The Lodger

by Mary Jane Staples

  ‘Mrs Stephens, where’s the key to your shed padlock?’

  Mrs Stephens, shaking, whispered faintly, ‘It’s my husband’s shed, it’s only where he keeps his tools and does bits of carpentry.’

  ‘Yes, but where’s the key?’

  ‘Herby keeps all his keys on his key ring.’

  ‘I see.’ Nicholas went back to the yard, where Chapman was trying to pick the padlock. The other detective-constable came down from upstairs and joined them. Nicholas said get the damned door open. The padlocked holding bar was levered free by use of the kitchen poker. Wood splintered. Chapman pulled the door open and Nicholas went in. The shed was a little workshop. He searched but found nothing of any consequence. In the confined space, Chapman was in his way. He elbowed him aside and went down on his hands and knees. He fished about under the bench’s low shelf. Nothing except dust. But then his fingers touched something. He scrabbled at it, moving it. He drew it out, a biscuit tin that had lain against the shed wall. He placed it on the bench, Chapman and his colleague squeezing in and looking on as he took the lid off. The white tin interior shone. One by one, he extracted the items it contained. A long length of cord, weighted at one end with a small disc of lead. Two tresses of fair hair, each wrapped in tissue paper. A little notebook with a red leather cover. Nicholas thumbed through it. Names and addresses were neatly inscribed. Nicknames. Mabel Shipman’s code words for her clients. Ginger, Four-Eyes, Napoleon, Larky, Saucebox, Bigfeet, Smiffy. He came across the one he was looking for, Samson. 22 A. Street, Walworth.

  ‘Got him, Frank.’

  ‘Ruddy good,’ said Chapman, ‘my bleedin’ feet are killin’ me.’

  Nicholas put some final questions to the sick and suffering Mrs Stephens.

  ‘Is your husband at work?’

  ‘Yes. Oh, me gawd, it’s not about the murders, is it? This lady won’t say. It’s not about them poor women, is it?’

  ‘I’m afraid it is, Mrs Stephens. What time are you expecting your husband home?’

  Mrs Stephens, close to fainting, sagged on the sofa, her mouth working. Emma, an arm around her, said, ‘She told me Mr Stephens said he’d be a bit late this evening, he has overtime to do.’

  ‘Oh, Herby didn’t do it, he didn’t, did he?’ gasped the anguished woman.

  ‘We’ll be talking to him, Mrs Stephens,’ said Nicholas. ‘Don’t you think it would be a good idea to go to your mother’s? Mrs Carter and I will take you. Where does she live?’

  Her mouth worked again without finding speech.

  ‘Penrose Street,’ said Emma, into whose ears Mrs Stephens had poured a jumbled mass of desperate words.

  ‘That’s not too much out of our way,’ said Nicholas. There was plenty of time to get to the gas company and to wait until Stephens reported in with his day’s collection. ‘Mrs Stephens, we’ll wait while you get yourself ready. I don’t think you should stay here. I’ll be leaving one man in the house, and sending another to join him, just in case your husband should arrive home early. Better for you to go to your mother’s.’

  Emma wanted to weep for the suffering woman.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  He stopped at the door of fifteen King and Queen Street. He knocked, then opened up his works book, took a pencil out from under the side of his peaked cap, and made a note while resting the book against the door. He turned to glance casually up and down the street. There were people at the far end, the market end. And there were two little kids walking towards Browning Street with their backs to him. He stood there, his right hand behind him, book in his left hand. His right hand moved. He turned to the door again, and knocked a second time. Again he turned his back to it, whistling. The door opened. He wheeled round.

  ‘Afternoon, Mrs Carter.’

  He stepped into the empty house.

  The door closed.

  Nicholas and Chapman were on their way to the offices of the gas company. Emma was still with them. There were two CID men lying in wait in the Stephens’ house. Mrs Stephens was with her mother in Penrose Street, both women in a state of shock.

  ‘I’m so sad for her,’ said Emma.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘some people get worked up about what the law does to crooks and thugs and murderers. Not too many think about the victims or about the suffering a murderer inflicts on his womenfolk. Frank, would you take Mrs Carter home now? I’ll pick up a uniformed man on my way to the gas company.’

  ‘I’m dismissed?’ said Emma in relief.

  ‘Frank will look after you,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Yes, very well.’

  ‘I want to be sure of picking Stephens up. He told his wife he’s on overtime this evening. But is he? We didn’t find a second stocking.’

