The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Doesn’t it alarm you that a possible suspect may be in this neighbourhood?’ he asked.

  ‘I’d be alarmed if I thought he was looking for me,’ said Emma, ‘but from what you’ve told me so far I gather he’s only looking for lodgings. What do you want me to do if he does arrive at my door?’

  Nicholas liked her coolness, and the way her mind was obviously working. The man might be finding it difficult to rent a room. Women who had one to let would now be on their guard against strangers. That might bring the suspect to the recommended address. If he had called already and received no answer to his knock, that wouldn’t necessarily put him off calling again. It was a shot in the dark to make a suspect of him, and not a very good shot. The murderer was hardly likely to be openly parading himself in a search for lodgings. If he was not sitting quietly under cover, he’d be acting as he did every day, wherever he lived. Nevertheless, Nicholas felt he could take no chances.

  ‘Open the door to him, Mrs Carter, but only if it’s daylight. Tell him yes, you do have a room to let, but that you’ve got visitors. Ask him to come back in an hour.’

  ‘I see,’ said Emma, ‘and I’m to gallop to Rodney Road police station as soon as he’s gone?’

  ‘If there’s a horse available and you can ride,’ said Nicholas with due gravity, ‘but if not, you can take your time by walking. It’s not far.’

  Heavens, thought Emma, a polite policeman with a sense of humour? How unexpected.

  ‘I’ll walk,’ she said.

  ‘It’ll be the thing to do,’ said Nicholas, ‘to report to the station. On no account let him in. He may be completely innocent, but I’d rather you didn’t take chances.’ He glanced at Chapman. ‘Frank, go and ask Mrs Carter’s immediate neighbours if they spotted anyone knocking on her door earlier.’

  ‘Makes sense,’ said the terse detective-constable.

  ‘Might I suggest you go first to the house immediately opposite?’ said Emma. ‘Mrs Duncalfe lives there. She’s an elderly lady, but doesn’t miss very much from her upstairs window.’

  ‘Right, Mrs Carter,’ said Chapman. Emma opened the front door for him. He gave her a nod as he went out. She closed the door.

  ‘Your colleague doesn’t say very much,’ she said to Nicholas.

  ‘He likes police work, but doesn’t go much on conversation,’ said Nicholas. ‘Look, we’ve a decent description of the man seen running away from the victim. He was tall, with a good build, and was wearing a flat cap and a dark mackintosh. The man described by Mrs Buller was a tall healthy character in a grey suit and straw boater. But the difference in clothes doesn’t eliminate him, of course.’

  ‘Well, the murderer isn’t likely to be walking about in what he wore last night, is he?’ said Emma. She became serious. ‘Murder’s a hideous crime, sergeant, and the man responsible should forfeit his own life. I’m quite willing to do what I can to help.’

  ‘You’re not Walworth-born, are you?’ asked Nicholas with interest.

  ‘I live here and like it here,’ said Emma. ‘I like the people. My husband was born in Brixton, I was a shop assistant in Reading.’

  ‘I don’t know Reading,’ said Nicholas, ‘does it produce good shop assistants?’

  ‘I’ve no idea.’ Emma laughed. ‘I simply hope I’m a passable one myself. I also hope I’m a passable citizen, and that I won’t let the law down if that certain man does knock on my door.’

  ‘Perhaps I’m worrying over nothing,’ said Nicholas, finding her charming to talk to. But women on the whole did talk more easily than men. Cockney women loved a chat with anyone whose ears came within range of their extrovert tongues.

  ‘Dear me, you don’t call a murder nothing, do you?’ said Emma.

  ‘Not by a long shot, Mrs Carter. Any murder is top of the worrying list. I meant I might be worrying unnecessarily about this man who’s looking for lodgings. I hope you won’t be troubled, but if you are – ’

  ‘I’ll do as agreed,’ said Emma. ‘I must say you’re a very pleasant change.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘From most policemen.’

  ‘Why’d you say that?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘I’m a suffragette.’

  ‘Oh, Lord,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘You don’t approve, of course.’

  ‘It’s difficult work for the police.’

  ‘Arresting women?’ smiled Emma.

  ‘It embarrasses some members of the force.’

  ‘Really?’ Emma looked sceptical. ‘I’ve seen embarrassed suffragettes, sergeant, I’ve not seen any embarrassed policemen. Not that I’ve been arrested myself. I give Mrs Pankhurst my support and devotion, and I march with her followers, but I’m not a militant. I feel we must win the people over, not upset them. Aren’t the English a peculiar lot? We’re never satisfied with any of our governments, but we don’t like militants breaking our laws. Mrs Pankhurst, however, is convinced it’s the only way women will get the vote.’

