by Joan Lock
Her gentlemen lodgers were a little taken aback by her unusual vehemence but Linwood soon broke the silence.
‘Oh, I meant to mention, Mrs O’Connor,’ he said. ‘Would you be so kind as to hold my supper for me tommorrow night?’
‘To be sure. Swimming again, is it?’
‘Yes!’ The lad was excited. ‘I’m racing in the three hundred yards handicap at the Wenlock Baths.’ He turned to Best. ‘You should come along, it’ll be great sport.’
‘I might do that,’ he said, ‘if I’m feeling up to it.’ He’d let it drop to Linwood that he could swim and the lad already saw Best, smartly dressed and with his up-to-date, gleaming, Derby shoes as something of a fellow spirit. This, despite the fact that the detective sergeant had done his best to tone down his natural exuberance to fit in with his invalid and unemployed status.
The conversation drifted on to other matters such as the progress in positioning and raising Cleopatra’s Needle beside the Thames.
‘I still think it would have been better on the green,’ said Mrs O’Connor, referring to one of the first proposed sites on which a mock wooden needle had been tried out. ‘Opposite the House of Commons with a bit more space around it – wouldn’t it have looked grand?’
There followed vigorous debate about the proposed contents of the two urns to be buried in the obelisk’s pedestal. All agreed that Mappin’s shilling razor, hairpins and ‘sundry items of ladies adornment’ were acceptable, given that such vanities were often found in ancient burial sites and were easy to understand. Dr Birch’s famous translation of the needle’s hieroglyphics, the current newspapers and the assorted Bibles, were also generally deemed to be quite a reasonable idea – always supposing the person who eventually dug them up could read English. But, Linwood thought, the Alexandra feeding bottle and children’s toys might prove a great puzzle to future archaeologists and the idea of the inclusion of a Bradshaw’s Railway Guide caused great hilarity all round.
‘Sure, and won’t they think it’s written in code and contains the secret of how we lived,’ laughed Mrs O’Connor. ‘There’ll be fellas spending the rest of their lives working out what it all means!’
‘And as for those photographs,’ said Best, enjoying himself. ‘Who’s to say that these “ladies” are the twelve most beautiful women in Britain?’
‘It’s all such a nonsense,’ agreed Mrs O’Connor.
This was a topic on which Linwood held the most firm views. ‘Mrs Penelope Wynslow, she’s the best.’
Suddenly Murphy sprang to life, ‘Martha next door,’ he exclaimed with some heat, ‘she’s prettier than any of them.’ He took a large spoonful of jam roly-poly, thrust it into his mouth then looked around as though challenging anyone to disagree. All were too surprised to do so.
Chapter Three
The lively ‘Tritsch-Tratsch Polka’ almost, but not quite, drowned out the rattling and clattering of the roller skaters whizzing around the rink – and in some cases stumbling and falling.
Best found himself a ringside seat by a flower-festooned, stone nymph under which he put on his hired patented Plympton skates. As he sat down, young Smith flashed by without so much as a glance in his direction. Best sighed and waited for him to come around again. A skating rink seemed to him a very silly place for a rendezvous, particularly since he was purporting to be an invalid. It was Cheadle’s idea he was sure – probably with some vindictive intent.
When Smith’s tall, well-set figure approached again, Best launched himself forward, intending to join him and skate alongside whilst exchanging vital information. But he was out of practice so, rather than gliding nonchalantly into place beside the handsome young plain clothes constable, he cannoned straight into him and they both tumbled into a heap. Skaters coming up behind either collided with them and became entangled with their flailing arms and legs, or were forced to execute fancy, looping evasions.
Well, I’ve made Cheadle happy, Best thought sourly, as he struggled to his feet with the aid of Smith’s strong arm.
‘So sorry, young man,’ he said loudly, as they dusted themselves down. ‘Out of practice you know.’
‘No, no. My fault, sir,’ said John George, ‘not looking where I was going.’
Best grinned inwardly and thought, you’ll go far, lad. Having had enough of this ridiculous charade he seized the opportunity the débâcle had afforded. ‘Let me buy you a drink by way of recompense.’
