‘Just the two of them?’
‘Yes.’
‘When did you see them last?’
‘Saturday morning, when she paid up. Been crying, she had. What I want to know is, have they ’opped it? Because if so, what about this week’s milk?’
‘I see,’ said Hector.
‘I’m responsible, in a manner of speaking,’ said Mr Higgins, ‘but the parties having paid regular and my orders being to deliver milk, I’d like to know what I ought to do about it – see?’
‘Don’t the neighbours know anything about it?’ suggested Hector.
‘Not a lot, they don’t,’ said Mr Higgins, ‘but there ain’t no furniture gone out, and that’s something. You better have a word with Mrs Bowles.’
Mrs Bowles lived on the floor below and took in washing. She did not know much about the Wilbrahams, she explained, punctuating her remarks with thumps of the iron. Kept themselves to themselves. Thought they were too good for the likes of her, she supposed, though she had always kept herself respectable, which was more than you could say of some. They had taken the top room unfurnished, beginning of last June. She had seen their furniture go up. Nothing to write home about, it wasn’t. Now Mrs Bowles’s double-bedstead, that was good, it was – real brass, and as good a feather-bed as you could wish to see. The Wilbrahams hadn’t so much as a decent chair or table. Rubbishing stuff. No class – not worth a couple of pounds, the whole lot of it. She thought the young man did writing or something of that, because he had once complained that the noise made by the young Bowleses disturbed his work. If he was so high and mighty, why did he come to live here? About thirty, he might be, with a nasty, sulky, spiteful look about him. She’d heard Mrs Wilbraham – if she was Mrs Wilbraham – crying time and time again, and him going on at her ever so.
When, asked Hector, had she seen them last?
Mrs Bowles straightened her lean back, put her iron down to the fire, and took off another, which she held close to her perspiring cheek. The close room swam in heat.
‘Well now,’ she said, “ er – I can’t call to mind when I seen ’er last. Saturday dinner-time ’e came in and run upstairs and I ’ears them talking ’ammer and tongs. An’ Saturday evening I meets ’im coming downstairs with a suitcase. ’Bout six o’clock that ’ud be – jest as I was coming in from taking Mrs Jepson’s washing ’ome. Funny in ’is manner ’e was, too, and in an awful ’urry. Nearly knocked me down, ’e did, and not so much as said “pardon”. That’s the last time I seen ’im, and he ain’t been back, nor ’er either, or I’d ’ave ’eard them over me ceiling. Cruel it was, the way ’e useter tramp up and down at nights when we was trying to get to sleep, and then to complain of my boys on top of it!’
‘Then you don’t know when Mrs Wilbraham left?’
‘I do not, but gone they is, and if you ask me, they don’t intend to come back. I says to young ’Iggins, if you go on leaving the milk there, I says, that’s your look-out. I daresay if their sticks was to be sold up it ’ud pay a week’s milk, I says, but that’s about all if you ask me.’
Hector thanked Mrs Bowles, adding a small present of money, and made his way down to the floor below. This was inhabited by an aged man who seemed to have seen better days. He shook his head at Hector’s inquiry.
‘No, sir,’ he said, ‘I’m afraid I couldn’t tell you anything. It seems strange to me, sometimes, to think how lost a man may be in this great wilderness of London. That’s what Charles Dickens called it, and, by heavens, sir, he was right. If I was to die tomorrow, and my health is not what it was, who could be the wiser? I buy my own little bits of food and such, you see, and pick up a bit of a living where I can with fetching taxis and such. It’s hard to think I used to have a nice little shop of my own. I was well-respected, sir, where I came from, but if I was to go out now, there’s nobody would miss me.’
‘The rent-collector, perhaps?’ said Hector.
‘Well, yes, to be sure. But if he came once or twice and found I was out, he wouldn’t press me for a week or two. He isn’t a hard man, and he knows I pay when I can. After two or three weeks he might make inquiries. Oh, yes. He’d make inquiries, to be sure. And the gas-company, when they came to empty the slot-meter, but that mightn’t be for a long time.’
‘I suppose not,’ said Hector, rather struck. He had not realised the casualness of life in London.
