The Lodger (2 page)

A little after nine o'clock that evening, sixteen-year-old Bobby Reeves of East Street, Walworth, was on the out-skirts of Dulwich. His wily father was about forty yards ahead of him, treading the pavements quietly. Bobby, a tall and long-legged boy, kept close to the front hedges of houses, tracking his dad with caution. Occasionally, Mr Reeves cast a casual look back, but Bobby was never more than an indistinguishable part of the darkness, and he knew, in any case, that his old man wasn't looking out for him. Street lamps weren't too much of a problem, they were far apart, and the light they shed was blurred by the damp and misty night air.

In Dulwich proper, the houses were large. Curtains or blinds masked the lamps of drawing-rooms. Ahead, Bobby noted the looming bulk of a three-storeyed mansion that looked in complete darkness. It sat back from a bend in the road. A figure materialized out of the shadow of a high brick wall fronting the residence. Jagged chunks of glass set in mortar along the top of the wall were cruelly deterring. Bobby saw his dad pass closed wrought-iron gates and meet the man who had appeared. A big tall bloke, he began a whispered conversation with Mr Reeves. Bobby, at a halt, watched them. He saw the big man pick something up and throw it over the wall. It hung down, covering the thick barrier of broken glass. Bobby guessed what it was, a long strip of tough coconut-fibre matting, probably about a yard wide. The neighbourhood was in total quiet, and his dad and the big tall man were going to climb that brick wall by way of the protective matting.

Tucked into the thick growth of a boxwood hedge, Bobby brought a scout whistle to his lips and blew two loud blasts. The sounds were as resonant as those of a police whistle. At once his father and the big man were away, running for their lives, and he watched them disappear into darkness around the bend.

‘Dad, you need talkin' to,' he said, and was away himself, returning the way he had come before people came out of these big houses to investigate the reason for the whistle blasts.

His mother was up and waiting for him when he arrived home, by which time the April night had turned rainy. His two sisters were in bed.

‘Well, were you right, Bobby?' asked Mrs Reeves.

‘Wish I hadn't been, but I was,' said Bobby. ‘I thought he was up to something when he said he might be 'ome a bit late tonight. I thought I'd best go after him an' see exactly what. He 'ad that look.'

‘I didn't notice no look,' said Mrs Reeves, a plump and equable woman.

‘No, well, you've got kind eyes, Ma, they don't notice funny looks. It was dad's holy look, the one that makes 'im seem as if he's thinkin' about all things bright an' beautiful. He's clever, yer know, he got off the tram at Brockwell Park an' walked to Dulwich from there.'

‘What was clever about that?' asked Mrs Reeves, showing worry.

‘It was so that no tram conductor could say a man who looked like dad took a ride to Dulwich on a partic'lar night at a partic'lar time. I'm sorry to inform you, Ma, that we've got problems, an' that someone's got to talk to dad. Loudly. He won't like it comin' from me, so you'd better do it.'

‘Bobby, you 'aven't said what 'e got up to.'

‘He met a bloke at a house in Dulwich that looked as if no-one was at 'ome,' said Bobby. ‘They were goin' to climb over the front wall. I blew the whistle on them, and they both bolted, reckonin' the rozzers had spotted 'em.'

‘Oh, lor',' sighed Mrs Reeves, ‘I suppose I'd better talk to 'im when 'e gets back.'

‘Loudly,' said Bobby.

‘I can't shout at 'im, it'll wake yer sisters up.'

‘I don't mean that kind of loud, Ma, I don't mean hollerin'. I mean make sure that what you say gives 'im a headache.'

‘You got to remember 'e's had a lot of 'ard luck.'

‘He'll have more if he starts doin' Dulwich over,' said Bobby. ‘He'll get nicked for sure. Last time it was on suspicion of receivin', and he ought to 'ave been grateful Constable Bradshaw put a word in for him. Next time it'll be for liftin' the swag himself. I've got to be candid, Ma, I've got to tell you I'm not in favour of us havin' to go about with people knowin' the head of our fam'ly's doin' time in the Scrubs. We've got grandad's fam'ly name to protect, we don't want 'im turnin' in his grave, and I also don't want to start my promisin' future by havin' to call meself Smith. I'll wait up with you till dad gets in, and back you up when you start readin' the Riot Act.'

