The Lodger (7 page)

That was what had come to be on the minds of the people of Walworth following the house-to-house calls of the uniformed police. Trary and her mum hadn't discussed the murder, because of the younger girls, but it had been on their minds, as had the advisability of being wary of strangers.

‘Trary?' Maggie saw the set look on her daughter's face. ‘Lord, is that what you're thinkin', he might be the one that – oh, is he still there?'

‘No, I told him you were out, that you wouldn't be back till late. I told him he could call again in the mornin'. He said it would be a pleasure, he said he'd be here at half-past nine. Well, you see, Mum, if it is him, I think the police ought to be here waitin' for him, don't you? I think I ought to go round to the police station now, and tell them. Perhaps Mr Bradshaw might be there, I could talk to 'im, couldn't I?'

‘Trary pet, you're a brave an' clever girl, that you are.' Maggie eyed her eldest daughter with visible pride. Neither of them knew it, but what Trary had proposed coincided with what Emma and Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain had arranged under similar circumstances. Trary, quick-witted, had seen it was the best and most obvious thing to do. ‘But I'll go, lovey.'

‘No, don't you think it's best if you stay with the girls, Mum? I can describe the man, can't I? I mean, suppose he doesn't call back tomorrow mornin'? That might mean he went away suspicious about me saying you were out and tellin' him to come back in the mornin', and if he's suspicious that means he's got something on his mind, don't you think so? Mind, he was as cheerful as anything, and ever so fancy, and a bit saucy as well, he asked me if I was Walworth's May Queen.'

‘Oh, 'e sounds a very cheerful gent, lovey, at your age I'd've liked to be asked if I was a May Queen,' said Maggie. ‘Still, you did right, we can't be too careful.' She mused. ‘I don't know I'm sure a man that's done a murder would walk around lookin' for lodgings the day after, though, specially not in the same neighbourhood. But all right, you go to the police station, then, and I'll stay with the girls. Oh, they're up to something.'

There were yells and squeals from the kitchen. Maggie didn't have too much trouble on the whole with her girls, but they had their moments of argument and quarrel. She returned to the kitchen to restore order, and Trary put her boater on and went to the Rodney Road police station. She was hoping to see Constable Bradshaw again. In the space of a day, Trary had decided that if he wasn't married he'd do very nicely for her mum.

He wasn't there. But she met none other than Inspector Greaves himself, the man in charge of the case. She also met Nicholas Chamberlain. She thought the detective-sergeant homely, friendly and manly. To Trary, manly was admirable. She thought Inspector Greaves grizzled and fatherly, if a little bit awesome. She was surprised how encouraging he was, how carefully he listened to her, and she liked the smile Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain gave her. Inspector Greaves told her she was the most sensible girl he had ever met. Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain told her, after he had seen her home, that she was a peach of a girl.

He would be there himself in the morning, he said, with a colleague. He spoke to her mum. Maggie agreed to receive the man, whom Trary said was a Mr Bates, if he did come back. She'd receive him in her parlour. Nicholas would be in the street, with Chapman, and knock on the door five minutes after Mr Bates had arrived.

Maggie's parlour was comfortable enough with its solid, upholstered Victorian sofa and armchairs, but lacked any pictures or ornaments. There had been one lovely picture, a large one, of a storm at sea, a depiction of the Spanish Armada meeting its doom, which her husband had acquired just before they were married. But that was in pawn now, with the other pictures, all the ornaments and the nice pieces of china kept in the corner cabinet. There was a bare look to the walls, the mantelpiece and the hearth. The brass companion set, a wedding present, was in pawn too. So was the lovely brass fender. The pawnbroker had offered her money for the fender, and Maggie was presently thinking she'd have to go and accept his offer.

The cheerful, smiling Mr Jerry Bates wasn't put off by the obvious.

‘It's a tidy house you've got, Mrs Wilson, I can see that. I've been places, yer know, and seen all kinds, and I always say if someone keeps a tidy house, you can lay to it you'll get a good bed with a decent mattress.'

‘Well, I wouldn't offer no-one a bed that didn't have a decent mattress,' said Maggie, hiding her nervousness as she studied him. His boater was off, his brown hair thick and wavy, his moustache handsome, his wide eyes full of light and good fellowship, and he looked as if he'd spent lots of time in the sun.

‘I can offer references,' said Mr Bates. ‘I last had lodgings with a fam'ly in Dartford.'