They found an isolated table close to the palm-fringed podium where the scarlet-coated military band were now blasting out the current rage, ‘We Sail the Ocean Blue’, the rollicking opening chorus of HMS Pinafore. Anyone who could overhear them with that competition would have ears like an elephant.
‘There’s been three more,’ announced Smith, without preamble.
Best nodded and thought, three? ‘I read about one in Monday’s Islington Gazette.’
‘Two more found this morning, together. A boy and a girl. On some waste ground beside the House of Detention.’
‘Hmm. Slightly further afield this time.’ Clerkenwell was just down the road. Despite the depressing news it was good to see the young man. ‘How is Betsy?’
Smith smiled contentedly. ‘She’s very well. Kept busy with the new baby, though.’
‘And your mother?’
They both laughed. ‘Very well too – and I’ve got you to thank for that. Saved my bacon.’
‘But not your poor mother’s.’
‘No. No. It’s all right. Cheadle makes a good husband. Fusses around her all the time. You wouldn’t believe.’
‘No, I wouldn’t.’
‘She’s got a girl to do the housework!’
‘Incredible. And him so penny-pinching!’
‘Not any more.’
They both shook their heads and laughed at the unexpectedness of life.
PC Smith and DCI Cheadle – despite the age difference – had fallen for the same young woman, Mrs Betsy Minchin, the widow of a murder victim. Smith had won her, but Best, fearful of the consequences for his young protégé, had made sure Cheadle was introduced to Smith’s widowed mother. She’d been duly warned that her son’s career was in her hands and instructed to mollycoddle their detective chief inspector. Much to their amazement, she’d gone and married the old curmudgeon!
Best took a swig of his ale and said, ‘Right. Down to business. As well as the proprietress, Mrs Dawes, there appears to be only two other women living there permanently, both domestics. There’s an older one, Mary Jones, and a maid of all work, a younger woman, Martha.’ He paused when the band halted between tunes, lowered his voice and went on, ‘I’ve seen several pregnant women come and go, often slimmer than when they arrived but not carrying babies. Hard to say how many are staying there at one time. I’ve not yet seen anyone leave with a suspect parcel but neither have I heard any babies crying.’
They were both silent for a moment as the portent of this struck home.
‘What I need to do, of course, is to catch one of the household with a body and follow them to see it being dumped. Another possibility is that one of the men takes them out.’
‘Are there no men living there?’
‘No, just callers.’ He signalled to the waiter for a refill. ‘One arrives regularly with a Gladstone bag. My landlady says he’s Dr Helman. A tall man, well-dressed, with dark hair and Dundreary whiskers; he wears black clothes and a topper. If I don’t spot one of the women with parcels I’ll follow him next time he calls with his bag.’
Smith shook his head in a puzzled manner. ‘How do they think they can get away with it?’
‘Well, they do, don’t they? All the time. That’s why they start getting greedy and careless, thinking nothing will ever be done – especially now that Lankester is no longer coroner.’ The conscientious Lankester had continually drawn attention to the problem.
Smith grimaced. ‘It’s a terrible business.’
For a few moments they were silent, contemplating the cutting of
f of so many lives almost before they had begun. Smith broke it by grinning and nodding towards posters announcing roller-skating handicaps and running challenges. ‘Are you staying for the races?’
Best shook his head. ‘No, I shall deprive myself of that pleasure. I will even,’ he said, dabbing his eyes in mock sorrow, ‘forego the spectacle of Mr J. Howe of Westminster walking two miles with a two-gallon stone bottle on his bare head.’
They both laughed. It cheered Best up to see the handsome, cheerful, young Smith who’d learned so much since their first case together, but was still eager and a little naïve.
‘The things some people do.’
‘Nothing as daft as us,’ Best pointed out. ‘Now you can please me by doing a couple of circuits and some of your fancy twirls. It’ll do this poor invalid’s heart the world of good to watch you. Then I shall limp off, sadly unable to join you due to my earlier embarrassing stumble.’