  ‘I’m sitting on the fence,’ said Nicholas. ‘Best thing for a copper to do.’

  Chapman knocked on the front door at that point, and Emma let him in.

  ‘Right, yes,’ he said.

  ‘Yes what?’ asked Nicholas.

  ‘Mrs Duncalfe. Saw a man in a grey suit and boater knock on Mrs Carter’s door. About twenty past one. Knocked a couple of times. Then went away.’

  ‘That’s a fact?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Tall bloke. Good shoulders.’

  ‘We’ll get his description circulated,’ said Nicholas. ‘Meanwhile, will he or won’t he come back here?’

  ‘I know what to do if he does,’ said Emma, who thought the interview had gone on long enough in view of the fact that she had some baking to do.

  ‘Might be genuine,’ said Chapman brusquely.

  ‘He probably is,’ said Nicholas, ‘but under the circumstances, let’s treat him as guilty until he’s proved innocent.’

  ‘I thought in law it was supposed to be the other way about,’ said Emma.

  ‘It is, when he gets to court,’ said Nicholas. ‘Well, thanks for your help, Mrs Carter.’

  ‘Goodbye, sergeant,’ said Emma. ‘If we do meet again, I suppose it’ll be in connection with this man?’

  ‘Yes, it will,’ said Nicholas, ‘so take care.’

  ‘Of course.’ Emma opened the door and let them out. Chapman gave her a nod, Nicholas gave her a homely smile. She watched them go on their way to Browning Street, then she closed her door.

  ‘Superior sort,’ said Chapman.

  ‘She’s a lady, Frank, not a superior sort.’

  ‘Got a red herring here. That’s my opinion.’

  ‘It’s a question, you muttonhead, of not taking chances,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘If you say so.’

  ‘Let’s get to the station,’ said Nicholas. They had work to do, studying afternoon reports brought in by the uniformed men. And they would have to follow up any leads. Nicholas also had to persuade Detective-Inspector Greaves to let him concentrate on Walworth. He had a feeling about Walworth, but a feeling wasn’t something that always satisfied the Inspector. A feeling had nothing to do with method or professionalism.

  Mrs Carter. A suffragette? Nicholas showed a little grin as he made for Rodney Road in company with the laconic Chapman. Not every suffragette looked as quiet and as peaceful as Mrs Carter.

  He wondered if Inspector Greaves had yet discovered the identity of the victim. At the station, there was no message to that effect, only some half-leads contained in reports handed in by constables on the house-to-house routine.

  CHAPTER FOUR

  Constable Harry Bradshaw came off duty at six o’clock. He’d had a long day, since seven in the morning, and he’d just been told to report in tomorrow, Sunday. Well, the overtime pay would be welcome, even if he did feel a day off wouldn’t have come amiss.

  He walked to the East Street market, which was always open well into the evening on Saturdays. He made his way
to a greengrocery stall, one run by Ma Earnshaw, who prided herself on the superior quality of her fruit and vegetables.

  ‘Watcher, Ma,’ he said, ‘pound of Granny Smiths.’

  ‘Well, if it ain’t the arm of the law,’ said Ma. ‘Sorry about yer dear old mum, ’Arry, but I ’eard yer give ’er a fine funeral, includin’ six black ’orses.’

  ‘She wanted to go in style,’ said Harry. His mother hadn’t accepted ten years of widowhood at all well, especially as it had seen the departure of her two daughters and her eldest son in marriage. Harry looked at one time as if he might follow them. The prospect of being alone kept making her fall ill, which in turn made Harry postpone his proposal to a certain young lady. The young lady gave him up in the end, which Mrs Bradshaw thought a blessing. It was only right that one of her children should stay home to look after her. But in the end she grumbled herself into a decline and took to her bed. She did not last long after that. Harry felt guilty at her funeral, and it was a week before he realized he was free. ‘On second thoughts, Ma, make that two pounds of Granny Smiths, there’s a good old girl.’

  ‘’Ere, I ain’t old yet,’ said Ma Earnshaw, just past forty and running to overflowing plumpness. ‘Nor ain’t I ’ad the pleasure of servin’ you recent.’

