An Ensuing Evil and Others (19 page)

Miss Mary started and stared at him. “Wraybrook, you say, sir? You don’t mean Mr. Eugene Wraybrook?”

Dickens frowned suspiciously at her. “Do you know a lawyer named Wraybrook?”

“He’s a young gent, sir. A solicitor right enough. But he’s only been in the country six months. They say he’s from India. Not that he’s Indian, sir. Oh, no, English, same as you and me. Pleasant enough young man. He has rooms at the top end of Narrow Street here, and one of them is his office. Not that he gets much work, I’m told. Decent enough and polite and pays his bills promptlike.”

“Would you recognize Mr. Wraybrook?”

“I would, six.”

“And young Fred?”

“Fred, sir? I don’t think so. Fred works in the evenings, and Mr. Wraybrook only comes here for lunch now and again.”

“Did you take a good look at the body on the slipway?” asked Dickens curiously.

Miss Mary shook her head. “Not I, sir. Can’t stand the sight of corpses and… Why do you ask, sir?” She frowned, and then her eyes widened suddenly. “You don’t mean that… that…?”

Dickens rose quickly. “Do you know where this Wraybrook has his rooms? What number in Narrow Street?”

“I only know it’s the top end, sir. But—”

“Would you give us about fifteen minutes, Miss Mary, and then go out and tell the policeman who is loitering outside with the corpse where we have gone?”

Dickens hurried from the tavern with Collins hard on his heels.

At the darkened top of Narrow Street they came to a cluster of tall tenement buildings crowding over the cramped lane and shutting out all natural light. A few gas lamps gave an eerie glow, and beneath these were some street urchins playing five stones. For a threepenny piece, one of them indicated the tenement in which he knew the solicitor resided. The rooms were on the second floor. There was a single gas burner on every landing, and so it was easy to find a dark door on which was affixed a small handwritten card bearing the name
E. Wraybrook, Bachelor of Law
.

Dickens tried the door, but it was locked.

Collins watched with some surprise as Dickens reached up and felt along the ridge at the top of the door and grunted in dissatisfaction when his search revealed nothing. He stood looking thoughtfully.

“What is it?”

“Sometimes people leave a key in such a place,” Dickens said absently. “I expect Sergeant Cuff to be here soon, and I do not want to force the door. Ah…”

He suddenly dropped to one knee and pushed experimentally at a small piece of planking near the door, part of the skirting board. It seemed loose, and a small section gave way, revealing the cavity beyond. Dickens felt inside with his gloved hand and came up smiling. There was a key in his hand.

“Strange how people s habits follow a set course.”

A moment later they entered the rooms beyond. There was a strange odor, which caused Collins to sniff and wrinkle his features in bewilderment.

“Opium? The smell of dope?”

“No, Charley,” replied his father-in-law. “Its the smell of incense, popular in the East. I think it is sandalwood. Find the gas burner, and let us have some light.”

The first room was plainly furnished and was, apparently, an office for prospective clients of the solicitor. On the desk there was a rolled sheaf of papers. Legal documents. Dickens absently took from his pocket the red ribbon, rolled the paper, and slipped the ribbon over it. He shot a glance of satisfied amusement at Collins. He then removed the ribbon, put it back in his pocket, and examined the documents. It was not helpful.

“A litigation over the ownership of a property,” he explained. “And a cover note from an agent offering a fee of a guinea for resolving the matter.”

He returned the document to the desk and glanced around.

“By the look of this place, it is hardly used and indicates that our Mr. Wraybrook had few clients.”

A door led into the living quarters. There was an oil lamp on a side table. It was a sturdy brass-based lamp, slightly ornate, and a very incongruous ornamented glass surround from which dangled a series of globular crystal pieces held on tiny brass chains.

“Light that lamp, Charley,” instructed Dickens. “I can’t see a gas burner in this room.”

Collins removed the glass and turned up the wick on the burner, lighting it before resetting the glass. The crystals jangled a little as he picked it up.

Beyond the door was a bed sitting room. Collins preceded Dickens into the room. Again the furnishings were sparse. It seemed that the late Mr. Wraybrook did not lead a luxurious life. There was little that was hidden from their gaze. A tin traveling trunk at the bottom of the bed showing that its owner was a man recently traveled. The wardrobe, when opened, displayed only one change of clothes and some shirts. The dressing table drawers were empty apart from some socks and undergarments.