‘Then you really know nothing about these Wilbrahams?’
‘Very little, sir. Not since I took it upon me to speak to the young man about the way he treated his wife.’
‘Oh?’ said Hector.
‘A young man shouldn’t speak harsh to a woman,’ said the old man, ‘for she has a lot to put up with at the best of times. And men are thoughtless. I know that – oh, yes, I know that. And she was fond of him, you could see that by her face. But they were in difficulties, I think, and often when a man doesn’t know which way to turn to make ends meet, he’s apt to speak sharp and quick, not meaning to hurt.’
‘When did this happen?’
‘About a month ago. Not here. In St Paneras Churchyard – that’s where they were sitting. It’s a pleasant place on a summer’s day, with the grass and the children playing about. “It’s a pity you ever married me, isn’t it?” he said, with an ugly look on his face. It upset her, poor thing. They didn’t know it was me sitting next them till I spoke to him.’
‘And what did he say?’
‘Told me to mind my own business. And I daresay he was right, too. It’s a mistake to interfere between married people, but I was sorry for her.’
Hector nodded.
‘You didn’t see anything of them last Saturday?’
‘No, sir, but then I was out all day.’
The greengrocer on the ground floor knew nothing. He had occasionally sold a few vegetables to Mrs Wilbraham, but he did not live on the premises and had no information about the movements of the couple. After a little more research, which led to nothing, Hector gave the matter up. It did not seem to him that there was much in it – however, he had expended some time and a few shillings on the business and must have something to show for it. Accordingly, he concocted a brief paragraph:
FIVE MYSTERY MILK-BOTTLES
What has become of Mr and Mrs Hugh Wilbraham of 14B Buttercup Road, Clerkenwell? The fact that the milk had not been taken in for five days attracted the attention of Mr J. Higgins, a roundsman, who had read the article ‘Milk-bottle Mysteries’ published in our Home Page on Tuesday. Mr Wilbraham, who is said to be a literary man, was seen to leave the house with a suitcase last Saturday; neither he nor his wife, with whom he is alleged to be on bad terms, has been seen since.
The News-Editor, who happened to want half a dozen lines to fill up the foot of a column, handed this to the Sub-editor, who dexterously boiled the first two sentences into one, altered the heading to ‘MYSTERY 5 MILK-BOTTLES’ and sent it to press.
On Friday evening, the Evening Wire, which had obviously been doing a little investigation of its own, came out with an expanded version of the story, occupying half a column on the news-page.
MILK-BOTTLE MYSTERY
WILD-EYED MAN WITH SUITCASE
TAXI-DRIVER’S STORY
Six unopened milk-bottles outside the door of a room in a tenement house in Clerkenwell, present today a mystery which has several disquieting features. The room, which was taken three months ago by a man, said to be a novelist, and his wife, giving the names of Mr and Mrs Hugh Wilbraham, is situated on the top floor of No. 14B Buttercup Road, and has remained locked for six days, while nothing has been seen of the tenants since last Saturday night, when Wilbraham was seen by Mrs Bowles, the resident on the floor below, leaving the house in a suspicious manner with a suitcase.
A taxi-driver named Hodges, remembers that on Saturday night about 6 o’clock his taxi was standing outside the adjacent public-house, the Star & Crown, when he was hailed by a man, carrying a suitcase, and corresponding to the description of Wilbraham. The ma
n’s eyes had a wild appearance, and he seemed to be under the influence of drink or violent excitement. He directed Hodges to drive him as fast as possible to Liverpool Street Station, and seemed urgently anxious to catch the train.
It is alleged by the other residents in the house that Mr and Mrs Wilbraham were frequently seen and heard quarrelling and that the man had been heard to say it was a pity they had ever got married. The woman was last seen, crying bitterly, when the milkman called on Saturday morning.
A strange and sinister feature of the case is the gradual spread of a heavy and unpleasant odour proceeding from behind the locked door. It is understood that the police have been communicated with.
The news-editor of the Morning Star sent for Hector Puncheon.
‘Here, this is your story, isn’t it?’ he said. ‘The Wire seems to have got ahead of you. Go round and get on to it.’