  ‘Well, treat me proud,’ said Harry, ‘and I’ll come round more often.’ Ma Earnshaw weighed and bagged the polished green apples. ‘Now five pounds of your best cookers,’ said Harry. A couple of young market scroungers appeared as if by magic out of the crowd. Shabby, with patched shorts, darned jerseys, and socks down to their ankles, they were typical of their kind. They conducted their activities at elusive speed, darting under a fruit stall to grab rejects dropped into a crate and scarpering off before the stallholder had even noticed them. These two materialized with their eyes already sizing up Ma Earnshaw’s involvement with her customer. Then they saw the customer’s bluebottle uniform. They disappeared into nowhere in a split second. Harry grinned.

  ‘Got a shoppin’ bag for the cookers?’ asked Ma.

  ‘Got a box?’ countered Harry. He bent down and pulled an empty wooden crate out from under the stall. ‘Good on yer, Ma, this’ll do.’

  ‘You got thievin’ ’ands for a copper, ’Arry, that’s me best crate.’

  ‘Well, I like you for lettin’ me have it,’ said Harry. She emptied the cookers into it. Harry was a popular bobby, and straight as they could come. ‘I also want a dozen bananas, a dozen oranges, two pounds of dates, a couple of lettuce, two pounds of tomatoes and six pounds of potatoes. Oh, and give me three pounds of those wallopin’ onions.’

  ‘You feedin’ an orphanage?’ asked Ma.

  ‘Just stockin’ up,’ said Harry.

  She supplied him with the best she had, putting everything into the crate. He paid her and carried the crate away. He did a little more shopping, then searched the crowds for an obliging young confederate. He spotted just the right face, cheerful, cheeky, talkative and well-known to him. Bobby Reeves, the sixteen-year-old son of Mrs Gertie Reeves, who ran a second-hand clothes stall. Cap on the back of his head, blue jersey belted around his waist, trouser cuffs a little frayed, Bobby showed a ready grin to the world.

  ‘Here, Bobby, can you do me a favour?’

  ‘You bet,’ said Bobby, as they met on the less crowded pavement. ‘Well, we’re both Bobbies, like, don’t yer reckon, guv? And you were kindly obligin’ to me dad, that time he minded a sack for some geezer out of the goodness of ’is jam tart. You come along an’ give him a talkin’ to, and he only got – ’

  ‘Yes, he got off with a warning.’ Harry smiled. Bobby had what was known as the gift of the gab. ‘Listen, I’ll give you tuppence if you’ll take this box of stuff to a house in Charleston Street. It’s from the Salvation Army.’ Harry had chalked the words on the side of the crate. ‘It’s for a Mrs Wilson, number fourteen. Hand it in. Say it’s with the compliments of the Salvation Army. It’s a bit heavy.’ He deposited the load into Bobby’s arms. The boy, tall, slim and strong, embraced it and held it to his chest. He whistled at its weight.

  ‘Might I ask yer to place it on me bonnet, guv, which is superior to me chest, which might get splinters in it.’

  ‘Good idea,’ said Harry, and lifted the crate onto Bobby’s capped head. Bobby balanced it and held it in the fashion of a young costermonger, with one hand. Experienced costermongers used no hands. Harry put two pennies into the boy’s trouser pocket. ‘Much obliged, Bobby.’

  ‘Me too, for the copper coins, guv. Here, have yer been after that bloke that done in – ’

  ‘We’ll catch him,’ said Harry. ‘Off you go.’

  ‘I’m on me way,’ said Bobby, and off he went, the crate balanced, his walk brisk and confident. That was a lad who would get on, thought Harry.

  Maggie was getting supper, doing fried potatoes with bacon scraps bought cheap from the grocers when the front door knocker was hammered. Trary answered it. A boy with a wooden box on his capped head gave her a grin and a look. Then another look. Then an admiring whistle.

  ‘Crikey,’ he said, ‘where’d you come from?’

  Haughty brown eyes took on the challenge of cheeky blue eyes.

  ‘I happen to live here,’ said Trary loftily. ‘Might I enquire what you think you’re lookin’ at?’ She had the gift of the gab too, and a girl’s gift of the gab at that.

  ‘I dunno,’ said Bobby, ‘not ’aving had the pleasure before. All right, what’s yer monicker?’

  ‘Excuse me, I’m sure,’ said Trary, ‘but I do not tell my name to cheeky boys with boxes on their heads. And kindly don’t bash our door in when you come knockin’. My mum don’t like our door bashed in.’

  ‘Me hand slipped,’ said Bobby, ‘and this here box is only on me head because I wasn’t able to get it into me pocket. It’s a bit big, y’see.’

  ‘Think I’m daft, do you?’ asked Trary.

  ‘Hope not,’ said Bobby, ‘be a cryin’ shame if a girl as pretty as you was daft. Tell yer what, would yer like to come up the park with me Sunday? That’s tomorrow. I’ll call for you after me dinner.’