“Gene! I thought that… Oh!”

A voice had spoken from the doorway behind them. They swung round. There was a young woman standing there. She was not well dressed and was not out of place among the residents of Narrow Street.

She stared at them, slightly frightened. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, silently strident. “Where’s Gene… Where’s Mr. Wraybrook?”

Dickens assumed a stern and commanding attitude. “We will ask the questions, young lady. Who are you?”

The girl seemed to recognize the voice of authority. “Polis ain’t cher?”

“Name?” demanded Dickens officiously.

“Beth Hexton. I lives ‘ere.”

The East End accent did not seem to fit with the delicate features of the girl. Collins could see that whatever her education, she was very attractive, a kind of ethereal beauty that his artist’s eye could see in the kind of paintings that Millais and Rossetti and Hunt indulged in. She would not be out of place as a model for an artist of the High Renaissance.

“Here? In these rooms?” he queried.

“Naw!” The word was a verbal scowl. “In this ‘ouse. Me dad’s Gaffer Hexton,” she added, as if that might mean something.

“Ah, Gaffer Hexton.” Dickens smiled, “And he might be—?”

“Owns two wagerbuts on the river. Thought all you peelers ‘ad ‘eard o’ me dad.”

A wagerbut was a slight sculling craft often used for races along the Thames.

“A dredger?” Dickens said softly.

“Ain’t we all got a livin’ t’ make?” replied the girl defensively.

“How well do you know Mr. Wraybrook?” he demanded.

Her cheeks suddenly flushed. “ ‘E’s a friend, a real gen’leman.”

“A friend, eh?”

“Yeah. What’s ‘e done? Where yer taken ‘im?”

There was a movement in the other room, and they swung round. They had a glimpse of a stocky, dark-haired man making a hurried exit through the door.

Dickens frowned. “Who was that?” he asked.

“ Tm? That’s Bert ‘egeton.” The girl spoke scornfully.

“And he is?”

“ ‘E’s the local schoolteacher. Fancies ‘imself. Thinks I fancy ‘im.
I don’t think!”
she added with sardonic humor. “ ‘E’s out of ‘umor since Gene… since Mr. Wraybrook asked me to step out wiv ‘im.”

Dickens glanced at Collins with raised eyebrows. Although Dickens was certainly no social prude, it seemed a little incongruous that a solicitor would “step out” with a dredger’s daughter. But then, she was an attractive girl, and if a local schoolteacher was seeking her favors, why not a solicitor?

A movement at the door, and a dry, rasping cough interrupted them again.

It was the thickset policeman, Sergeant Cuff. “Well, Mr. Dickens… for someone who did not know the corpse, you seemed to have reached here pretty quickly.”

There was a little scream from the girl. She had gone pale, the back of her hand to her mouth, staring at the detective.

Dickens made an irritated clicking noise with his tongue. “Miss Hexton was a friend of Wraybrook,” he admonished.

“ ‘E’s dead?” cried the girl in a curious wail.

“Murdered, miss,” the policeman confirmed without sympathy.

The girl let out another wail and went running out of the room. They heard her ascending the stairs outside.

“Congratulations on your diplomatic touch, Sergeant,” Dickens reproved sarcastically.

Sergeant Cuff sniffed. “The girl’s a dredgers daughter. Gaffer Hexton. He would rob a corpse without thinking any more about it. In fact, he was going to be one of my next port of calls. He and his daughter probably set Wraybrook up to be done in, if they didn’t do it themselves. Wraybrook was a godsend to these river thieves. Whoever did him in has made themselves a fortune.”

Dickens frowned. “You seem very positive that it was a robbery.” Then he started. “You’ve just implied that you knew Wraybrook and knew that he had something of value on him. Look around you, Sergeant Cuff. Would a rich man be living in these frugal rooms?”

Sergeant Cuff had a superior smile. “We’re not stupid in the force, Mr. Dickens. Of course I knew Wraybrook. Been watching him for some months. I recognized the body at once but had to wait for a constable to arrive before I came on here. I suppose that you haven’t touched anything?”

“Nothing to touch,” retorted Dickens in irritation.

“I don’t suppose there would be. How did you come to know Wraybrook?”