‘I'm sure,' said Maggie. She was having an awkward and nervous time. Mr Bates was different in every way from the oily, smirking Mr Hooper. He was very open and frank in his manner, and so cheerful. Just the kind of lodger she'd like. Oh, Lord, he couldn't be the man the police were after, he surely had to be just a man looking for lodgings. ‘What fam'ly d'you 'ave yourself?' she asked.

‘Just me old ma and pa, and they're in Australia, near Sydney. That's a place, I can tell yer, Australia.'

‘Oh, my parents – ' Maggie was interrupted by a knock on her front door. Swallowing, she said, ‘Excuse me a minute, Mr Bates.'

‘Pleasure,' said Mr Bates.

Maggie knew who it was, of course. While she was out of the room, Mr Bates contemplated the ancient wallpaper and the absence of hanging pictures. There weren't many houses, even in Walworth, where the parlours contained not a single picture, not even one of a Highland stag at bay. Unless the occupants had pawned everything. Amid the murmurs of voices at the front door, Mr Bates counted the lighter patches, square or rectangular, on the wall-paper. Six. All with ‘Uncle' now, of course. No ornaments, either. And the fire was empty of fuel, the hearth bare. This was a case of a woman with her back to the wall. She'd welcome a lodger. And maybe some charitable gestures.

The murmur of voices became louder. The parlour door opened and Maggie reappeared. There were two men with her.

‘Oh, Mr Bates,' she said, ‘these gentlemen's from the police, they're doin' the rounds of houses and makin' enquiries, like.'

‘Morning, sir,' said Nicholas briskly, ‘sorry to barge in, but the enquiries concern the – '

‘Hold on, hold on,' said Mr Bates, coming to his feet, ‘it's Sunday, yer know, and it's a bit much, disturbin' this lady and her neighbours on a Sunday mornin'.' His cockney accent had a twang to it. ‘Don't think much of that meself.'

‘It's a murder investigation, sir,' said Nicholas.

‘Murder?' Mr Bates sobered up. ‘That's different.'

‘And most people are at home on a Sunday morning.'

‘True,' said Mr Bates, ‘I grant yer that, inspector.'

‘I'm Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain, sir, and this is Detective-Constable Chapman. We understand from Mrs Wilson that she's a widow and has no lodger at the moment. Our enquiries, of course, concern – '

‘Men,' said Mr Bates, and nodded. ‘One man in partic'lar, eh? Well, I read about the murder. Nasty. Don't like that kind of cove meself.'

‘Neither do we,' said Nicholas. ‘However, Mrs Wilson did tell us you were here, asking about a room she has to let. Would you mind answering a few questions?'

‘I get you, sergeant,' said Mr Bates cheerfully, ‘so go ahead. I wouldn't want Mrs Wilson to think I'd got something to hide.'

Maggie already thought nothing of the kind. She already thought Mr Bates was quite genuine.

Nicholas was quizzing the man. Handsome devil. Fine build. Hearty. Healthy. Frank eyes. Friendly smile. All the same, there were men whose smile was like that on the face of a tiger before it sprang.

‘Your name, sir?'

‘Jerry Bates.'

‘May I ask why you're looking for lodgings, Mr Bates?'

‘Because I'm a travellin' bloke, a minin' engineer, just up from Australia.'

‘You've just arrived?' enquired Nicholas.

‘No, I've been back in the Old Country a few days, stayin' with a friend in his lodgings in Dartford.'

‘Could you tell me where you were on Friday night, sir?'

‘Same place, sergeant. Dartford.' Mr Bates smiled. ‘I'm takin' no offence, I'm appreciative you've got yer duty to do. Ask anything you like.'

‘You were in Dartford all Friday night?'

‘I was. I left there about six on Saturday evening. You can confirm that with me friend, name of Rodney Foster. Twenty-one Essex Road, Dartford.'

‘I see.' Nicholas mused. Chapman gloomed. Waste of time. ‘Mr Bates, did you call on any other prospective landlady before you knocked on Mrs Wilson's door?' asked Nicholas.

‘Didn't need to,' said Mr Bates. ‘I know Walworth. I looked in a newsagent's window and saw Mrs Wilson's card advertisin' a room.'

‘Well, the fact is, sir,' said Nicholas, ‘a man answering your description did apply for a room at the house of one of Mrs Wilson's neighbours.'

‘Well, you bring that neighbour here, sergeant. A lady, was it?' Mr Bates raised an eyebrow, and Nicholas nodded. ‘She'll tell you it wasn't me. I came straight here yesterday evenin', here to Mrs Wilson's.'

