cross station I walked to Deptford High Street, and turned off it to reach here. It is not so very far at a brisk pace. I arrived here at twenty minutes to eight. I am certain because I looked at my watch. I tapped on the window, to the left of the front door.’
‘Why did you do that? Why not use the knocker?’
Unexpectedly, Wellings grinned. ‘Because the old woman was secretive about her business. Well, to be fair, her clients didn’t want to advertise their arrival. Rapping at the door on a quiet evening would bring all the neighbours to their windows. So the drill is – was, I should say now – to tap on the window. If she was in the parlour, she would come and look through the glass to see who was there.’
That, I thought, is why, when Britannia looked out, she saw you removing your hat. It was so that Mrs Clifford would be able to identify her visitor.
‘There is a lamp standard just outside the house, so she had a good view of a caller,’ said Wellings, confirming my theory. ‘Then, if she wanted to let you in, she did. If she didn’t, she’d signal the caller to go away. If she didn’t come to the window, she wasn’t there, so there was no point in waiting. I tapped on the window and she let me in. We went into the parlour. She conducted all her business in there. Until this moment when we find ourselves here –’ he gestured at the kitchen around us – ‘I had never seen any other room in the house. Just the hallway and the parlour.’ He paused. ‘You say that— that is where . . .’
‘There is evidence of a murderous attack,’ I said.
‘She was alive and well when I left here,’ he repeated obstinately. ‘How can I persuade you? I can only repeat the truth.’
‘We had reached the point in your account where she had let you into the house and the parlour,’ I prompted him.
‘Oh, yes, well, we talked – argued. I told her I thought I could
get the money from a relative. I didn’t name my sister or say that the relative was female. So, I said, there was no need for her to threaten me with informing Bart’s. She gave a most unpleasant laugh. It sounded like a rusty hinge grinding. “Bright young spark, like you,” she said. “Families will always pay up eventually. I reckon you’ll be the shining hope at home. You tell your relative, whosoever that might be, that you’ve got ten days. That’s to give your relative time to get the money together.”
‘I tried to explain that it might take a little longer. After all, I hadn’t talked Patience round yet. But Clifford wouldn’t listen. Just threw me out, more or less. So, I left.’
‘But you admit you and she quarrelled. Harsh words were exchanged, threats made. It went no further than that?’
‘It wasn’t a pleasant social call!’ snapped Wellings, colouring. Then he made a gesture of appeasement. ‘I am sorry, but yes, we quarrelled. She was so obdurate and unreasonable. I told her to her face that she was. I was very angry, I don’t deny it.’
‘You might even,’ I suggested, ‘have felt justified in striking her.’
‘Yes,’ said young Wellings with a scowl. ‘Anyone would. But I didn’t. I wasn’t here above twenty minutes. I looked at my watch again after I left because I needed to catch a train back again. So, if someone came here and killed the— killed her, it was someone who arrived after I did.’
I signalled to Phipps. Wellings spun round and saw the inspector for the first time. He looked first alarmed and then furious.
‘Who is that?’ he demanded.
‘Inspector Phipps from Deptford,’ I told him. ‘Wait here, Dr Wellings.’
