The Welfare of the Dead (28 page)

‘Of course. The gentleman himself wrote it down for us. It is in a man's hand.'

Webb sighs once more.

‘I knew this would prove complicated,' he mutters under his breath.

‘Inspector?'

‘Tell me, you did not see this man yourself, the lawyer? Would anyone else recollect him?'

‘I doubt it, Inspector. It is almost a year ago now.'

‘I am sorry, ma'am, my apologies. It is just that I am afraid you were duped. The numbers upon Newgate Street, to the best of my recollection, do not extend much beyond number one hundred and twenty. I doubt this firm exists.'

‘Well, then it was an odd pretence, Inspector. Who was he, do you think?'

‘In truth, ma'am, I do not know.'

 

H
AVE YOU VISITED
one of our Union workhouses, Miss Krout? I would recommend it before you return to your native land. You might find it instructive. They are veritable seed-beds of vice, the most fertile ground for all our social ills. I assure you, half the women that are upon the streets are workhouse foundlings, orphans or the like; and half the villains in Newgate, too. And, you know, when they are done with this life, they invariably go back to the House to depart from it; where else would take them? From the cradle to the grave. A capital system, is it not?

Pity? Yes, of course. I was raised a God-fearing Christian, Miss Krout. I had pity when I saw her lying there – who would not? But she was so degraded, so corrupted by her condition, I could barely bring myself to speak to her. I could see that the life to which she had been reduced had utterly consumed her. Indeed, it was like some terrible cancer had attacked all that was womanly or decent in her body and spirit. The sight of it positively repulsed me.

I am sorry. I speak too freely. But that is the nature of the social evil, Miss Krout. It is produced by immorality, it begets immorality.

No, every unchaste woman is not a whore; but she becomes one by force of necessity. I am sorry, but what
else is a creature who gives for money what she should only give for love? She can hardly be a woman at all; she loses everything that elevates her nature above the beasts. It is a mercy that she died when she did.

Yes, I pitied her greatly. And I was angry, Miss Krout. It burnt deep inside me, like a furnace.

D
ECIMUS
W
EBB ARRIVES
at his office in Scotland Yard at precisely eight o'clock in the morning. There is a presentiment of daylight in the streets outside, but nothing more. Consequently, he is obliged to light the gas and read the morning paper in the glow of the pale flame. It is not five minutes, however, before there is a knock upon the door. Webb raises his head from the paper to see the face of Sergeant Bartleby.

‘Late again, Sergeant?' asks Webb.

‘Sorry, sir.'

‘Have you seen the papers, Sergeant?'

‘Any good notices, sir?'

‘Don't be flippant, man. I read the
Telegraph
simply because it is this sheet, and its ilk, that seem to provide the Assistant Commissioner with the solitary benchmark against which he judges our progress. You'd be wise to do the same, if you want to keep your job. Here, listen:

CASINO MURDER

Another cold-blooded killing of a young woman, a murder of a similar character to those recently committed in Knight's Hotel, was perpetrated in the early hours of Saturday morning at the
Holborn Casino. There is every reason to suppose that the same monster is responsible for both atrocities. Moreover, the creature's brutality is only equalled by his audacity in repeating this wanton slaughter, his victim another hapless unfortunate. As yet, there have been no arrests, and it seems our police and detective agencies are, once more, quite powerless. That such foul crimes can be committed is itself a rebuke to our civilisation; that they should remain unpunished is a scandal which only serves to bring the once noble institutions of our state into utter disrepute. We understand that Inspector Webb of Scotland Yard is superintending the police investigation; let us hope he is determined to bring this woman-killer to justice.

One unintended consequence of the criminal's actions may be to precipitate the closure of the Holborn Casino, long known as a place of evil resort. There can be no true economy of suffering and misery but if the Casino should shut its doors for good then, at least, we may hope to see some improvement in the nocturnal morals of the metropolis. For it is these self-same dance-halls and saloons that serve to foster the manifold social ills that beset our great metropolis. Is it surprising, when we permit such places to flourish, that we are repaid in kind? How long must the spectre of death stalk our streets before we admit that we are rewarded tenfold by the wages of sin?'

‘Well,' says Bartleby, ‘it could be worse.'

‘“Once more quite powerless”? “Wages of Sin”?'

‘I wouldn't pay it much heed, sir,' suggests the sergeant.

‘Hmm. Well, let us hope the Assistant Commissioner agrees with you. What progress did you make upon Saturday?'

