by M. J. Trow
‘Mr Pearson?’ Tanner asked, for confirmation.
The man dashed the tears from his eyes and sniffed. ‘Yes. Who are you? Oh, wait – I know you.’ He pointed to Hunter. ‘Police.’
‘That’s right, sir,’ Tanner said. ‘We just want to ask you a few questions.’
‘I don’t have time,’ Pearson said, pouting. ‘I’m packing, can’t you see?’
‘Well, I can see that you may have to find other employment, sir,’ Tanner said, ‘but surely not tonight. Might the new owners not wish to keep you on in your … post?’
Pearson laughed, a dry, quick bark of a laugh. ‘Likely to want a pimp, are they?’ he said, bitterly. ‘Somebody to finish off their women if they are a bit lacking any night? Somebody who knows where the bodies are buried but has the sense to keep quiet? If they want that person, then, yes—’ he spread his arms wide – ‘here I am.’ He bent to his packing again. ‘Otherwise, I must be on my way.’ Another sob racked him, and he sank down on the bed, a linen shirt held to his eyes.
Tanner was not an unkind man, but he had a string of murders to solve. He nodded to Hunter, who stepped forward and hauled Pearson to his feet. ‘I don’t care what you need to do or not do,’ he said. ‘Inspector Tanner needs to speak to you on a matter of some urgency. Is there a room here where we can speak?’
Pearson sniffed and pointed to a door standing half open and led them through it. The room was opulent in the extreme but still felt as though its soul had been ripped from it by force. The logs lay half-burned in the grate, and already there seemed to be a thin film of dust over everything, as though it had begun to settle the second that Argyll’s last breath was driven from his body as it hit the ground in the auditorium below.
‘Here,’ Pearson said. ‘We can talk in here. But …’ He bit his lip for a moment. ‘Can we not sit at the desk? It’s a little too soon for me, as yet.’
Tanner nodded and pulled up a hard chair for himself, while Pearson, with Hunter in close attendance, sat on the chaise longue. Tanner put his hand in his pocket and came out with the coil of wire, which he held out to the secretary. ‘Do you recognize this?’ he asked.
‘It’s wire,’ the man replied, with a shrug.
‘Yes,’ Tanner said, patiently. ‘But have you seen this specific wire before?’
‘May I hold it?’
‘Of course.’ Tanner passed it across. ‘We believe it is the coil of wire used by the Haymarket Strangler.’ He watched the man’s expression and was not helped at all by the spasm of distaste that crossed his face. Either he was disgusted or he was a very good actor, and with these theatre types, who could tell?
Pearson passed it hurriedly back. ‘Where did you find it?’ he asked, in a shocked whisper.
‘In Roderick Argyll’s pocket,’ Hunter told him.
‘Mr Argyll?’ Pearson said. Then, with a chuckle, ‘No, it couldn’t be him. He wasn’t even here for the first murder.’
‘Where was he?’ Tanner asked.
‘Oooh.’ Pearson pursed his lips. ‘I’m not sure …’
‘Come now, Mr Pearson,’ Tanner said. ‘That grave is well and truly turned over. You don’t have to lie for him any more. Where was he?’
Mrs Manciple sat her gentlemen down at the table and removed the lid of the tureen with a flourish. Grand and Batchelor leaned forward in anticipation and recoiled almost at once.
‘What in the name of Hell is that?’ Grand said in a low voice.
‘Tripe,’ Mrs Manciple said proudly. ‘Tripe and onions.’
The men were silent.
‘With just a hint of parsley,’ she said, disappointed. Mr Manciple had always loved a bit of tripe when he was feeling nervy.
‘Is it food?’ Grand asked. He had been asked to eat some weird and wonderful things on campaign, but never anything like this.
‘Of course it is,’ she said. ‘It’s tripe. Lovely. Very savoury, but bland on the stomach. You’ve both had a shock. You need something bland on the stomach.’
Grand and Batchelor looked at each other through the steam, then Grand turned to his cook. ‘I think we’ll eat out tonight, Mrs Manciple,’ he said. ‘Thank you for going to so much trouble. Please feel free to eat it up yourself. Perhaps you could share it with the cat.’