  ‘So what’s on his mind?’ asked Chapman.

  ‘Something unpleasant if he’s not doing overtime,’ said Nicholas. ‘Many thanks, Mrs Carter, for all your help. You deserve a medal. Take care of her, Frank.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chapman, ‘and I’ll see you later.’

  Emma did not argue for feminine independence.

  ‘Stephens, you said?’ queried the gas company superintendent.

  ‘Yes, what’s he like?’ asked Nicholas, a police constable at his side. He had managed to pick up Harry, a reliable man.

  ‘He’s a muscular man with a bad back,’ said the superintendent. ‘He thinks he could have been a Samson at weight-liftin’ if it hadn’t been for that.’

  Samson. The little notebook. The nicknames.

  ‘When’s he due in with his collecting bag?’

  ‘He’s been in, he’s finished his round for the day.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘At half-three, thirty minutes ago. I let him go, his back was playing up, and he’s a good worker – ’

  ‘Christ,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘What’s the problem?’ asked the superintendent.

  ‘This is a murder enquiry. We need to take Stephens in for questioning.’

  ‘Eh?’

  ‘Can’t talk to you now,’ said Nicholas. He left at speed, Harry with him. ‘Step on it, Harry. To Mrs Carter’s. The bugger’s slipped us, and she’s his current target. Thank God Chapman’s with her. If he got into her house while she was out, then she and Chapman walked in on him.’

  ‘You think he was goin’ to go for Mrs Carter in her own house, in the middle of the afternoon?’ said Harry. They were striding fast. Street kids watched them out of cheeky, curious or furtive eyes.

  ‘God knows what he had in mind, he told his wife he’d be late home because of overtime. He’ll have reached Mrs Carter’s house in front of her and Chapman if he went straight there after finishing his round. He’s got her spare key. I’ve a feeling he didn’t go home. If he did, then he’s done for.’

  ‘I don’t think he’d have gone for Mrs Carter in the middle of the afternoon, sarge,’ said Harry. ‘He’d have left himself wide open, someone’s bound to have seen him comin’ or goin’.’

  ‘Keep moving,’ said Nicholas.

  They made quick time to King and Queen Street. Kids were about, home from school. Women, home from the market, were dragging some kids indoors with them. Coming to a halt at Emma’s front door, Nicholas heard a woman call. He turned. From the open window of her upstairs bedroom, old Mrs Duncalfe, habitual observer of the passing scene, let herself go.

  ‘’Ere, what’s goin’ on? More of you gents, a copper as well? It ain’t respectable. I seen the first one come an’ go. The second one’s still there. Your turn now, is it? I never thought Emma Carter – ’

  ‘It’s nothing like that,’ said Nicholas. ‘What was the first man like?’

  ‘Gas collector. Dunno ’ow she managed to let ’im in, seein’ she was out an’ didn’t get back till after ’e’d gone. I’ve seen you before, an’ the bloke that was with ’er, the one that’s in there now. It ain’t respectable.’

  ‘Nothing to worry about, Mrs Duncalfe,’ said Nicholas. Emma appeared then, she had heard his voi
ce.

  ‘Nicholas? What’s happened?’

  ‘We’ll come in,’ said Nicholas, and he and Harry went in. Emma closed the door.

  ‘Has something gone wrong?’ she asked.

  ‘Looks like it,’ said Chapman, rising from a chair.

  ‘He’s been here,’ said Nicholas, ‘he finished his round at three-thirty and his superintendent gave him the rest of the afternoon off. He let himself in – ’

  ‘Who said?’ asked Chapman.

  ‘Mrs Carter’s neighbour, Mrs Duncalfe,’ said Nicholas. ‘He came and went before you both arrived. He used the spare key, of course.’

  ‘He’s been in here?’ breathed Emma.

  ‘Yes, but for what reason? What was the point? Finding you weren’t at home, why did he come in?’ Nicholas’s mind raced, trying to work out what the man’s intentions had been. To call on Emma and tell her he could put her meter right? To gain entry in that way and then strangle her? No, Harry Bradshaw was right, it would have left him wide open. Finding Emma not at home, he had let himself in. For a purpose. What purpose? He could only have been in the place for a few minutes. He’d been lucky that Emma and Chapman hadn’t walked in on him.

  ‘Once he was in,’ said Chapman, ‘why didn’t he simply wait for Mrs Carter? He wasn’t to know I’d be with her.’

  ‘Well,’ ventured Harry, ‘as I said to Sergeant Chamberlain, I don’t think – ’ He checked. Emma managed a weak smile.

