A Metropolitan Murder (33 page)

‘His bed ain't been slept in, if you'll forgive me saying so, ma'am.'

For once, Mrs. Harris is quite lost for words. She gets up and walks briskly to the door that joins her bedroom to her husband's. Opening it, she looks at the unruffled sheets and coverlet neatly square on the bed, the pillows unmarked by any impression. She turns back, and, not looking at Clara, sits down at her dressing table once more.

‘You may go,' she says.

‘How long's she been up there?' asks Alice Meynell, looking pointedly up the stairs towards her mistress's bedroom.

‘A couple of hours, I suppose.'

‘That ain't like her. Hang on a minute . . .'

As they speak, the door to Mrs. Harris's bedroom opens and the lady herself steps hesitantly on to the landing; she is dressed in an expensive mauve day dress, but her hair looks less than neat, and her face a little paler than usual. She peers down into the hallway.

‘Who's that?'

‘Just me and Ally, ma'am.'

‘Of course it is. White, will you come here?'

Clara hastens up the stairs. There is something strangely distracted in her mistress's expression as she speaks to her.

‘White, I am afraid there must have been some accident for your master not to have returned home. I would be greatly indebted if you could go and speak to the policeman who came here last week – Inspector Webb at Marylebone police station, I believe – and ask him to come and see me.'

‘Ma'am?'

‘Did you not hear me?'

‘Not Bow Street, ma'am? It's a lot nearer.'

‘I know very well where Bow Street is. Do not contradict me. I wish to speak to Mr. Webb in particular, do you understand me? Him in particular.'

Clara turns to hurry down the stairs, but then stops and looks back at her mistress, who stands there like a statue.

‘Ma'am . . .'

‘What?'

‘It ain't nothing to do with my ma, is it?'

‘Heavens! Does the world revolve around your troubles? Will you just do as you are told!'

‘Yes, ma'am.'

Clara runs down the stairs, trying to remember whether her shawl is in the kitchen or her bedroom. In the end, it proves to be the former; a few words are exchanged with Alice, and then with Cook, and with the latter issuing the age-old wisdom that ‘no good will come of it', Clara leaves the house by the kitchen door. She has barely stepped upon the pavement, however, when a man's voice whispers her name.

‘Clara.'

She turns, and finds Henry Cotton walking beside her.

‘You know what we need, sir?'

‘Enlighten me, sergeant.'

‘Another murder. Give us some more clues, wouldn't it?'

‘Very amusing. I'll tell that to the superintendent, shall I?'

‘Maybe not, sir. But you've looked through those
papers a dozen times today, and I don't think you'll be finding fresh answers there.'

Webb puts down the folder he has been reading.

‘You may jest, but I think there's already been another.'

‘Agnes White?'

‘Indeed. Why do you think her clothes were found in the river?'

‘Say she was going to pawn them, dropped them in by accident?'

‘She was trying to make someone think she was dead. She knew they would most likely be found, and thought it might help matters.'

‘Maybe she just didn't like those clothes. Miss Sparrow said she was a little, well, disturbed.'

‘All the same, why throw them in the river?'

‘Good as anywhere.'

‘No, I think she knew someone wanted her dead.' Sergeant Watkins shrugs his shoulders, as if to say ‘if you say so'.

‘You're too skeptical, sergeant.'

‘I find it helps in this line of work. Leave the thinking to Inspector Burton.'

‘If we are finally graced with his presence.'

‘Due tomorrow. Something will turn up, sir, don't you worry.'

‘Watkins, that is precisely what worries me.'

‘I was just coming to see you,' says Henry Cotton, as he strolls beside Clara.

‘You know you can't, Mr. Phibbs, not when I'm working.'

‘But you're working all the time, are you not?'

‘Yes.'

‘I would have made some excuse to see Harris.'

‘You'd be lucky.'

‘How so?'

‘He ain't been home since last night. The missus has sent us to get the police.'

‘The police? She thinks it so serious?'

‘I suppose.'

‘You are going the wrong way, surely.'

‘She wants this fellow at Marylebone. Webb.'

‘Ah, that is the man you told me about? Lord, does she think it is something to do with the business on the train?'

Clara looks at Cotton, surprised by his particular interest. ‘I don't know, do I?'

‘May I walk with you some of the way, at least?'

‘Ain't you got nothing better to do?'

Cotton smiles. ‘No, I fear I have not. Although I was going to ask you a question.'

Clara sighs.

‘I saw your Tom Hunt yesterday . . .'

‘He ain't nothing to do with me.'

‘He speaks fondly of you. He says you were an apt pupil.'

Clara shakes her head but says nothing.

‘Well, at all events, he showed me a couple of his tricks, and, I swear, I feel I could almost write a book about him. He is a fine rogue, is he not?'

‘Did you give him money?'

‘Yes, I did.'

‘Then he'll be all right with you. He don't want nothing else. That's all there is to know about him.'

‘You think? What about your sister? Surely he is fond of her, at least?'

‘He'll drop her when he's done with her.'

‘That's awfully harsh, Clara. I confess, I am not overly impressed by his morals, but for a man of that class . . .'

‘I thought you wanted to ask me something.'

‘Well, I did. Tell me, does Tom . . . well, has he ever done anything in the way of houses?'

‘Houses?'

‘I mean to say, house-breaking. Burglary.'

She pauses for a moment, as if wondering whether it is safe to vouchsafe the information. ‘He might have, once or twice, when he was desperate.'

‘He knows something of how to go about it, then?'

‘I should say so. What do you want to know that for?'

‘It is an idea, nothing more. Do not worry.'

Mrs. Harris sits by her bedroom window, looking outside at the dead winter garden behind the house. At length, she gets up and walks downstairs to the study on the first floor. Her husband's writing desk is locked, and she wonders for a moment whether there is something she can do.

She sighs, and begins to pace the room.

‘A
HEM.
M
ESSAGE FOR
you, Inspector.'

Inspector Webb sits back in his office chair, his eyes half closed, in a position that makes it impossible to say whether he is sleeping or engaged in deep contemplation. He slowly opens his eyes, and looks at the station's office boy, standing by his door.

‘What?'

‘A Mrs. Harris, Doughty Street, asking you to call on her.'

‘Mrs. Harris?' replies Webb, taking a moment to recall the significance of the name. ‘Really. Well, does she give a time? Show me the letter.'

‘No letter, sir. Her maid came in, well, somebody's maid anyhow. She didn't say much, and then she went off, all rushed, wouldn't wait.'

‘When was this?'

‘A minute or two ago, sir,' replies the boy, defensively, fearing his punctuality to be in question. ‘I waited a moment before I knocked, like. I didn't want to disturb you.'

Webb, however, springs out of his chair and grabs his hat and coat.

‘Tell Watkins where I am going, will you?'

‘Where, sir?' replies the boy, quite confused.

‘To see Mrs. Harris, of course.'

‘Miss White!'

Clara White turns, finding herself accosted for the second time in as many hours. On this occasion, however, it is the bulky figure of Decimus Webb, astride his repaired velocipede, cycling along Marylebone Lane beside her. The effort of maintaining his balance and shouting out makes him quite breathless, and, as he dismounts, Clara stares at him in amazement.