‘Autopsy of Miss Price done at Bow Street, sir, in the evening. The doctor was very accommodating but he found nothing much in her, ah, gut; a bit of an oyster and a touch of spirits.'

‘Is that all? How very frugal. Nothing else?'

‘Not that he could find, sir. Said the throat was unusual, though.'

‘Apart from being cut?'

‘I mean, sir, he said it was most likely done from the front, facing her,' says Bartleby, taking a breath. ‘He said it looked like it'd been chopped at more than sliced. Could have been she struggled. He said probably a right-handed man, too.'

‘Well, that tells us little except the fellow is willing to kill without compunction. But we knew that already. Has anyone reported anything more?'

‘No. No-one saw nothing, sir. That's how it seems anyway. Oh, and I spoke to the manager and the staff at the Casino, like you said. Not one of them remembers the young lady in particular; or whom she was speaking to.'

‘For heaven's sake, man, there must have been four or five hundred people there that night; one must have seen something. What about Miss Price's colleagues at the Mourning Warehouse?'

‘Nothing worth knowing, sir. She kept company with young gentlemen a little too freely; but no names – well, no surnames, anyhow, that they recalled.'

‘Good Lord,' says Webb. ‘I had hoped for a little more to work with.'

‘You have my word, sir,' says Bartleby hastily. ‘There wasn't anything else to speak of. Oh, I asked about Mr. Woodrow, too – apparently he's run the
place for about five years, since his wife's father died.'

‘Really?' says Webb. ‘Do we know what was his line of work before?'

‘No, sir.'

‘Hmm. Well, look into it, will you?'

‘Any particular reason, sir?'

‘If you must know, Sergeant, I thought he seemed a little unnerved when I was speaking to him and happened to mention Jeremy Munday's name. But he claimed never to have heard of him. It struck me as curious, that is all. Is that good enough for you?'

‘You think he knows something about it, sir? Or the business at the Casino?'

Webb sighs. ‘Perhaps, Sergeant, if you were to make some inquiries, we might actually find out.'

Bartleby, resolving not to debate the matter further, diligently draws his note-book from his jacket and scribbles something in pencil. ‘I spent all morning interviewing the girls, sir. I promise you.'

‘I am sure, Sergeant, I do not blame you. Let us put it to one side for a moment, and return to Mr. Munday. Have you organised the search of Abney Park?'

‘Ah, no, sir. I've been tied up enough as it is.'

‘Well, have it done today. I confess that there is something even odder about that affair than I thought.'

‘Sir?'

‘I went to Somerset House and found Munday's wife in the census; she died in St. Luke's Workhouse last year.'

‘No other relatives, sir?'

‘Not that I could find, although that is no guarantee. But a man visited her before she died; he claimed to be a lawyer, talked to her about a legacy.'

‘Claimed?'

‘The fellow gave a false name and address. How does that strike you, Sergeant?'

‘It's the same party that was at Abney Park, sir. Must be. Perhaps he was looking for the same thing as he was looking for in the grave?'

‘Precisely what I thought. But she was in the workhouse, Sergeant. What could she have had left that was of such value?'

‘Maybe not an object, sir,' suggests the sergeant. ‘What if it were some kind of clue or information? Ah, here's a thought, what if it were something that led this man to her husband's grave?'

‘Well done, Sergeant,' says Webb. ‘But the question is what was it? What could be so important after twenty-five years?'

Bartleby pauses.

‘I haven't a clue, sir,' confesses the sergeant.

Webb shakes his head. ‘Someone does, though, Sergeant. I just wonder if we can find him?'

Joshua Siddons opens the midday post in his office in Salisbury Square. He recognises the handwriting of one letter, dated that morning, and opens it immediately.

My Dear Mr. Siddons,

It was a pleasure to see you yesterday, and it brought to mind that it has been an age since we had the pleasure of your company for an evening. Will you excuse this very short notice, and favour us with your presence at dinner tomorrow? The dinner hour is half-past seven. It will be a small gathering with our cousin Annabel, whom you met today, and Woodrow's acquaintance Mr. Langley, a delightful young man with whom I
believe you are also already acquainted? I should not consider our little party complete without you. Do not trouble yourself to send with an answer; we will send to you for it in the course of the day.

Yours ever sincerely,

    
Melissa Woodrow

Duncan Terrace, November 16th.

Siddons takes the letter and folds it neatly in two, placing it inside his coat pocket, smiling to himself.