The Dead Woman of Deptford: Inspector Ben Ross mystery 6 Read online

  Copyright © 2016 Ann Granger

  The right of Ann Granger to be identified as the Author of the Work has been asserted by her in accordance with the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988.

  First published as an Ebook by Headline Publishing Group in 2016

  Apart from any use permitted under UK copyright law, this publication may only be reproduced, stored, or transmitted, in any form, or by any means, with prior permission in writing of the publishers or, in the case of reprographic production, in accordance with the terms of licences issued by the Copyright Licensing Agency.

  All characters in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to real persons, living or dead, is purely coincidental.

  Cataloguing in Publication Data is available from the British Library

  Ebook conversion by Avon DataSet Ltd, Bidford-on-Avon, Warwickshire

  Jacket photograph © Shutterstock

  eISBN: 978 1 4722 0453 0

  HEADLINE PUBLISHING GROUP

  An Hachette UK Company

  Carmelite House

  50 Victoria Embankment

  London EC4Y 0DZ

  www.headline.co.uk

  www.hachette.co.uk

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright Page

  About the Author

  Praise

  Also by Ann Granger

  About the Book

  Epigraph

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  About the Author

  Ann Granger has lived in cities all over the world, since for many years she worked for the Foreign Office and received postings to British embassies as far apart as Munich and Lusaka. She is now permanently based in Oxfordshire.

  Praise

  Praise for Ann Granger’s Victorian mysteries:

  ‘Period colour is nicely supplied . . . This engrossing story looks like the start of a highly enjoyable series’ Scotsman

  ‘Her usual impeccable plotting is fully in place’ Good Book Guide

  ‘The book’s main strength is the characterisation and the realistic portrayal of London in the mid-19th century’ Tangled Web

  ‘An intriguing tale, with period detail interwoven in a satisfying way’ Oxford Times

  Ann Granger’s highly acclaimed Mitchell and Markby novels, the Fran Varady mysteries and the Cotswold crime series featuring Superintendent Ian Carter and Inspector Jess Campbell are also available from Headline.

  ‘Very enjoyable’ Literary Review

  ‘A clever and lively book’ Margaret Yorke

  ‘Characterisation, as ever with Granger, is sharp and astringent’ The Times

  ‘The plot is neat and ingenious, the characters rounded and touchingly credible, and the writing of this darkly humorous but humane and generous novel fluent, supple and a pleasure to read’ Ham and High

  For more information about Ann Granger’s previous mysteries visit www.anngranger.net.

  By Ann Granger and available from Headline

  Inspector Ben Ross crime novels

  A Rare Interest in Corpses

  A Mortal Curiosity

  A Better Quality of Murder

  A Particular Eye for Villainy

  The Testimony of the Hanged Man

  The Dead Woman of Deptford

  Campbell and Carter crime novels

  Mud, Muck and Dead Things

  Rack, Ruin and Murder

  Bricks and Mortality

  Dead in the Water

  Fran Varady crime novels

  Asking for Trouble

  Keeping Bad Company

  Running Scared

  Risking it All

  Watching Out

  Mixing with Murder

  Rattling the Bones

  Mitchell and Markby crime novels

  Say it with Poison

  A Season for Murder

  Cold in the Earth

  Murder Among Us

  Where Old Bones Lie

  A Fine Place for Death

  Flowers for his Funeral

  Candle for a Corpse

  A Touch of Mortality

  A Word After Dying

  Call the Dead Again

  Beneath these Stones

  Shades of Murder

  A Restless Evil

  That Way Murder Lies

  About the Book

  The sixth Inpector Ben Ross mystery

  On a cold November night in a Deptford yard, dock worker Harry Parker stumbles upon the body of a dead woman. Inspector Ben Ross is summoned from Scotland Yard to this insalubrious part of town, but no witness to the murder of this well-dressed, middle-aged woman can be found. Even Jeb Fisher, the local rag-and-bone man, swears he’s seen nothing.

  Meanwhile, Ben’s wife Lizzie is trying to suppress a scandal: family friend Edgar Wellings has a gambling addiction and no means of repaying his debts. Reluctantly, Lizzie agrees to visit his debt collector’s house in Deptford, but when she arrives she finds her husband is investigating the murder of the woman in question. Edgar was the last man to see Mrs Clifford alive and he has good reason to want her dead, but Ben and Lizzie both know that a case like this is rarely as simple as it appears . . .

  . . . the very existence of London depends on the navigation of the Thames, insomuch that if this river were rendered unnavigable, London would soon become a heap of ruins, like Nineveh and Babylon . . .

  The Picture of London for 1818

  This book is dedicated to my family, my friends, and my neighbours, in gratitude for their invaluable support at a difficult time. Thanks in particular to Tim and to Chris, my sons, who have had to manage their loss as well as mine; and to my agent, Carole Blake, and editor, Clare Foss.