Hector Puncheon, trudging through the sultry squalor of the August evening, felt a strong repugnance to plunging into the dark entry and up those sickly stairs. Dusty newspapers blew about his feet as he passed the greengrocer’s stall. Round the entry, half a dozen loiterers had gathered.
‘’Orrible, it is,’ said Mrs Bowles, ‘wuss than when they took up the old cat from under the boards what the gas-fitter’s men ’ad nailed down. I ’ad to come out to get a breath of air.’
‘Why don’t the police do something, that’s what I’d like to know?’ asked a slatternly girl with a made-up face.
‘’As to get a warrant, dear, afore they can break in. Damaging property, that’s what it is, and the landlord –’
‘Well, ’e ought to do something ’imself. Wot ’e ever want to let to such as them for –’
‘It’s easy to talk. One person’s money is as good as another’s.’
‘All very well, but you could see by that fellow’s face ’e was up to no good.’
‘Well, wot I say is, I’m sorry for ’er.’
Hector pushed his way through them and boldly tackled the climb to the top floor. The air, stewed and thickened in the dark chimney of the staircase, caught him by the throat. It grew worse as he ascended.
The smell was perceptible on the first floor, mingled with the familiar odours of cats and cabbage. On the second floor it was stronger; on the top floor it was overpowering. The six bottles of milk stood, sour and dusty, outside the locked door. There was a letter-slit, Hector noticed. Lifting it, he tried to peer through. At once the stench seemed to pour out at him, nauseating, unbearable. He retreated, feeling sick. He was not sure whether it was his own head that was buzzing. No – it was not. A couple of fat black flies had come heavily through the slit. They clung to the woodwork, and crawled with satiated slowness over the blistered paint.
‘Fit to turn you up, ain’t it?’ said a voice behind him. A man had followed him up.
‘It’s ghastly,’ said Hector.
Suddenly the squalid place seemed to heave about him. He turned and ran hurriedly down the stairs out into the street. To his horror he found a great fly, somnolently clinging to his collar.
Hector went home. He had had enough of the place. But early the next morning he remembered his duty to his newspaper. Come what might, he must get that story. He returned to Buttercup Road.
Andrews of the Wire was already there. He grinned when he saw Puncheon.
‘Come to be in at the death,’ he said.
Hector nodded, and lit a cigarette.
‘Copper’s just coming along,’ said Andrews.
The narrow passage was packed with people. Presently two stout official forms in blue came shouldering their way through.
‘’Ere,’ said the foremost, ‘wot’s all this about? Pass along there, pass along.’
‘Press,’ said Hector and Andrews in unison.
‘Oh, all right,’ said the policeman. ‘Now then, missus, let’s get along up. We’ve got the warrant. Where is it? Third floor. Right you are.’
The procession tramped heavily up. On the top floor stood Mr J. Higgins with the seventh milk-bottle in his hand.
The policemen gave a huge concerted sniff.
‘Somethink in there all right,’ said the larger of the two. ’Ere, missus, take them kids along out o’ the way. No place for them.’
He strode to the door and beat upon it, summoning that which lay behind it to open in the name of the law.
There was no answer. How could there be any answer?
‘Gimme that crow-bar.’
The policeman set the bar to the lock and heaved. There was a crack. He heaved again. The lock shuddered and gave. As the door swung slowly back, a huge crowd of flies rose, zooming, from something close behind it.
In a pleasant hotel coffee-room at Clacton, a young man smiled at his wife over the breakfast table.
‘Better than Buttercup Road, eh, Helen?’ he said.
‘It’s marvellous. Oh, Hugh! I think I should have gone cracked in that ghastly place. Isn’t it luck? Isn’t it luck your, getting that cheque? Just in time.’
‘Yes, just in time. I was about at the last gasp, old girl. Afraid I was a bit. I was a fool to get so hysterical. My nerves were all to pieces.’
‘I know, dear. It doesn’t matter a bit. I was a fool to get so hysterical. It was a wonderful idea just to come away and get out of it all. Do you know, when you brought the news, and I could run out and buy new clothes – oh, Hugh! It was heavenly. That was the most marvellous bit. And when I was sitting at Liverpool Street waiting for you to come, I had to keep pinching the parcels to be sure it wasn’t all a dream.’