“I didn’t. His name was on his shirt collar. A laundry mark. I deduced he was a solicitor by the cut of his cloth and went to look him up in
Kelly’s
. Miss Mary at the Grapes saved me the trouble as she knew of a Eugene Wraybrook and indicated where he lived. It was as simple as that.”

“Very clever. Had you confided in me that you had seen the name, I would have saved you the trouble of coming along. Wraybrook arrived in London six months ago from India. We had word from the constabulary in Bombay that Wraybrook was suspected of a theft from one of the Hindu temples. The theft was of a large diamond that had been one of the eyes in the statute of some heathenish idol. But while he was suspected, there was no firm evidence to arrest the man. He was allowed to travel to England, and we were asked to keep a watch on him. It was expected that he would try to sell the diamond and make capital on it. He was a clever cove, Mr. Dickens. I suppose, being a solicitor and all, he was careful. Settled in these rooms and plied for business. Not much business, I assure you. Seems he was eking out some living from his savings. We’re a patient crowd, Mr. Dickens, we watched and waited. But that’s all…. Until tonight. I guess someone else had found out about the diamond. He must have kept it on his person the whole time, because we searched these rooms several times, unbeknown to him.” Sergeant Cuff sighed deeply. “I suspect the girl and Gaffer Hexton, and that’s where my steps take me next.”

He touched his hat to Dickens and Collins and turned from the room.

Dickens stood rubbing his jaw thoughtfully.

Collins sighed and picked up the lamp. Its crystal hangings tinkled a little as he did so.

“That’s that. I think we should return to our decanter of port.”

Dickens was staring at the lamp. There was an odd expression on his face.

“Let’s take that lamp into the office where we can have a look at it under the gaslight.”

Collins frowned but did not argue.

Dickens stood, appearing to examine the dangling crystals for a while, and then he grunted in satisfaction. He instructed Collins to put the lamp on the table, turn it out, and then he bent forward and wrenched one of the crystals from its slight chain with brute force, wrenching the links of the chain open. He held up the crystal to the gas burner. Then he walked to the window and drew it sharply across the surface. The score mark had almost split the glass pane.

“And that, dear Charley, unless I am a complete moron, is the missing diamond. By heavens, it’s quite a big one. No wonder anyone would get light-fingered in proximity to it. I suspect that on the proceeds of a sale to an unscrupulous fence, even allowing for such exorbitant commission that such a person would take, one could live well for the rest of one’s life.”

His son-in-law frowned. “What made you spot it?”

“Look at the crystals—clear, pure white glass. When this bauble was hanging by them, it emitted a strange yellow luminescence, a curious quality of light. If it was crystal, then it could not be the same crystal, and it is entirely a different shape. Round and yellow. When I peered closely at it just now, I saw that its fitting on the chain was unlike the others. My dear Charley, if you are going to hide something, the best place to hide it is where everyone can see it. Make it a commonplace object. I assure you that nine times out of ten it will not be spotted.”

Collins grinned. “I’ll tell Wilkie that. My brother likes to know these things.”

“Well, let’s follow the redoubtable Sergeant Cuff. I think that this will take the main plank out of his theory that Wraybrook was murdered for the sake of the diamond.”

As they left the late Eugene Wraybrook’s rooms, a thickset man was hurrying down the stairs. He moved so quickly that he collided with Dickens, grunting as he staggered with the impact. Then, without an apology, the man thrust him aside and continued on.

“Mr. Bert Hegeton,” muttered Dickens, straightening his coat. “He seems in a great hurry. Oops. I think he’s dropped something.”

Indeed, a small thin leather covering of no more than two and a half inches by three and a half inches lay on the top stair where it had fallen from the man’s pocket.

“What is it?” asked Collins.

Dickens bent and retrieved it. “A card case, that’s all. Visiting cards. Not the sort of thing one would expect a schoolteacher in this area to have.” He was about to put it on the wooden three-cornered stand in the corner of the landing when he paused and drew out the small pieces of white cardboard inside. He grimaced and showed one to Collins.

They were cheaply printed and bore the same legend as on the handwritten pasteboard on Wraybrook’s door. Dickens smiled grimly.

They ascended the stairs. They could hear Sergeant Cuff s gruff tones and Beth Hexton’s sobbing replies.

Sergeant Cuff looked annoyed when they entered the room unannounced.

“You’ll excuse me, Sergeant.” Dickens smiled, turning directly to the girl. “Does Mr. Hegeton live in this tenement?”