‘Bobby, I don't know nothing about the Riot Act,' said Mrs Reeves.

‘Now, Ma, it's no good you bein' soft on him all the time, you can make up a riot act of your own. Use the right kind of words, with a poker in your mitt. That's a riot act.'

‘Oh, lor',' said Mrs Reeves, ‘I suppose I'd better show a bit of vexation.'

‘And the poker,' said Bobby.

Bobby, I couldn't take no poker to your dad. 'E's got 'is faults, I know, but 'e's always been a lovin' father.'

‘Trouble is, Ma, that kind of lovin' could land us all in the workhouse. Now if he 'appened to be a lovin' and
workin'
father, we could hold our heads up a bit. If it wasn't for you an' your stall, we'd be in the workhouse already. So you talk to 'im, you give 'is ears a rollickin', Ma.'

‘I suppose I'd better,' said Mrs Reeves.

By eleven o'clock, however, Mr Reeves was still not home.

In Steedman Street, near the Elephant and Castle, a blank-looking bedroom window became yellowly transparent as a gas mantle was lighted. A woman moved to the window to close the curtains. She checked, and her hands stayed still. It was just a minute or so past eleven on this rainy Friday night. A street lamp cast drizzly light. Just beyond it she glimpsed a bending figure, and something else, a huddled shape on the pavement. The figure began to straighten up. Agitated, she pulled the window up, the frame rattling. She saw a man. It
was
a man. He jerked fully upright, something in his hand. Putting her head out of the window, the woman screamed. The man, tall and broad-shouldered, turned and shot away, running fast and silently in his rubber-soled footwear. She screamed again. He vanished into the drizzle.

A police constable, on his late-night beat, broke into a sprint from the Walworth Road end of the street. When he came up to what lay huddled on the wet pavement just outside the circle of light, he switched on his police lamp.

‘Christ,' he breathed, and blew his whistle.

It was all in the rushed early editions of the evening papers the next day, the details of a horrible murder, the victim a young woman, and what a middle-aged woman had seen from her bedroom window. A tall and bulky man in a flat cap and dark mackintosh bending over the poor woman. She had seen him straighten up, something in his hand. That something was thought by the police to be a strand of the murdered woman's hair. The murderer was well away before an alerted constable arrived on the scene. The papers, of course, made it sound as if Jack the Ripper had crossed the river in his old age to go to work in South London.

Inspector Greaves of Scotland Yard took charge of the case. He assigned a certain part of the investigation, house-to-house enquiries, to Detective-Sergeant Nicholas Chamberlain and Detective-Constable Frank Chapman.

CHAPTER TWO

Saturday morning.

Mr Reeves had received the talking-to from his wife, but had escaped being injured by the poker. He professed himself iggerant of the charge. It was then put to him that Bobby had followed him all the way to Dulwich and seen everything. Mr Reeves, aghast at such perfidy, said he could hardly believe his own flesh-and-blood could do a thing like that. He was innocent, just out for a walk round Dulwich way, and didn't know the geezer who stopped him outside a house. The bloke happened to be the upstanding gent who owned the house, and he'd locked himself out accidental. He begged Mr Reeves to help him get over the wall. A likely story, said Mrs Reeves, considering you both disappeared quick when Bobby blew his whistle. Mr Reeves nearly fell over at hearing the full extent of his son's perfidy, but he recovered to point out you couldn't trust coppers, and how was he to know it wasn't no copper? The upstanding gent was likewise untrusting of flatfeet. Mrs Reeves said she still didn't like the sound of it. Mr Reeves said it was circumstantial, that's all, that a bloke could be as innocent as he was, but still look guilty on account of circumstances. What kept him out so late, anyway? Well, the upstanding gent needed a reviver, so they went to a pub and forgot about the time. Oh, all right, said Mrs Reeves, and Bobby resigned himself to the obvious, that his mum would never read a real riot act to his dad.

‘Jack the Ripper? Talk sense, Frank,' said Detective-Sergeant Nicholas Chamberlain in the morning light.

‘Just pointin' out,' said Detective-Constable Frank Chapman, a taciturn man.

‘Pointing out what?'

‘What the papers mentioned. Jack the Ripper.'