‘Yes, I know. I didn’t know if I was on my head or my heels, either. I nearly missed the train as it was – I had just to stay and finish up that last chapter.’
‘I know. But you did catch it.’
‘I did. But – I’ve never told you. I clean forgot about stopping the milk, as you told me.’
‘Blow the milk. We needn’t count pennies now.’
‘Hear, hear!’
The young man opened his paper. Then his face suddenly became convulsed.
‘My God! Look at this!’
The girl stared at the headlines. .
‘Oh, Hugh! How awful! That horrible Mrs Bowles! And that silly old Nosey-Parker from downstairs! Wild-eyed man with a suspicious appearance – good gracious, Hugh! We’ll never dare to go back. But, I say, dear, what’s all this about a smell?’
‘Smell?’
The young man slowly flushed a deep crimson.
‘Hugh!’ said his wife. ‘You don’t mean to say you left that haddock on the table!’
Dilemma
I HAVE NO IDEA who started the imbecile discussion. I think it must have been Timpany. At any rate, it is just the futile and irritating sort of topic that Timpany would start at the end of a long day’s fishing. By the time I had settled with the landlord about a boat for the next morning and had come back to the smoking-room, they were hard at it, and had got to the problem about the Chinaman.
You know that one. If you could get a million pounds, without any evil consequences to yourself, by merely pressing a button which would electrocute a single unknown Chinaman ten thousand miles away – would you press the button? Everybody seemed to have an opinion on the point, except the sallow-faced Stranger who was not of our party.
He was modestly hidden behind a book, and I was rather sorry for him, hemmed in as he was in a corner by Timpany and his friend Popper, who are the world’s champion talkers. The Colonel said Woof! of course he’d press the button. Too many damned Chinamen in the world anyway – too many damned people altogether.
And I said most people would do a lot for a million pounds.
And the Padre said (as of course he had to) that nothing could justify taking the life of a fellow-creature. And Timpany said, Think of the good one could do with a million pounds, and old Popper said it all depended on the character of the Chinaman – he might have lived to be another Confucius – and from that the talk drifted to still sillier
problems, such as, if you had the choice between rescuing a diseased tramp or the Codex Sinaiticus, which would you save?
Timpany said that it was all very well to say that no decent man would hesitate for a moment (I was the silly ass who had committed myself to this sentiment). Didn’t we remember that something very like that had happened once, and the awful fuss there was about it? He meant, he said, that old affair of the Davenant-Smith manuscripts.
The Padre remembered Davenant-Smith was the man who lost his life in Bunga-Bunga, researching into the cause and treatment of sleeping sickness. He was a martyr to science, if ever there was one.
Timpany agreed and went on to describe how Davenant-Smith’s papers, containing all his valuable results, were sent home to his widow. There was a whole trunkful of them, not yet sorted or classified or even read. Mrs Davenant-Smith had got hold of a bright young medico to prepare them for publication. And that night a fire broke out in her house.
I remembered then and exclaimed, ‘Oh, yes; a drunken butler and a paraffin lamp, wasn’t it?’
Timpany nodded. It had all happened in the middle of the night – a thatch and timber house, no water and the local fire-brigade ten miles off. To cut a long story short, the young medico had had to choose between saving the papers or the sodden old fool of a butler. He chucked the papers out first, and when he went back for the butler, the roof fell in and he couldn’t get through to him.
I heard the Padre murmur ‘Terrible!’ and noticed that though the Stranger in the corner pretended to turn over a page of his book, he kept his melancholy dark eyes fixed on Timpany.
‘All this came out at the inquest,’ Timpany went on. ‘The medico got a pretty stiff gruelling. He explained that he believed the manuscripts to be of immense value to humanity, whereas he knew no particular good of the butler.
‘He was severely reprimanded by the coroner, and but for the fact that the fire had started in the butler’s bedroom, he might have found himself in a very unpleasant position. As it was, the jury decided that the butler was probably dead of suffocation before the alarm was given.
Dorothy L. Sayers Page 11