  ‘That he’d have murdered me at this time of day?’

  ‘Ruddy hell,’ said Chapman.

  ‘If he’s gone home, he’ll have walked into our arms,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I don’t think he has. He had a reason for telling his wife he’d be late because of overtime. How late, I wonder? After dark? Jesus, that’s it, he’s going to come back.’

  ‘Won’t work,’ said Chapman. ‘Mrs Carter keeps her door bolted after dark. The spare key’s no good to him. He knows it. He’s tried it.’

  ‘Wait,’ said Emma, and hastened to her kitchen. She came back with a strange expression on her face. ‘It’s there,’ she said, ‘on the dresser shelf, where I normally keep it.’

  ‘He’s put it back?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘He’s put it back,’ said Emma.

  ‘Mind if I butt in?’ asked Harry.

  ‘Go ahead,’ said Nicholas, ‘help us with our enquiries. You’ve got some standing as a local arm of the law.’

  ‘I think you’ve got a point, about him comin’ back,’ said Harry. ‘He could have had a new key cut, of course, but from what you told me and what’s just been mentioned, he knows Mrs Carter bolts her door at night. So if he is comin’ back, he’s worked out his own way of gettin’ in. He can’t get into her yard and to her back door without climbing her wall from someone else’s yard. Even if he could, he knows her back door is bound to be bolted. Is that right, Mrs Carter?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Emma, quite aware the talk was all about how Herbert Stephens might be planning to murder her. It had its effect on her nerves, but she remained calm. She had only to look at Nicholas to feel she was in good hands.

  ‘So if he’s up against bolted doors front and back,’ said Harry, ‘there’s only one way he could get in.’

  ‘I’m following you,’ said Nicholas, ‘it’s his obvious choice.’

  ‘Window,’ said Chapman, ‘either front or back.’

  ‘Front,’ said Nicholas, ‘he’ll never get into the yard, not without first entering someone else’s house behind this one to get into their yard. Let’s see.’ He moved to the living-room window that looked out onto the street. The strong catch securing top and bottom frames had been released. ‘So that’s why he came in. If Mrs Carter had been here, he’d have made her meter his reason for calling, and he’d have fiddled about with it until he found an opportunity to release this catch, in the hope, of course, that she wouldn’t notice it when she drew her curtains. That settles it as far as I’m concerned, it’s convinced me he’ll be back tonight.’

  ‘Right,’ said Chapman, ‘but until then? What’s he goin’ to do, walk the streets?’

  ‘Tuck himself away?’ suggested Emma.

  ‘I can’t see him walking the streets or tucking himself away, not for that amount of time,’ said Nicholas, ‘but I can see him losing himself in surroundings where he could thoroughly enjoy his mood of anticipation. There was Mabel Shipman, Frank.’

  ‘Poor tart,’ said Chapman.

  ‘Yes,’ said Nicholas, ‘and what’s more reasonable than to suggest he knows others like her, that he’ll spend hours with one of them, one with a back room of her own somewhere around Soho or the East End? That would take him right out of South London, and give him thoughts about the kind of prostitute who’d give him an alibi. I’d say he could easily confuse his wife about the time he finally arrived home. We know that that can’t happen now, but he doesn’t, not unless he has gone home.’

  ‘Dear me, your imagination, Sergeant Chamberlain,’ murmured Emma.

  ‘It’s assumptions, Mrs Carter,’ said Harry, ‘you have to start somewhere, and you start with assumptions and keep workin’ on them till you hit the bulls-eye.’

  ‘I like imaginative assumptions,’ said Emma. ‘What about my window catch?’

  ‘Leave it as it is,’ said Nicholas. ‘I’m going to Amelia Street with Frank, to see if Stephens did walk into our arms. Inspector Greaves may be there now, in any case. I’m going to ask Constable Bradshaw to stay with you.’ He would have liked to stay with Emma himself, to talk to her, to enjoy her remarkable air of calmness and her total lack of fear or hysteria. ‘But leave the catch as it is, Mrs Carter.’

  Emma made a little face because he was being so much the formal policeman. He was going to let Herbert Stephens finally and conclusively trap himself, and in that there was a reason for a small smile, wasn’t there? Now, why should a small smile be important to her at a moment when a decision to trap a murderer made everything else so trivial by comparison?

  ‘Very well,’ she said.

  ‘I’ll be back,’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Stay with her until then, will you, Harry?’ said Nicholas.