‘The papers like gore,' said Nicholas, ‘but there's not a drop of blood anywhere, not even under her fingernails. That means she had no chance to scratch or claw. I'd say he took her from behind. Charteris is certain positive he used a cord.' Charteris was the police surgeon in question. ‘She was strangled, you know that, not chopped up. And the killer's peculiar.'

‘Bloody right,' said Chapman. ‘Sawed off a lock of her hair. Beats me. Queer, that sort of thing is.'

‘She was strangled from behind, she lost a lock of her hair, and was found without any handbag. That might mean she was robbed as well as strangled. It definitely means we don't know who the hell she is. But she was quite young, and as there's no wedding ring her closest relations have to be her parents. The old man's waiting for them to come forward, since she didn't get home last night.'

‘Livin' with her parents, was she?' asked Chapman.

‘Good question,' said Nicholas, ‘but don't pat yourself on the back, it's already been asked. Whoever she was living with has got to come forward.' He and Chapman entered the Walworth Road, and turned south. ‘You know what sawing off a lock of her hair means, don't you?'

‘I know. Lunatic asylums. And who's gone missin'.'

‘More than that,' said Nicholas, walking briskly. ‘The house-to-house enquiries need to include specific questions about lodgers. Some lodgers are odd types.'

‘Someone's lodger, is it?' Chapman was wasting not a word. ‘Who said?'

‘Wake up, Frank.' Nicholas eyed the streams of horse-drawn traffic. A Saturday morning street cleaner stood growling about it. ‘No-one's said. I discussed the possibility with the Inspector.'

‘Lodger, eh? That a bee in the old man's bonnet, is it?'

‘Not in his. Mine.'

‘Could take weeks,' said Chapman. ‘Lodgers all over the place here.'

‘Well, we've got a decent description,' said Nicholas. ‘Good build, flat cap, dark mackintosh, fast runner.'

‘That's something,' said Chapman.

‘How much of something?'

‘The bleeder's not as old as the Ripper would be.'

‘Forget the Ripper,' said Nicholas. ‘Think about that young woman, doing no harm to anyone. In cases like this, I suffer prejudices.'

‘Rule number one, sarge. No prejudices.'

‘Rule number a hundred and one, Frank. Allow for exceptions. I'm very prejudiced against murderers of women. Women have a rough enough time as it is. But don't worry, I won't be wearing a label. But I will be wanting a lot of work out of you. Tell your wife.'

‘You tell her,' said Chapman. ‘Your bonnet. Your bee.'

‘Just a feeling,' said Nicholas, ‘that's all. Come on, let's get busy, with the help of the uniformed branch. The old man's covering north of the Elephant and Castle, we're covering south of it.'

By eleven o'clock that morning, the weather had improved and the day was bright with April sunshine. Police Constable Harry Bradshaw, notebook in his hand, was knocking on doors in Charleston Street, Walworth. The little terraced houses with their bay windows, railed gates and scrubbed doorsteps, looked presentable in the main. All the same, many net or lace curtains once white were now ivory or even yellow with age. That meant money was hard to come by. The people of Walworth had their priorities. Clean curtains, yes. New curtains, seldom.

Constable Bradshaw, along with several colleagues from Rodney Road police station, was after particulars of lodgers, as well as information on all resident males who were tall, well-built and owned mackintoshes. Scotland Yard, for some reason, wanted keen attention paid to lodgers. Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain had been insistent on that, while not overlooking the possibility that some woman's husband or son could be suspect. Well, there were a number of odd fish among the lodgers of Walworth, such as those who kept to themselves and lived hermit-like lives in the upstairs back.

Harry, thirty-five and coming up for promotion, he hoped, knocked at number fourteen Charleston Street. It opened a little, just a little, after a few moments. A face appeared, a small face, topped by curling brown hair in need of a brush and comb. Blue eyes, slightly smudged, peered warily up at him. They took in his uniform and the authority of his helmet.

‘Mornin', young lady,' he said cheerfully, 'is your mother in?'

‘Dunno,' said small face.

‘Would you mind findin' out?' His weathered features broke into an encouraging smile.

‘What for?'

‘I'd like to speak to her.'

‘She ain't in,' said small face.

‘Sure? What about your father, he's at work, I suppose?'

‘We ain't got no farver.'

‘I'm sorry. You sure your mum's not in?'

‘She can't pay yer anyfink.'

‘I'm not goin' to ask her to. What's your name?'