Martha was on the move. What’s more, she was carrying a bundle under her arm. Best had spied her departure through that desirable lodging-house facility, ‘Venetians’. These blinds, intended to protect lodgers from the gaze of the passing throng conversely helped Best clandestinely to observe them from his first-floor-front observation post – particularly any persons coming in and out of the house next door.
The houses in John Street had no front gardens, only iron railings around the area guarding the stairs down to the basement. Just a few steps from the front door and you were on the pavement. Best had to be quick or Martha would be out of sight before he could reach the street. He grabbed his jacket and hat. He hadn’t expected a daytime dash, imagining they’d wait for the cover of darkness. For some reason a darkness drop was what Best had expected.
He bounded down the stairs, caught sight of Mrs O’Connor entering the kitchen, and put on his brakes so as not to alert her. Such haste would seem odd in an invalid and gentleman of leisure like himself. She failed to see him so, trying to combine stealth with the greatest speed, he tiptoed quickly to the front door.
Martha had turned left as she left the house and her squat, black-clad figure was just disappearing into the Liverpool Road. Best sped after her to such effect that he almost cannoned into her as he turned the corner. She was waiting by the kerb for a brewer’s dray and one of Laycock Dairy Farm’s carts to pass before crossing the road. He held back and to make his hesitation seem natural began reaching absently for his cigarettes.
Just as he got them out, Martha made a sudden dash across the road causing the driver of the Holloway-bound tram to slam on his powerful brakes and rein in his horses abruptly. The upper-deck passengers jerked backwards and forwards like ninepins struck but not quite toppled over. The driver shouted curses.
Why had she done that? Did she realize she was being followed, or was she just in a great hurry?
To keep pace with her, Best was forced to take similar risks with life and limb and the wrath of drivers. By the Rainbow Pub she turned into Barnsbury Street. Best kept as close as he dared. She might know him by sight already and there was no reason he shouldn’t be heading for Upper Street, but he wanted to keep sightings of him rare. She might get suspicious if he kept popping up beside her.
Looming on their right were the two sentinel buildings either side of the short street which led into Milner Square: the neo-classical Barnsbury Chapel run, declared Mrs O’Connor, by a minister whose previous congregation had found him too dictatorial, and the monumental, red-brick Islington Proprietory School. Young men attending here were instructed in ‘Latin, Greek, French, German and Hebrew to prepare them for University, Professional or Commercial Life or the taking of Government Competitive Examinations’.
Martha gave these important landmarks not a glance but carried on down past the high, flat-fronted terraced houses and Barnsbury Hall. It was here that Best had once had the bumps on his head felt by a phrenologist, Professor Fowler, who had declared him to be headstrong and passionate – which had made DS Littlechild guffaw loudly.
As she reached bustling Upper Street, Martha turned left yet again. Without a sideways glance and at a pace which would have done credit to a competitor in an Agricultural Hall walking race, she sped past drapers and mercers; boot and shoemaker’s; a tobacconist; a tea, wine and beer dealer; a photographer’s studio; a jeweller; the splendid, double-fronted edifice of the Church Missionary College and the curious W. Dawe & Sons who somehow managed to combine upholstery, cabinet-making, carpet-dealing and undertaking – all under one roof.
It was a warm and sticky day. Brighter than many they had been experiencing at this end of August, the sun having shown signs of having worn itself out during a sweltering June. Best was out of breath and perspiring. No doubt about it, this invalid life had left him out of condition. Still, catching her doing the deed, depositing a tiny corpse, would be worth any amount of sweat.
The street was now busy with shoppers and clerks, out for their lunchtime breaks. Many were heading for the two exciting, ever-expanding department stores, Roberts, and their up-and-coming rivals, Rackstraws, which stood a little distance from each other in the direction Martha was hurrying. Surely they were not her destination?
Best dodged from left to right trying to keep Martha in sight. Suddenly, a large, swaying man in filthy overalls stopped dead in front of him.
‘Gizz a light,’ he demanded with a hint of aggression. He waved his pathetically limp cigarette under Best’s nose.