It said a lot for the good upbringing of both of them that they didn’t express their real opinions until they had set their feet in the direction of the Haymarket Theatre for the second time that day. Even if they couldn’t catch the other killer who haunted their dreams, they could at least get something to eat that didn’t look like a stewed tablecloth.
‘You know anyway, don’t you?’ Pearson said. ‘He was in America. Always going over there, been doing it for years. I had to hold the fort, plan all the plays, pay the actors, see to his women …’ The tears were welling up again. ‘And now … he’s gone …’
‘Pull yourself together, Mr Pearson.’ Tanner had had enough. ‘I doubt Mr Argyll deserves your tears. If he couldn’t have murdered these women, who had the chance to put this wire in his pocket? Or could it be that he put it there himself, having confiscated it from the murderer, or found it just lying about?’
‘As for who put it there,’ said Pearson, wiping his eyes on his sleeve, ‘it could be one of dozens of people. This room was where he hung his coat.’ He gestured to a row of hooks on the wall, some of them full, some empty. ‘He interviewed in here, he paid staff in here, he … well, he just ran his life from here, you might say. So, for your list: everyone who worked for the theatre; newspapermen—’
‘Newspapermen?’ Tanner interrupted. ‘Do you have names?’
Pearson reached across and took a large book off the desk. ‘It might be in here,’ he said.
‘A diary?’ Tanner said, his eyes lighting up.
‘Not as such,’ Pearson said, thumbing through it. ‘It’s more an aide-memoire. He just jotted things down, then crossed them through when they had happened, were finished with. If there was anything important, he would ring it round in red.’ He flicked to the last few pages. ‘Here we are. Look.’ He turned the book and pointed. ‘There, where it says “int newsp”.’
‘Int newsp?’ Hunter was confused.
‘Interview newspaper,’ Tanner said, filling in the gaps for him. ‘Is that it?’ he asked Pearson. ‘No name?’
‘No.’ Pearson took the book back and searched a few more pages. ‘No, no detail. I’m very sorry.’
‘Does it show anyone else as a visitor? Take your time.’
NINETEEN
‘Is this too soon to be going back?’ Grand asked Batchelor.
‘Too soon for what?’ Batchelor asked, not making eye contact.
‘To try to catch the Strangler,’ Grand said. ‘Let’s face up to things, James. Argyll was definitely not the Strangler, but the Strangler is panicking. If he hid that wire in Argyll’s pocket, it’s because he fears capture. He was hiding the evidence.’
‘But who would do that?’ Batchelor asked. ‘Anyone who works at the Haymarket would know that he had not been there for the first murder. A case against Argyll wouldn’t hold up for a moment. But who apart from the household would have the opportunity?’
‘You,’ Grand said with a smile.
‘True,’ Batchelor said, solemnly. ‘And I am the only person who was here for all three murders. I quite like me as a suspect, and I know I didn’t do it! Tanner will get there eventually.’ His shoulders slumped as he foresaw the trouble certain to come.
Grand slapped him on the shoulder. ‘Chin up, James,’ he said. ‘And step out. Your little short legs are a real drawback when you want to get somewhere quickly. Come on, let’s go.’ And, setting a cracking pace, Grand strode out to the Haymarket Theatre, coat flapping and snapping in the breeze.
The inevitable table of half-drunk journalists greeted them enthusiastically as they walked into the dim auditorium. Some girls were dancing in a lacklustre way on the stage to the thump and rattle of the orchestra, and bottles were circling in advanc
e of the girls who would follow the champagne as night the day.
‘Jim!’ Edwin Dyer saw them first and beckoned them over. ‘What’s the story on the excitement this morning? Tanner isn’t talking, and that isn’t like him.’
‘It’s a bit sensitive, Edwin, if you don’t mind,’ Batchelor told him, pulling up a chair. ‘International politics, that sort of thing.’
‘Really?’ Horner said, honing in. ‘I heard it was just Argyll falling over the balcony, pissed.’
‘No,’ Buckley said. ‘It was one of his women, I heard. As ye sow, so shall ye reap.’
‘I bet it was something boring like that,’ Batchelor said. ‘It’s hard to get to the bottom of things, isn’t it?’ He looked around the table. ‘Everyone got a drink?’
Before the words were out of his mouth, three glasses were raised in the air and Grand, with a sigh, stuck his hand up to call the waiter over. ‘Same again?’ he asked.