  Chapter One

  Inspector Ben Ross

  HIS NAME was Harry Parker. He was a small, scrawny figure and scruffily dressed. In the yellow light cast by the police lantern, he peered up at us with the trapped look of a stray dog, cornered and at bay. He gripped a cloth cap in his hands, pressing it against his chest, and his little eyes flickered from one to the other of us, always returning to my face. I could not have said what kind of an impression he would make, as a witness, on a judge or jury. I only knew that he made a very poor impression on me.

  A little under an hour earlier, I had thought myself finished for the day. I had even uttered the words: ‘Well, Morris, I think we might at last go home!’

  The sergeant and I had been out of London, clearing up a matter in Cambridge where assistance had been requested. Police duties apart, it had been a pleasant break. Cambridge had seemed quiet after London and we’d appreciated the cleaner air, the atmosphere of the university town, its fine Gothic buildings and the open meadows on which cattle grazed. It had truly appeared a different world.

  Returning home, we had been able to see from the train the grey pall of smoke that hung above our great capital. It could have been worse. This month, November, normally saw more fog rolling up the Thames estuary. Mixed with the coal smoke, it often formed a dense, bad-smelling, yellowish mass that invaded every nook and cranny, r
ight down to pavement level, and cloaked the buildings with a dirty veil. You could not brush by without your clothes being marked with black smears. But, though cold and damp, we had so far been spared ‘a London Peculiar’.

  Morris and I left the train to be swallowed up at once in the scurrying crowds and made our way through packed thoroughfares. Our ears were assaulted by the rattle of wheels and clip-clop of hooves; the cries of street vendors and jangling of barrel organs. All life was here. With respectable citizens mixed beggars – who made their trade obvious – and pickpockets – who did not. Cambridge’s lively but scholarly atmosphere might have been another country. When we passed through the doors of Scotland Yard, it seemed we had reached sanctuary. I registered our return, promised our report first thing in the morning and all that was left now was the pleasant expectation of supper with our families.

  That was when Fate conjured up a herald of Doom, in the person of a red-faced, breathless young constable. The clatter of boots on the stairs heralded his appearance in the doorway, clutching a letter. He was perspiring profusely.

  ‘Who are you?’ snapped Morris, not recognising the newcomer but identifying an obstacle between himself and his own fireside.

  ‘Evans, sir, from Deptford!’ squeaked the newcomer. He peered doubtfully from one to the other of us. ‘They told me downstairs to ask for Inspector Ross.’

  ‘Did they, indeed? I am Ross.’ I stepped forward and took the letter he held out. ‘Well, lad, what’s brought you so urgently?’

  ‘We have a murder, sir!’ declared the youngster excitedly. ‘They only just found the body. It’s in Skinner’s Yard. Oh, and sir, Inspector Phipps sends his compliments and his apologies,’ he added belatedly.

  ‘Good of him!’ muttered Morris behind me.

  We both now knew that there was no telling when we would get home that night. The building had emptied of most officers and those remaining were busy – or busy enough to send Constable Evans to me. I read the letter slowly. ‘Murdered woman, eh?’

  ‘The body’s still lying where it was found,’ urged Evans. ‘I’m to take you there, sir.’ The lad was actually hopping from foot to foot.

  It was necessary to do something before this eager young Mercury was so overcome by excitement I had to pour water over him. There was nothing for it. I sent him out to find a four-wheeler cab that could transport all three of us to the scene.

  ‘Sorry, Morris,’ I said to him, as we made our way out of the building.

  Morris mumbled some reply but I did not catch it. I didn’t need to.

  I reread Phipps’s letter on our way south of the river. I was seated next to young Evans, as he was of slighter build than Morris, whose generous bulk nearly filled the opposite seat. To read, I had to twist myself into an awkward position and hold up the paper to the eerie glow of the gaslight from the street. It made the document look like some mediaeval parchment. The jolting of the cab sent the words leaping up and down but I could just manage to make them out.

  The murder had some unusual features, wrote Phipps. But he did not divulge what those might be. He was, however, strongly of the opinion the investigation would be better handled by the Yard. At Deptford they had not the resources. A recent increase in drunken brawls and fights among seamen, many of them off foreign ships and speaking no English, kept them fully occupied.

  I did not know Inspector Phipps; though I’d heard of him and his reputation was of a capable officer. But I found it difficult to believe that such anarchy raged in Deptford that a murder investigation could not be given priority, at least initially. If there proved to be complications, it might later come the way of the Yard. That we were called in immediately brought to mind the expression ‘hot potato’.

  I peered from the window. Deptford had long had a claim to being the most insalubrious area in London; and that against some stiff competition. Yet the scenes we passed revealed a lively place. Along the river lay ships at anchor on one hand, their tall masts a forest against the night sky. Occasionally the darkness of the winter sky was illuminated by a shower of red and gold sparks, as if someone had set up a spectacular firework. The impromptu display marked where men worked on the hull of an iron-clad vessel in one of the shipyards.

