The Welfare of the Dead (33 page)

‘D
O YOU THINK HANSON
and his lot are up to it, sir?' asks Sergeant Bartleby, as the clarence cab in which they travel rattles along the Euston Road, then past Portland Place and the southern boundary of Regent's Park. ‘If I didn't know better, I'd say you were just keeping him busy.'

‘Sergeant, really,' says Webb. ‘He has an interest in the case and, if truth be told, his is the prior claim – assuming we are looking for the same man, of course.'

‘That must be odds on, sir. The girls and Brown: I'd say the same fellow's done for them all. If he has something against the girls, not surprising he should go after him too.'

‘Or simply silence the only witness? Regardless, I am not convinced of his supposed religious mania, Sergeant, not by a long chalk. Our Mr. Woodrow is the key; I am sure of that much.'

‘You think he knew Brown, sir? He was awful nervous, I thought, when you spoke to him.'

Webb pauses, looking out of the cab window at the entrance to Baker Street railway station, as they pass by. ‘I thought so too. He knows something, but what? You must find me a little more about his background.'

‘I will do, sir, when there's a spare moment.'

Webb looks sharply at the sergeant.

‘I'll do it today, sir,' says Bartleby.

Webb does not reply. Bartleby, however, cannot resist a further query.

‘You don't think Woodrow's the guilty party, sir? He acts rather too high and mighty, don't you think, as if he's something to hide?'

‘You will find most people have something to hide, Bartleby. Mr. Woodrow is concealing something; a fool could see that. The question is whether that something is actually what we are trying to uncover.'

‘I don't quite follow, sir.'

‘For example, he might simply know Brown because he has paid a visit in the past to Knight's Hotel. He is hardly likely to admit to such a thing, with his wife sitting downstairs. That does not make him our murderer; not yet, at least.'

‘Well, I hope Hanson can keep an eye on him, sir.'

‘So do I. Ah, at last, we are here.'

Richard Langley's home in St. John's Wood, whilst not a mansion, is a slightly grander affair than the Woodrows' home in Duncan Terrace. For, though part of a row of substantial houses, it is situated upon a corner plot, surrounded by a whitewashed stone wall and neatly tended shrubbery upon all sides. The house itself stands three storeys high, a large, square suburban temple of white stucco, Grecian in style, with little exterior decoration, save for an imposing Doric porch. The two policeman quit their cab and proceed through the gate to the front door, where Bartleby rings the bell. The formalities of announcing themselves completed, the two men are led inside by a maid-servant whose face betrays a degree of anxiety at the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives. Nonetheless, she promptly directs them to her master's library, where Richard Langley sits at a desk, with large sheets
of paper, bearing pencilled designs and hastily written notes, scattered about him.

‘Ah,' says Langley, getting up to greet his guests. ‘Inspector . . .'

‘Webb, sir. This is my sergeant, name of Bartleby. Sorry to trouble you, sir, but we're making inquiries relating to an unfortunate incident last night; well, a murder to be precise.'

‘Murder? Good heavens. I confess, I am quite at a loss.'

‘A gentleman was found dead, sir. Not far from the residence of your acquaintance, Mr. Jasper Woodrow – I gather you had dinner with the family last night?'

‘Oh, good heavens. Well, how unfortunate. Yes, of course, I did indeed. But how does any of this pertain to me?'

‘Well, you were in Duncan Terrace, sir. Did you see anything suspicious?'

‘I can't say as I did, Inspector,' replies Langley. ‘I took a cab directly there, and hailed one on the City Road on my way back.'

‘No foreign-looking gentlemen in the vicinity of the house?' suggests Bartleby.

‘Not to my recollection, Sergeant. Was the man foreign?'

‘The dead man was a Greek, sir,' says Webb. ‘Swarthy-looking type; a big man.'

‘I don't recall seeing anyone of that description.'

‘Well, if you think of anything, be sure to contact the Yard, sir, if you please. May I ask, do you know the family well, the Woodrows?'

‘I confess, it is more a matter of commercial rather than social ties, Inspector, though Mrs. Woodrow was good enough to invite me to dine,' says Langley. He gestures at the plans upon his desk. ‘I have been
designing Mr. Woodrow's new Warehouse. I even had a mind to invest in the business, before . . . well, recent events. The poor girl who was . . . well, I am sure you have heard about it.'

‘Ah,' says Webb, nodding, ‘I see you are appraised of the unfortunate incident at the Casino on Saturday. Another investigation of mine, I am afraid, Mr. Langley. I have all the luck.'

‘It is bound to affect the business, Inspector. I was obliged to withdraw. It has rather soured my relations with Mr. Woodrow, I fear. Still, he shall have his plans complete, if nothing else.'

‘If you don't mind me asking, sir,' says Webb, ‘how long have you known Mr. Woodrow?'

‘A couple of months, Inspector. Why?'

‘Oh, I just wondered, sir.'

‘Inspector – forgive me – these two incidents, the poor girl and now this man, are they connected in some way?'

‘Why do you ask that, sir?'

‘Surely it seems an odd coincidence, to say the least?'

‘We are much of the same opinion, sir.'