Heads shook. It seemed to be the time in the evening when everyone changed to brandy.
Pearson looked carefully over every page then looked up at Tanner, shaking his head. ‘Apart from “int newsp”,’ he said, ‘I can account for everyone, and none of them, believe me, is the Haymarket Strangler.’
‘We’re left with you, then,’ Hunter said, gruffly. He had come out with the clear intention of arresting the Haymarket Strangler, and so, if everyone else was impossible, Pearson it would have to be.
‘I have alibis,’ Pearson said.
‘I wish you’d said,’ Tanner said mildly. ‘What might they be?’
‘Um … on the night of the first murder, I was visiting my mother. Godalming. I try to go and see her … I tried to go and see her when Mr Argyll was away. The others, I would have been looking after Mr Argyll’s needs.’
Tanner looked at him for a full minute. ‘That’s it? Your alibis?’
‘Yes.’
Tanner sighed. ‘Make a note, Hunter. No alibi.’ He clapped his hands on his knees and blew through his moustache. ‘Mr Pearson,’ he said, ‘I think that everything you say has another layer, another lie, another subterfuge hidden within it. Sergeant Hunter here wants to take you back to the police station and give you a very thorough beating until you Confess All.’
Pearson flinched and drew away from the sergeant, as if he would bite. The sergeant, for his part, nodded enthusiastically.
‘But I can’t help having the feeling that if you do – confess, that is – we would be looking at another dead girl within the week, whether you were in a cell or not. So—’ he got up suddenly, and Pearson flinched again – ‘I am going to go back to Vine Street now and look through yet more depositions, which surely must have the clue to the killer in there somewhere. And, Mr Pearson, no matter how much you want to get away, no matter how much the new owners of this theatre want you gone, I must insist that you stay here until I tell you otherwise. I may have to let Sergeant Hunter beat you half to death after all, before all this is done.’
With that, the two policemen wheeled right and clattered down the stairs, leaving Pearson a damp and quivering heap on the chaise longue.
Down in the auditorium, things were getting rowdy. The second half of the Music Hall would be starting up soon, with more and more bawdy songs being belted out by audience and performers alike. The band was warming up for the Swell Coves’ Alphabet – ‘M stands for Maidenhead, I often have drove through’.
At the journalists’ table, everyone had become a little introspective, in that tiny window that exists between being sober and roaringly drunk. Dyer was lounging back in his chair muttering to himself. Had anyone bothered to listen, it was a whispered diatribe against womankind in general, with specific reference to landladies. Horner was alert, looking around him bright eyed. It would take a very sharp eyed observer to notice the thin trail of drool from one corner of his mouth and the soft clenching and unclenching of his fists. Gabriel Horner was not always himself, these days. Buckley was scribbling on a pad held hidden in the palm of his hand. Every now and again, he would glance up and scribble some more. Batchelor was leaning back in his seat, his eyes quartering the room, there and back again.
Only Grand sat at ease, but he was hiding the busiest brain of all. He had found his man. Now what? Would he return to Washington? Take up where he left off with Arlette and try to find his ring under her furniture? Or find a nicer girl, one who didn’t have the temper of a bobcat with a firecracker tied to its tail? Follow his pa into the bank, or Congress? The army had no appeal, not any more. He’d ducked too many shells and earned too many saddle-sores for that. Or would he stay here in London, crowded, filthy, smelly London, where your cook gave you boiled tablecloth to eat and bought you cats you didn’t ask for? It was not a decision that he needed to think over twice. It was clear he would—
Batchelor prodded him in the ribs.
‘Hmm?’ Grand came back to the here and now. ‘What?’
‘Have I been asleep?’
‘Good God, James, how in Hell should I know? Why?’
‘Because …’ Batchelor waved to the table, which now was noticeably empty. ‘Where are they all?’
‘That’s easy,’ Grand said. ‘I haven’t known them very long, but I would say that Gabriel is out back, trying to pass water. It takes him one or two visits, I’ve noticed. The other two … I have no idea. Why? It’s a saving for my pocketbook every time they leave, so I’m not arguing. I think we should be making tracks too, James. It has been one helluva day.’
‘But … it’s ringing a bell, Matthew.’