To refuse might have caused a fuss and thus more delay and unwanted attention. Desperately, he felt about in his waistcoat for his match case while straining to see past the drunken man and trying not to retch at his stench.
He still had Martha’s small, dark figure in distant view when, suddenly, the man grabbed the hand holding his light with such strength and ferocity that Best was forced to wrench it free. He broke into a run, his fleeing figure pursued by blurred, boozy oaths and threats of damnation to come.
Too late. Martha was gone. The pavement had now crowded over and the Angel-bound tram clanged noisily and derisively beside him as though to ram the message home.
Chapter Four
Best sat in the garden unhappily contemplating his abortive pursuit of Martha and wondering whether to tell Cheadle of its failure. No point, he decided, unless another tiny body was found nearby the following day or soon after. In any case, he soothed his dented pride, they couldn’t expect him to mount a proper surveillance both here and shadow suspects in the streets all on his own. He needed assistance. Someone else to hand to call on. He would write asking for Smith.
Meanwhile, he consoled himself by re-reading some of Helen’s letters which were full of the wonders of the Paris Exhibition as well as doubts about the big manufacturers who seemed to be pushing out individuals. How he would have loved to have been there to see the giant head of the statue of Liberty and some of the art and photography with which Helen was so taken. Then he reached the bit he loved the most: and so, my dear, I shall be arriving at Victoria Station at 1 p.m. on Tuesday, 3 September and will be very pleased if you can meet me but will understand perfectly if that is not possible.
Not possible! He had written back to say that he’d be there even if the skies fell on him. He had even managed to extract a promise from Cheadle (via some judicious pressure from the beloved Mrs Cheadle) that, should he still be in situ at John Street on 3 September he could have leave of absence to meet Helen’s train. Someone else would keep an eye on the house from midday on. It was now Saturday – only three days to go!
The thought cheered him immensely and he turned to another letter, newly arrived by second post. It was penned in Smith’s lalboriously neat hand. One of the talents which had made it possible for the lad to be extracted from the uniformed ranks was the fact that he could write legibly, also spell and use his common sense.
Apparently, another anonymous letter had informed the Yard of a second suspect house. Smith wrote:
They are not sure who is going to keep an eye o
n it yet but the commissioner is threatening to bring in Relf (he is now available) if we have no luck soon. As you would expect, the chief insp. is getting red in the face about it but Mum bakes him his favourite steak and oyster pie and that quietens him down a bit. She’s hoping he might retire soon.
He wants you and me to meet again on Sunday night, at 7 p.m. Then I can explain more. It’s to be at Finsbury Working Men’s Club, in Rodney Street, on Pentonville-hill. I know somebody who is a member who can get us in as guests, and Cheadle thinks if we get chatting to the men we might find out something more. We’ll have to listen to a talk about Northern pitmen first but some of the speakers can be quite jolly. Excuse writing – young Gemma kept me awake last night.
All the best.
Yours sincerely
John G. Smith
Best’s attention was wrenched away from the re-reading of Smith’s letter by the sound of raised voices. They were issuing from the rear of the suspect house. Martha stood looking like a stage gypsy, hands on hips and hair awry glaring up at the tall man who Mrs O’Connor had claimed was Doctor Helman.
Their discussion appeared heated. The man was leaning forward, his right arm raised aggressively and, for a moment, Best feared he was going to strike her. What would he do then? Go to her aid and maybe ruin the case? Suddenly, Martha broke off, grabbed a laundry basket and marched down the garden towards the clothes-line leaving the man staring angrily after her. Best averted his eyes then held up his Illustrated London News so as to hide his face as Martha began hanging out the clothes, pegging them with ferocious stabs as she did so. He would have loved to ask her about Nella, having suddenly realized that he hadn’t seen her since yesterday morning.
‘She’ll have had her baby and gone,’ said Mrs O’Connor after Best broke his self-imposed rule of not being the one to broach the subject of ‘next door’ to wonder where Nella could be. ‘Wasn’t that what she was there for now?’