It's a nothing, thought Nicholas. He saw that Chapman thought so too. And Mrs Wilson was fidgeting, a sign that she no longer liked the questioning. Well, it had had to be done.

‘Many thanks, Mr Bates,' he said.

‘I appreciate the process,' said Mr Bates, good humour undiminished.

‘What process?' asked Nicholas.

‘Elimination, yer know.' Mr Bates laughed. ‘Except, of course, you could also say elimination's a hanging job.' He laughed again.

‘Oh, Mr Bates,' protested Maggie, feeling uncomfortable about everything.

‘Apologies, Mrs Wilson. Sometimes me sense of humour gets the better of me.'

‘Sorry to have bothered you,' said Nicholas.

‘Don't mention it, sergeant,' said Mr Bates. ‘Murder's very nasty, and you've got to do your job. I'm still not takin' offence.'

‘Sorry we interrupted your Sunday morning, Mrs Wilson,' said Nicholas.

‘It's all right, Mr Bates and me both understand,' said Maggie, and saw them out. On the doorstep, she whispered, ‘He's just not the one, is he?'

‘I can't fault him,' said Nicholas. He noted the colour of Maggie's hair. Light brown, not golden, like the murdered woman's or Mrs Carter's. He shook himself. He was getting obsessive about women's hair.

‘Look,' said Maggie, ‘I'm sorry we wasted your time, but Trary an' me both thought . . . well, we thought it was right to tell you about 'im.'

‘It was absolutely right,' said Nicholas, ‘and it can't count as wasted time. Thanks for everything. Goodbye, Mrs Wilson.'

‘Goodbye,' said Maggie, stepping out to watch them go. The sharp April sunlight caught her hair and tinted it with gold.

Walking down the street, Chapman said, ‘Waste of time all right. If you ask me.'

‘I don't need to ask. But let's just check a couple of things with Mrs Buller while we're here.'

Mrs Buller experienced a tingle of importance in having Scotland Yard men call. Nicholas asked what shade of grey was the suit of the man who enquired about lodgings yesterday. Dark grey, said Mrs Buller. Sure? Yes, said Mrs Buller, she didn't have eyes for nothing, she hoped.

Mr Bates's suit was light grey. The girl Trary Wilson had said so last night. And it was light grey this morning. Was the man a cockney with a twang? No, said Mrs Buller.

Nicholas and Chapman went on their way again, heading for the Yard.

‘Ruddy useless lead,' said Chapman.

‘It was only routine in the first place,' said Nicholas, ‘just something to check on. It became an embarrassment for Mrs Wilson.'

‘Hard luck. One thing, though.'

‘What one thing?' asked Nicholas.

‘Dartford. Why'd he leave it to come here?'

‘Wake up, Frank. If he left Dartford to commit murder in Walworth, he'd have been back in Dartford an hour later.'

‘Only asked,' gloomed Chapman.

‘It could have been a good question if it had made sense,' said Nicholas, who had no qualms now about letting Mrs Wilson take Mr Bates in as a lodger.

‘I'm only sorry it embarrassed you, Mrs Wilson,' said Mr Bates, ‘but give 'em their due, they were rightly quick off the mark as soon as you told 'em you had yours truly in yer parlour. It's got to be faced, a stranger comin' after lodgings does put 'imself in line for being questioned. Under the circs.'

‘You stood up to it very good,' said Maggie.

‘If I hadn't been able to, I wouldn't have been here,' said Mr Bates amiably.

‘Well, it couldn't be helped,' said Maggie, ‘they just . . .' She resigned herself to a little lie. ‘They just 'appened to be goin' the rounds of knockin' on doors. We needn't talk about it any more. You were saying about Australia when they arrived.'

‘So I was.' Mr Bates seemed at home already. ‘Yes, that's a place, take my word for it. All kangaroos. More kangaroos than people. Not much work, though, and the goldmines ain't what they're cracked up to be. I'm a minin' engineer, yer know, I'm here to see some City firms that give contracts to travelled engineers like me. That's why I'd like to take lodgings in Walworth. It's handy for the City. Would you like to state what you're askin' by way of rent?'

Maggie felt sensitively contrite that she'd brought the police to a man so obviously genuine. She also felt she'd been thrown a lifebelt that would save her from going under. She was prepared to accept the man was a bit of a joker, but lots of men were jokers, and a woman could deal easier with them than with creatures like that Hooper man.