  ‘Rely on it,’ said Harry, liking Emma and her composure.

  ‘Come on, Frank, let’s be on our way,’ said Nicholas. But the weakness of a man in love surfaced then, although a woman would not have seen it as a weakness. ‘No, you stay too, I’ll feel happier if both of you are here. We can’t trust all our assumptions.’

  Inspector Greaves was pacing about like a growling grizzly bear with toothache. He had Detective-Sergeant Arnold with him. Also present were the two CID men who had been lying in wait. The Inspector pounced on Nicholas, who gave him a coherent and detailed account of events. Since Stephens had put in no appearance, and since his intentions could only be a matter of guesswork, the Inspector was in favour of immediate action while agreeing on precautions relating to the released window catch. Nevertheless, he could not neglect what was fact, that a maniac was at large and quite capable of murderous mayhem before making a further attempt to get at Mrs Carter. He went back to the Yard, taking Nicholas with him, and leaving Arnold in charge of the other two men. At the Yard, he took steps to alert police stations north and south of the river, and he gave them a comprehensive description of the wanted man.

  ‘It doesn’t look like he’s comin’, Mum,’ said Trary. It was getting dark.

  ‘Well, he only said he might pop in,’ murmured Maggie, applying the final touches to Daisy’s hair with a brush. ‘He didn’t say definite.’

  ‘’Ave I got to go to bed wivout seein’ ’Arry?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘Yes, it seems like it,’ said Maggie, ‘and if you call him Harry once more, you little mischief, you’ll ’ave to have a smack.’

  ‘Crikey, when I’m only little?’ said Daisy.

  ‘You’ll soon be able to call ’im dad,’ said Meg.

  ‘That’s when Mum marries ’im,’ said Lily informatively.


  ‘I expect it’s nice marryin’ ’Arry,’ said Daisy, and received a little thump on her bottom from the hairbrush. She giggled.

  ‘You’ll feel it next time,’ said Maggie, but she was in no mood to be stern. The Lord had been good to her and her girls. They didn’t look hungry any more, nor shabby. Only weeks ago she had been almost as far down as a mother could go in providing for her children. The workhouse had loomed. Some mothers sold themselves to avoid that. Wasn’t it strange how the worry and hardship of poverty had disappeared in just a few weeks, to turn girls with hungry eyes into girls alive with mischief and giggles? And look at Trary, always the brightest and bravest of them even when things were at their worst, and now brighter than ever. Those eyes of hers always told a story. No wonder Bobby had said only yesterday, ‘I’m done for, I am, Mrs Wilson. I don’t mind Trary havin’ one eye like hers, but two together, well, is it fair on a bloke? I don’t know I’m ever goin’ to be able to say no to ’er. What a life for a man like me that’s got a kind jam tart. I’ll just ’ave to give in to it, I suppose it could be a happy death.’

  Luck had changed for the better on a particular day, the day Harry had called for the first time, and Bobby had later arrived with a box of food on his head. Trary would never forget that moment.

  Maggie smiled.

  ‘Penny for ’em, Mum,’ said Meg.

  ‘That Bobby,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I likes Bobby,’ said Daisy.

  ‘He’s so funny,’ said Maggie.

  ‘I don’t know any boy more daft,’ said Trary.

  ‘Oh, don’t you want ’im, Trary, could I marry ’im when I’m grown up?’ asked Lily.

  ‘I’ll ask him,’ said Trary.

  ‘Could Lily an’ me both marry ’im?’ asked Daisy.

  ‘No, you couldn’t,’ said Maggie, ‘now up to bed with you.’ She ushered her younger girls up to bed.

  Harry didn’t appear at all. Trary knew her mum was a little disappointed. She was making herself look very nice these days. Trary wondered what had stopped her future step-father from popping in.

  The house lay in darkness. It was a little after ten. The night was warm, the night sky heavy, with cloud blanketing the new moon and far-off stars. King and Queen Street awaited the turn-out from the pub in Browning Street. A shadow blotted out the best part of a downstairs window. Fingernails made a fractional insertion into the crack between the lower window frame and the sill. Strong fingers pressed and dragged. The window slid slowly up with the tiniest of creaks. When it was fully open, the man stood listening. He looked left, and then right. He did not hurry. It was thirty seconds before he began to climb in, at which point he heard footsteps. He completed his climb over the sill, straightened up, turned, and without haste he quietly closed the window. He stood in the darkness, waiting and listening. A man passed by the house.