The Welfare of the Dead (12 page)

As they near Oxford Circus, progress in the brougham becomes rather slow. Mrs. Woodrow tuts at the snaking queue of omnibuses that prevents the vehicle making headway. Annabel, for her part, passes the time making a mental note of the different colour liveries and place names of the buses passing by on the other side, the faces of the passengers and the nimble conductors, who seem able to balance themselves precariously upon the iron step at the rear of their bus, at the slightest notice.

In fact, it is some ten or fifteen minutes before the Woodrows' brougham can finally turn into Regent Street, drawing to a halt outside King and Sheath, Linen Drapers.

‘Of course, the eastern side of Regent Street is the fashionable side,' says Mrs. Woodrow, as she leads her cousin from the interior of Barrett's, Milliners. ‘It is
the
place to be seen.'

‘Why is that?' asks Annabel, stepping out onto the busy pavement. ‘The other looks just as grand.'

‘Loungers, my dear. The west side attracts the worse
sort of gentleman, if that is the word. They say it is the shade it gets in the summer.'

Annabel looks at the objectionable western side of the street. The classical façades of the shops are as tall as those of the east; the columns and entablature as pronounced; the plate-glass as transparent. She can, moreover, see no evidence of the worst or best sort of gentleman. There is simply a multitude of men and women, and a few children, some strolling, some pausing in front of shop windows. And what luxurious windows! Within one, elegant shawls sit draped over tilted display tables; in another rows of lace-fringed bonnets hang upon pegs; in the next, moiré and brocaded surah silk, ready to be fashioned into costumes by a talented dress-maker. Next a music-shop, in which colourful lithograph covers are presented like fans. Then a confectioner's, with cakes and bon-bons and jellies, glistening in the light, framed by frosted barley-sugar. In fact, the only difference Annabel can make out between east and west, as she strolls beside her cousin, is that the eastern flag-stones attract larger carriages, parked by the kerb.

These, she is discreetly informed by Mrs. Woodrow, are Mayfair coaches, stately landaus that rarely trespass beyond the confines of the West End. Twice the size of a humble brougham, she notices that several bear a crest, emblazoned on to the carriage door. One even boasts a strong-calved footman, who, to all appearances, does nothing but perch at the rear of the vehicle, staring sternly into the middle distance. Any pedestrian activity is carried out by shopmen and women, who scurry between their business and the waiting carriages, arms laden with goods. A nod or smile from within the confines of the coach, and they return happy; a shake of the head, and they return
crushed, muttering the words ‘carriage-trade' bitterly under their breath. In either case, the comings and goings quite fascinate her. Mrs. Woodrow, in turn, slows her walking pace to a crawl, casting cautious glances into the interior of each vehicle.

‘You never know who you might see, my dear,' she whispers, confidingly to her cousin. ‘Now, where shall we go next? Allison's, I think.'

Annabel smiles, but her outward good humour conceals an awkward hour and a half already spent in three milliners, at none of which a hat has been purchased. The prospect of immediately repeating the experience, watching her cousin vacillate between various grades of fabric and lace, does not fill her with enthusiasm.

‘May we not get something to eat, cousin?' she suggests placidly.

‘Why yes, my dear, why didn't you say if you were hungry? I know a delightful little confectioner's in the Quadrant.'

It transpires that there is a bonnet-maker's and a milliner's upon Mrs. Woodrow's route to Cooke and Stephenson, Quality Confectioners. In consequence, it is still a good hour before the two women repair to said establishment. Two hats have, at least, been purchased in the meantime, and delivery to Duncan Terrace arranged.

The interior of Cooke and Stephenson proves to be a welcome oasis of calm, beside the bustling street. It contains a dozen or more small tables, topped by lace cloths; these, in turn, face a long mahogany counter upon which sweetmeats and cakes are proudly displayed. Behind the counter, the wood panels along the walls are inlaid with mirrors, above each of which
a small gas-light flickers. Meanwhile, two or three women sit at each table, chatting quietly, as a pinafored waitress ferries tea and coffee, and all manner of sugared eatables, about the room.

It takes a moment for a space to be found; but, at last, Annabel and her cousin are placed in a window seat, facing the traffic as it trundles down to Piccadilly Circus. Once an order for tea and scones is placed, however, Mrs. Woodrow delicately excuses herself to ‘rearrange her hair', leaving her cousin to watch the world outside.

Annabel, for her part, is content to enjoy a few moments of solitude. She tries her best to store the details of Regent Street in her mind, the better to record them later: the men and women in smart morning dress, the dirt upon their boots; the sandwich-board man, weary in appearance, whose signboards proclaim ‘Westley's Restorative Mixture' and a dozen illegible testimonials to its efficacy. Then a crossing-sweep, who rushes by, a Hindoo boy by the look of him, whose face so intrigues her that she is half tempted to run after him, as he scurries along the street, pestering likely prospects for a penny. So engrossed does she become in the minutiae of the scene, as if in some panorama presented for her entertainment, that she does not notice the man standing beside her, until he leans down to address her. He is a fat, round-faced man, with a dark Mediterranean complexion, hidden only a little by the lapels of his coat, pulled tight up about his neck.