‘Well, but this is terrible. I should not wish to think Mrs. Woodrow or her cousin were in any danger.'

Webb smiles. ‘Ah, I see. Well, your concern for, ah, Mrs. Woodrow is admirable, sir. We will keep an eye upon them, rest assured.'

‘I am glad to hear it.'

‘We'll bid you good day, Mr, Langley. Remember, be sure to let us know if anything comes to mind about yesterday evening, anything remotely unusual may be of interest.'

‘I am sure I cannot think of anything.'

‘Still, if it does.'

Annabel Krout sits listlessly before the fire-place in the morning-room of Duncan Terrace, idly staring at
The Bride of Lammermoor
but hardly reading a word. As she turns a page, Jasper Woodrow appears at the door, dressed for the office, his great-coat slung over his arm. His face appears rather flushed and aggravated.

‘Miss Krout, a word if you please.'

‘Sir?' replies Annabel, looking up.

‘I wonder if you might, in future, be a little more circumspect.'

‘I'm sorry, I don't understand,' replies Annabel.

‘Your remarks to the inspector concerning this fellow who drowned. Implying that the fellow had some connection with this family. It won't do, Miss Krout. I suppose the damage is done now; but I would rather you said nothing further on the matter, particularly not to Lucinda; she is quite disturbed enough.'

‘I only told him the truth, sir,' says Annabel.

‘Miss Krout,' says Woodrow, raising his voice, ‘you may imagine yourself pursued all over London by strange men, but I will not have such fancies passed off as plain fact to the police. They have better things to do with their time, I am sure, than chase the phantoms of your imagination.'

‘The man was dead, sir. I did not imagine that.'

‘Nonetheless,' says Woodrow, his voice far from authoritative; there is almost a hint of hysteria in it, ‘I have had my say.'

‘Sir,' says Annabel Krout, ‘I disagree—'

‘Miss Krout,' says Woodrow, ‘do not defy me. You will come off the worse.'

‘Sir?'

‘You heard me, Miss Krout.'

‘Ah, Sergeant,' says Joshua Siddons, ushering the two policemen into his rooms. ‘Come, take a seat. And your colleague is . . .'

‘Webb, sir. Inspector Webb.'

‘Well, an honour to meet you, sir. A positive honour. Pray, have a seat.'

‘Thank you,' says Webb as the two men sit down.

‘Is this more about the Munday business, Inspector? I am afraid I have not been able to locate our ledger. Shabby of us, I must confess. I suspect it was lost back in fifty-four. There was a fire, you see; almost ruined the firm. Lost a lot of stock too. In any case, I don't believe there is much more I can tell you.'

‘No, it's a different matter, sir,' says Webb. ‘I understand you dined last night with Mr. Jasper Woodrow?'

‘Woodrow? Yes, of course. Mrs. Woodrow invited me to dinner. Marvellous woman. And their cook – no words to describe it, Inspector. I hope there is nothing wrong, sir? Good heavens, I hope nothing has happened?'

‘Not to the family, Mr. Siddons. But a man was found dead in the Regent's Canal, late last night, murdered. We understand he had been pestering Mr. Woodrow's cousin; he may have even been watching the house. We wondered if you saw anything or anyone acting suspiciously.'

‘Miss Krout? Poor girl! Lovely creature; charming. I'm afraid I caught a cab pretty sharp, Inspector. Saw no-one, far as I recall. How awful, though, eh?'

‘The man was a Greek, sir. Large build, dark hair,' adds Bartleby.

‘A Greek? Good Lord. No, Sergeant, I don't think I saw anyone. You must forgive me. At my age, the eyes are not quite what once they were, you know.'

‘Have you been a friend of the family long, sir?' asks Webb.

‘Many years, Inspector. Knew Mrs. Woodrow's pater; capital fellow. And Woodrow, of course, used to work for me; did you know that? Managed our Manchester office before he was married.'

‘I see. Did he work there long?'

‘In Manchester? What an inquiring mind you have, Inspector. Well I should say it must be a good twenty years or so. Worked his way up; always been a determined sort of fellow.'

‘You found him reliable too?'

‘That's why I asked him to London, sir. Head clerk, before he married and came into the wife's property. Always said, sir, anywhere money changes hands, one needs a man one can trust, eh?'

‘We are no further on, sir,' suggests Sergeant Bartleby as the two men depart Salisbury Square.

‘Oh, I'm not sure I'd say that, Sergeant. We know a little more about Mr. Woodrow, at least.'

Bartleby says nothing, but a look of skepticism clouds his face.

‘You'd best be off to Abney Park this afternoon, Sergeant,' continues Webb. ‘I want the place thoroughly searched. We have left it too long already.'

‘But with everything else, sir—' protests Bartleby. Webb, however, interrupts.

‘We have Hanson watching Woodrow; and I fear there is little else to do today. Besides, it may prove just as important, Sergeant. It worries me that the same names keep re-occurring. There may even be a connection between the Abney Park business and the rest of this affair.'

‘Like what, sir?'

‘If I knew that,' says Webb, exasperated, ‘you would not need to search the place.'

‘I'll leave no stone unturned, sir,' says the sergeant, keeping his face entirely straight.