  We rumbled by the dark bulk of the great warehouses of the wholesale traders. Cargo ships came into the port of London from all over the world. With other smells that found their way into the cab, my nose caught the scent of spices and tobacco. Many small businesses also depended on the docks: chandlers, smithies and wheelwrights. We clattered along the high street, which boasted the usual grocers, fruiterers and wine merchants, many of them busy even at this late hour. From the brief glimpses afforded me, many shop premises appeared small and cramped within, with low ceilings and exposed wooden rafters. Already every drinking den we passed was full. We caught snatches of raucous singing and the scrape of a fiddle. Above us the upper storeys of the buildings blotted out the sky, human anthills in which families were crammed, often in a single room.

  I had not seen any evidence of the rioting mobs, yelling abuse in a variety of languages, suggest by Phipps’s request for assistance from the Yard.

  I could say nothing aloud before the Deptford constable, but I had deep misgivings about this whole business. I passed Phipps’s letter to Morris, who scanned it as best he could before we turned off into less well-lit streets. Aloud, as poor consolation, I said to him, ‘Perhaps it will turn out something that Deptford can cope with perfectly well, after all.’

  ‘Then why don’t they?’ muttered Morris. Perhaps he did not intend me to hear him. Perhaps he was hungry and tired and didn’t care.

  But Evans heard him and I felt him flinch. When, shortly afterwards, the cab rocked to a halt, his voice came nervously in the gloom. ‘It’s here, sir!’

  We scrambled down. I paid the cabbie, and got him to scrawl a receipt on a scrap of paper I hunted out of my pocket. I trusted I would be reimbursed. The Yard had already funded our return train fares to Cambridge that day, so an additional claim might well be declared above the set allowance.

  The cab rattled away, leaving us in an area somewhere between the river and the commercial heart of the place. Eyes watched us from all the buildings around, but the actual watchers had retreated out of sight. We followed young Evans, who led us through a gap and into a dark, evil-smelling space, inadequately lit by the light from windows overlooking the spot and the bobbing rays from police bull’s-eye lanterns. The bearer of one such lantern raised it on high so that the beam targeted my face, and revealed the carrier to be a sturdy figure in heavy caped uniform coat and helmet.

  ‘Barrett, sir!’ said the uniformed man, as I shielded my eyes from the sudden glare. ‘I’ve got him here, the fellow who found the body.’

  My eyes were adjusting to the poor visibility. The area in which we found ourselves was not so much a proper yard as a gap between tall brick buildings, extending twenty feet to the rear and measuring some fifteen to twenty feet in width. Rubble scattered about suggested a building here had been demolished, perhaps an old warehouse, and no one had seen any purpose in replacing it. Taken together with the surviving houses flanking the gap, the effect was of a row of aged teeth, slowly crumbling and falling out.

  The street behind us was lit by gas lamps, but they cast little light into this desolate nook. Only the oil-fuelled beams of the lanterns barely reached to the far end, where dilapidated wooden lean-to buildings suggested privies. Once everyone living here probably used these: and they were still used by some, if the stench was anything to go by. Bazalgette’s sewer system for London had not yet tunnelled its way here. Those privies must drain into some rarely emptied cesspit, or, even worse, still channelled their refuse into the river. Elsewhere the new sewers had done much to banish the spectre of cholera. But if it were to return, this yard was an ideal breeding ground for its horrors. Litter and rubbish of all kinds was heaped about, festering and odorous. Rats scuttled here and there boldly, lured out by ea
sy pickings and tonight by the scent of blood.

  Like his colleague, Evans, Constable Barrett was young but keen. He hauled his prize out of the shadows and into the light with a flourish; rather like a conjurer producing a rabbit out of a hat.

  ‘Here he is, sir!’ he declared triumphantly.

  I clapped my chilled hands together, partly to dispel the numbness but also to underline I was in charge here; and scowled my displeasure at the miserable specimen of dockside riff-raff before me.

  He, in response to my glare and the echo of my hands round the brick walls, cowered back. He looked even more terrified. Good. It might be unfair at this point to blame him for my delayed return home and hot dinner. But I was only human and, in the absence of Inspector Phipps, had to focus my resentment on some target.

  ‘What’s your name?’ I demanded of the unprepossessing specimen of humanity pushed under my nose. I had seen a ‘rat circus’ once, performing in a large cage, prodded and bribed by a human ringmaster. It was as if one of those performers had escaped and stood before me, dressed in jacket and trousers, and standing on its hind paws.

  My nose, in fact, conveyed the first information about him. The witness had spent his recent hours in a pub. He reeked of beer, sweat, sawdust and tobacco smoke.

  ‘Parker,’ our witness mumbled, ‘Harry Parker.’ In a spurt of courage, fuelled by resentment, he pointed at Barrett. ‘I already told that rozzer, didn’t I?’

  ‘What’s your occupation, Mr Parker?’

  ‘I work in the docks,’ he muttered. ‘I wait at the gates early in the morning when they hire men for the day. If I’m hired, I do anything I’m set to – loading or unloading, fetching and carrying . . .’

  And a bit of thieving, if you can manage it, I thought to myself. The casual labourers hired at the dock gates in the morning were searched on leaving the docks at the end of the day. But with a crowd of weary, ill-tempered, fellows pushing by; and only a couple of men at the gates to check each one, it was not possible to stop pilfering.

  ‘How did you come to find her?’ I asked him next.