‘Miss Woodrow, I presume?' he says, making Annabel jump with surprise.

‘No, I'm sorry,' she replies, uncertain quite how to frame a polite reply to the stranger. ‘I am a friend of the family.'

‘Ah, I see, I am sorry to give you any trouble.'

‘No, you haven't. If you wait a moment—'

But before Annabel can finish the sentence, the man has turned and left. She watches him in astonishment, as he walks briskly through the door, brushing past a woman coming in, and then across the street, disappearing into the crowd.

She stands up to see if she can still see him, further along the road, when Melissa Woodrow reappears at her side.

‘What's wrong, my dear?'

‘A man just came in here and asked if I was “Miss Woodrow”, then just rushed out.'

‘Really? How odd – did he leave his card?'

Annabel shakes her head. ‘No – he was very peculiar. I think he might have been an Italian or—'

‘A foreigner? My dear, the man was trying to proposition you – and I thought this was a respectable place!'

The nearest waitress scowls at Mrs. Woodrow's highly audible exclamation.

‘But how did he know your name?' continues Annabel.

‘I should imagine he was walking behind us, overheard us talking. They have terrible cunning, my dear. You have had a lucky escape.'

‘Yes,' mutters Annabel, looking over to where the man disappeared from view, a distracted look upon her face. It suddenly occurs to her that she has seen him before.

It takes her a moment to recall, then it comes to her. It is the face of the man from earlier in the day; the man who stood outside the Woodrows' home in Duncan Terrace, looking up at her window.

I
T IS LATE AFTERNOON
when Sergeant Bartleby jogs up the narrow winding stairs that lead to Decimus Webb's office. The room is one of several belonging to the Detective Branch, situated above the old arched gateway that guards the cobbles of Great Scotland Yard. Cramped, ill-ventilated, with the distinct smell of horse dung from the yard outside, it is little used by its tenant. Today, however, with nothing to occupy his time but reading several long-winded reports and pursuing a detailed claim for the sum of £2 10s., travelling expenses, Inspector Webb is to be found
in situ
.

Bartleby takes a breath and knocks on the open door, cautiously stepping over several crates full of books and papers that partially block the entrance. Webb looks up from his work, and beckons him to sit down – but it is no easy task for the sergeant. The office interior, dimly lit by a pair of gas-lamps, its walls decorated with ageing yellow flock, contains obstacles for the unwary pedestrian, similar to those on the landing. In fact, the accumulated detritus of several years of investigations are laid out upon the floor, with papery traces of old murders, abductions and frauds scattered around Webb's desk.

The arrangement is not entirely Webb's fault. It is
common knowledge that the search for a new, spacious, more reputable headquarters for the Detective Branch has long been a talking point and a challenge for the Police Commissioners. Nonetheless, as Bartleby sits waiting for his superior to finish writing, he wonders if he ought to suggest the purchase of some drawers for filing. He is about to say something, when Webb speaks up.

‘Well, what is it?' asks the inspector, at last, putting down his pen.

‘Nothing much, sir,' replies Bartleby, instantly repenting of the putative drawers. ‘A letter from Inspector Hanson, and a telegram from Mr. Pellegrin, Abney Park.'

‘I remember the fellow's location, Sergeant – well, what does it say?'

‘Which, sir?'

Webb sighs. ‘Begin with Hanson.'

‘Ah, well, in short, sir,' says Bartleby with a slight smile, ‘it appears they've lost Mr. Brown. They had a watch on his lodgings but he . . . ah, here it is,' he says, pulling out the letter in question, ‘he “evaded the constable on duty” and he asks us to notify the divisions. Wouldn't think it, would you, sir? Big fellow like that. Hard to miss him, I would have thought.'

‘Yes, yes. In any case, have you arranged it?'

‘Telegraphed all the particulars to the divisions, and put a note in next week's Bulletin,' replies Bartleby.

‘Good. Well, we can keep an eye out for him. Poor Hanson. What does Mr. Pellegrin have to say for himself?'

Bartleby retrieves the telegram. ‘Ah yes, well, turns out he found the undertaker that made the coffin, like you asked – Siddons & Sons, Salisbury Square, Fleet Street.'

‘Siddons? Ah yes, I know the name.'

‘You think they might have a record?'

‘Well, I do not suppose they buried that many J.S. Mundays in Abney Park in 1848, do you, Sergeant? At the very least we might inquire.'

‘I suppose so, sir.'

‘Well then,' says Webb, looking back down at his papers, ‘what are you waiting for?'

‘I'll be off, sir,' says Bartleby.