A Particular Eye for Villainy: (Inspector Ben Ross 4) Read online

  I hesitated. I didn’t want to press the poor woman when she clearly had the greatest difficulty in maintaining her calm manner. But my curiosity overcame me. ‘You heard nothing? There was no sign of any intruder?’

  She shook her head. ‘Not a thing. To be sure, the walls are solid in this house but I do believe I would have heard Mr Tapley cry out. And he must have cried out, mustn’t he?’ She looked bewildered. ‘If he looked up and saw an assassin advancing on him with – with some implement in his hand? Oh, Mrs Ross, I had never thought to see such a sight. So much blood and the carpet quite soaked.’ She broke off, distracted by this domestic detail.

  ‘He might not have cried out if he didn’t look up,’ I pointed out. ‘If the assailant crept up . . .’ I stopped quickly because the image wasn’t one to introduce now.

  She leaned forward earnestly. ‘He must have stolen into the house and up the stairs as quiet as a mouse. Neither Jenny nor I saw or heard the wretch. I can’t believe it. It seems incredible that a complete stranger, a murderer, came into my own home! How?’

  That is what the police would want to know, I thought. ‘Had you seen Mr Tapley earlier today?’

  ‘No, but that was by no means unusual. Mr Tapley rose rather late and went out to a coffee house for his breakfast. I would have been happy to have him eat his breakfast here; but he said it was his habit to go to a coffee house and read the newspapers. I don’t know what he did the rest of the day. He was accustomed to join me at supper. It’s – it was the only meal he took here. He had his own key to the street door, you see.’

  She saw my surprise and hurried on. ‘At first I hadn’t intended to give any tenant his own key. But Mr Tapley asked if he might have one and promised not to lose it. I agreed. There are only Jenny and myself here and if by chance we were both out, he would not have been able to get back in until we returned. It seemed sensible that he should be able to let himself in. At any rate, he was usually back here in good time for supper. But tonight he didn’t come down. I thought perhaps he had fallen asleep and sent Jenny up to knock on his door. I am talking of his sitting-room door. He didn’t reply and she opened it to see if he was there – and she saw him . . .’

  Her fingers tightened their grip on one another in her lap. ‘She came screaming downstairs declaring Mr Tapley murdered. Of course, I told her not to be foolish because how could such a thing be? Who would want to kill such an inoffensive sort of person and here? I ran up there myself to take a look and found it was as she said. It was an awful sight.’ She shuddered. ‘Nothing will persuade me to go and look at his corpse again, not even if the police demand it of me.’

  ‘I shouldn’t think they would,’ I said, ‘not if you can tell them you are sure the body is that of Tapley.’

  ‘Oh, but it is!’ she insisted. ‘His features, you understand, are not so much – damaged. It is the back of his head . . .’

  She put a hand to her face.

  ‘Try not to dwell too much on the detail of it now,’ I urged. ‘Just tell me what happened next.’

  ‘Oh, well, I knew I must act at once!’ Her tone became brisker. ‘There was little point in sending for a medical man, so I sent Jenny to find your husband. I thought he would be at home by now. I am very glad that he was, and came so quickly.’

  I thought all this over. Establishing the time of death would be important. The doctor brought by the police might have an opinion on that. But Tapley had been a quiet tenant, slipping in and out of the house almost unnoticed. Had he even gone out, as usual, for his constitutional? His landlady had seen nothing of him in the normal course of the day until evening. Bessie and I had met him the previous day. But had anyone met him today? Where did he go between rising to go out and take his breakfast at a coffee house and appearing at Mrs Jameson’s supper table, I wondered. Did he spend the daylight hours walking about London? Or did he pass them in various coffee-or chophouses, reading rooms, the capital’s museums or just sitting in public parks? Or, having taken his exercise, did he slip back into the house and spend the rest of the day quietly in his rooms?’

  Then the most terrible possibility of all struck me. Thomas Tapley had a front-door key. Had he met his killer somewhere in town and invited him back to the house? Using his own key, had the victim – unaware of the threat – let them both in?

  Tentatively I began, ‘Can you tell me – I mean to say, the police will want to know everything you can tell them about Mr Tapley. How he came to lodge here, for example. Had you placed an advertisement? Did he bring references?’

  ‘Everything?’ Mrs Jameson looked alarmed. ‘But I know virtually nothing about him. Oh dear, that sounds so odd, because I allowed him into my house and if I knew nothing . . . But he was such a nice, quiet, happy sort of gentleman. I felt I could trust him, even with the key. Of course, I’ll give the police all the information I can.’

  At that moment the mantelpiece clock chimed, making us both jump.

  She drew a deep breath. I think talking helped her because it was as if some impediment had suddenly been removed and the words fairly poured out.

  Chapter Three

  * * *

  Patience Jameson

  ‘MY HUSBAND’S name was Ernest, as I mentioned, and he was master of the clipper ship, the Josie. Seafarers are obliged to be away from home a great deal and I used to tease him, declaring that the Josie was more of a wife to him than I was, since he spent so much more time with her than he did with me.