  ‘You’ll be lucky,’ said Trary. ‘Comin’ round here, bashin’ our door, givin’ me grinnin’ looks and askin’ me up the park, you got more sauce than a tramful of monkeys, you have.’

  ‘Well, I like that,’ protested Bobby, the crate swaying a little. ‘Is it my fault you’re pretty?’

  ‘It’s not mine,’ said Trary. ‘I happen to be the ’andiwork of God.’

  ‘Crikey, was it you said that?’ asked Bobby in admiration.

  ‘Yes, it was. And I don’t go up the park with anyone I don’t know. You might be an escaped convict, I’ve heard about escaped convicts goin’ round knockin’ on doors. Kindly don’t knock on ours any more. What d’you want, anyway?’

  ‘I come bearin’ gifts,’ said Bobby.

  ‘What?’ asked Trary, coveting that phrase for her own use.

  ‘In this here box,’ said Bobby, ‘which I’m willin’ to carry indoors for you, if yer ma’s name is Mrs Wilson. It’s come with the compliments of the Salvation Army from a friend of mine, and I’ve got to tell you it’s startin’ to push my head in.’

  ‘Good thing too,’ said Trary, always able to play a notable part in a boy-versus-girl dialogue. ‘Boys like you shouldn’t have no heads, then they wouldn’t be so cheeky.’ She gazed in suspicion at the crate. ‘What d’you mean, Salvation Army? What’s in it?’

  ‘Paper bags, mostly,’ said Bobby, ‘and they’re all full up. But I dunno what with, me friend didn’t tell me. I’ve brought ’em because I’ve got a kind ’eart.’ Bobby paused. ‘An’ because me friend give me tuppence,’ he conceded.

  Trary, mystified, said, ‘Look, you better not be havin’ my mum on. Or me, either, or you’ll get a punch in the eye.’

  ‘Blimey,’ said Bobby, admiration climbing, ‘I like you.’

  Haughtily, Trary said, ‘Just wait there, boy, and I’ll see what my mum says.’

&n
bsp; ‘All right,’ said Bobby, ‘but I’d be obliged if yer wouldn’t take too long. This lot’s goin’ to push me under yer door-step in a minute.’

  ‘Oh, dear, what a shame,’ said Trary, and made for the kitchen. She stopped and turned. ‘Who did you say sent you?’

  ‘A blue-bottle friend of mine.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘A copper, of course, name of Mr Bradshaw.’

  ‘Mr Bradshaw?’ Trary’s bright eyes gleamed. ‘Oh, d’you mean the tall and nice one, with a kind smile?’

  ‘Don’t ask me,’ said Bobby, ‘he’s just a copper. Decent bloke, though.’

  ‘Well, don’t just stand there,’ said Trary, ‘bring the box in. Why didn’t you say about the policeman? I don’t know, I’m sure, but it’s aggravatin’ that boys can’t talk a bit of sense sometimes.’

  Bobby stepped in, steadying the crate with both hands. He followed Trary into the kitchen. Around the table sat Daisy, Lily and Meg. In the scullery, Maggie was busy at the frying-pan. The girls stared at the cheerful-looking boy with a large wooden box on his head.

  ‘Who’s ’e?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘’E’s got a box on ’is ’ead,’ said Lily.

  ‘We never ’ad a boy with a box on his ’ead in here before,’ said Meg.

  ‘Mum, come and look,’ called Trary. ‘You can put it down, boy.’

  Bobby lowered the crate to the floor. Maggie appeared, a frying fork in her hand, her apron on.

  ‘What’s this?’ she asked.

  ‘It’s a boy,’ said Trary, ‘he’s brought a box with things in it.’

  ‘With the compliments of the Salvation Army,’ said Bobby, ‘if you’re Mrs Wilson.’

  ‘Yes, I’m Mrs Wilson,’ said Maggie, liking his looks and his cheerfulness. ‘But I don’t know no-one in the Salvation Army.’

  ‘The kind policeman sent ’im, Mum,’ said Trary, gazing into the crate. ‘You know, the one that called this mornin’. Well, that’s what I think.’

  ‘I’ll unload it for yer,’ said Bobby, and began placing bags on the table under the fascinated eyes of the family. Unbagged cooking apples were uncovered. Maggie stared at the bags. Trary investigated one. It contained Osborne biscuits. Another contained sugar, another, two half-pound packets of tea. Two tins of condensed milk came to light. So did fruit and vegetables. There was also a bag of flour and a pound of bacon. Maggie stared in utter astonishment, emotions welling.