‘Being drunk? Surely not.’ The American got to his feet and staggered slightly. ‘I could do with some fresh air.’
‘No … it’s …’
‘Come on. Let’s go outside. If they come back and find the golden goose has gone, what do we care? If we sober up on the way home, it doesn’t matter – we’ve got plenty of all kinds of drink in the cellar. Come on.’ Grand tugged on Batchelor’s sleeve, and they wove their way to the door.
The cool evening air hit them like a wet towel across the face. Grand shuddered and squared his shoulders. Batchelor winced and hunched over. He clutched his head.
‘You see,’ Grand said, breathing deeply through his nose. ‘I said you would feel better for some fresh air. Now, what’s ringing a bell? Is it the ringing in your ears?’
‘No. It’s something about when the girl was murdered. We were all together …’
‘What girl?’
‘The one I found. Effie.’
‘I can’t help you there. I wasn’t even in London then.’
‘We were all together then. Dyer. Horner. Buckley. Just like tonight.’
‘But nothing has happened tonight.’
‘As far as we are aware,’ Batchelor said, pulling his coat collar closer around his throat. ‘It could be someone we know, Matthew.’
‘It could be you,’ the American said, reasonably.
‘It could,’ the ex-journalist said. ‘It could.’
‘It could be him,’ Grand said, pointing ahead to where a girl walked ahead of them, leaning on a man’s arm. She was smiling up into his face, her free hand twirling a curl coquettishly. He turned to face her and looked down at her with a look that froze Batchelor’s blood.
‘Look at him,’ he hissed to Grand. ‘Look at his face. He hates her. You can see it from here. He hates her. And …’ He looked frantically right and left. ‘Where’s her friend?’
‘What friend?’ Grand asked.
‘Auntie Bettie said they would be working in pairs. And even if she’s one of Lady Eleanor’s, they’ll be doing the same. She knows him, or her friend would be near by. And yet, he hates her. Quick, Matthew, it’s him.’
Grand tried to pull him back, but Batchelor was off, down the road in hot pursuit. It was Lily, of that much he was certain. And he knew who the man was too. He couldn’t believe it, but deep in his guts he knew he had found the killer. But he needed to catch him red-handed – sooner than red-handed, for
Lily’s sake. The pair ahead of them had turned into a dark alley, and he could hear them whispering. He could hear that other whisper, of silk petticoats being flung up, ready for whatever might come.
He stood at the mouth of the alley and shouted. He knew he couldn’t get there in time to stop the wire cutting through that slender neck, making the blood arc and fly. All he could do was shout and hope that the shock of discovery would stop him.
‘Buckley!’ he yelled, at the top of his voice. ‘Buckley! Stop! Lily – run! Run to me, now!’
The light was bad down the alley, and it was a moment before Batchelor knew whether he was in time or just too late. Grand was just behind him and came to a skidding stop at his side. Lily hurtled past them with barely a glance in their direction, her skirts up over her knees and a terrified look on her face. They turned as one to face the shadows in the alley.
‘What’s the idea, Batchelor?’
‘You tell us, Buckley.’ Batchelor and Grand moved apart, forcing Buckley to choose which one he would take on, if take them on he dared.
‘Just a bit of fun,’ Buckley said. ‘Lily and I—’
‘Have never gone into an alley before, I’ll wager,’ Batchelor said, finishing the sentence for him.
‘Empty your pockets,’ Grand said. ‘Do it now.’
‘My pockets?’ Buckley bridled. ‘Why?’
‘It’s over, Joe,’ Batchelor said. ‘Nowhere to run now.’
For a moment Buckley looked as though he might make a fight of it, smash his way past them both with fist and boot. Batchelor he could handle, but Grand as well? And there was a rumour the man carried a gun. Buckley’s right hand came out of his pocket, a coil of wire gleaming in it.
‘You don’t know what it’s like,’ he said, his voice a hoarse whisper. ‘Night after night with these vermin. I thought you, at least, Jim, would understand. Old Gabriel’s too gaga to remember. And Dyer is filth personified, bragging of his conquests among the landlady class. But you, Jim, you must be as appalled by them as I am.’
‘They’re just offering a service, Joe,’ Batchelor said. ‘It may not be right. It may not be respectable …’