  ‘On his last voyage he sailed to the West Indies. During the voyage back to London, he fell sick with fever and died. Ernest and I both came from Quaker families and neither of us touched a drop of alcohol in any form, nor did Ernest allow the crew to drink spirits. But on that last voyage the cargo included some casks of Jamaica rum. The bos’un, who took over command when Ernest died, had the idea that Ernest’s body could be preserved in that and brought home to me for burial. Otherwise they could have buried him at sea but Mr Brand – the bos’un – thought I should wish to lay Ernest to rest in England. It was a kindly thought of Mr Brand’s. So they broached a cask and tipped the rum into some other receptacle. Then they got Ernest’s body, folded in some fashion, into the cask and topped it up with rum again and replaced the bung. I don’t know what they did with the rum left over. I fear they probably drank it. But the procedure was very successful and Ernest was returned to me, preserved in alcohol. I saw him buried in his home town of Norwich; and it was a comfort.

  ‘It was a very odd thing, you know, but when the undertaker was engaged in preparing Ernest’s body he asked me if I would wish him to shave the deceased and cut his hair, before I saw my dear husband in his coffin. I told him I was sure that wouldn’t be necessary. But then he explained to me that Ernest’s hair, beard and moustache had continued to grow after death in the barrel during the weeks it took to reach port. He now looked like a brigand or some sort of hermit. So I agreed that the undertaker should trim hair, beard and moustache so that Ernest would look like a Christian again.

  ‘I was used to spending long periods alone here while my husband was at sea, and to making all the necessary decisions and arrangements, meaning I was better placed than many widows. Ernest had taken out a life insurance so that I should not be left without means. Of course, the house became mine too. But as I have had to watch my daily expenditure very carefully, I decided to take in a lodger. I thought I should like to let the rooms to an older gentleman, if possible. Young men are unreliable. An older man would give less trouble. Young professional gentlemen, on the other hand, are capable of giving quite a lot of trouble, Mrs Ross, and rolling home inebriated is only one of the scrapes they get into! I first made enquiry among the Quaker community, but no one was in need of lodgings at the time. I then put an advertisement in one of the local papers, wording it very carefully and stressing that this was a teetotal household. The very next day Mr Tapley called.

  ‘He was a little down-at-heel in appearance but clearly a gentleman by family and e
ducation. There was a kind of – a kind of goodness in him, in his face and voice and manner. I can’t describe it otherwise. You might say a sort of innocence.

  ‘Normally I’d have hesitated to take in a gentleman completely unknown to me, without any real recommendation. He did bring one letter of reference but it was only from the landlady of his previous lodgings in Southampton. It said he had been an excellent tenant, always paying his rent on time and causing no disturbance. The landlady was sorry to see him leave. I asked him why he left and he told me he had a fancy to return to London where he’d lived as a younger man.

  ‘It sounds very unsatisfactory, but Mr Tapley proved an excellent tenant during the six months he was here. He did always pay his rent promptly. He never took a drop of drink that I ever saw any sign of. He was very quiet. He went out nearly every day for his “constitutional” as he called it. If it was rainy I think he spent some time in public libraries and museums. He often brought home books that he’d bought from street stalls. He once showed me a very fine leather-bound volume that he’d acquired for only sixpence, he said, from a man selling from a barrow in Whitechapel. He was a great reader.

  ‘And that is all I can say. There was never any sign of anything being wrong. It seems beyond belief that this could happen. I don’t think I shall ever be able to take in another lodger.’

  Elisabeth Martin Ross

  Mrs Jameson had only just stopped speaking, and was mopping away the tears that had begun to roll down her cheeks, when we were both alarmed by a loud rat-a-tat at the front door. She jumped up, staring at me in terror. I told her to stay seated in the parlour and I would find out who it was. It was probably, I told her, Ben returned with the help from Scotland Yard. She sank back on her chair, only partly reassured. I wasn’t so sure myself, as Ben had hardly had the time to reach the Yard, much less return. So I went to the window and, peering out, saw a burly caped figure wearing a police helmet.

  More confident, I opened the street door. I found the officer standing on the doorstep and pretty well filling the space between the doorposts. His cape was rain spotted. I was distracted enough to peer past him and see a veil of fine drizzle that had begun to patter down on the cobbles.

  ‘This will be the household where there’s been an incident?’ enquired the newcomer, stepping forward as he spoke.

  I had no intention of being bundled out of the way and asked briskly, ‘Who told you? What’s your name?’

  He gave me a scathing look. ‘I am Constable Butcher, madam, and this here . . .’ He gestured at the street behind him. ‘This here is part of my regular beat. I was patrolling it as usual, just got to the far end of it, when I met an inspector from the Yard who told me to come immediate. There had been an incident that would need investigating. So here I am and I’d be obliged, madam, if you’d allow me in. You are at present obstructing me. Will you be the owner of the house?’

  ‘No, I am Mrs Ross, the wife of the inspector you met and who sent you here. The owner is Mrs Jameson and she’s in the parlour . . . and the incident, as you refer to it, is a murdered man in a room on the first floor.’

  I couldn’t help but sound exasperated, but I did step aside as I spoke to allow him in. Mrs Jameson appeared in the parlour doorway behind me.

  He plodded past us, divested himself of his cape, hesitated and then folded it carefully and hung it over his arm where it began to drip on the hall carpet. Mrs Jameson made a little mew of protest.

  ‘As to whether it is a murder, madam, that is to be established. Until the matter is sat on by the coroner, it is an incident. Where is the deceased? Upstairs, you say?’ He began to make his way to the staircase.

  ‘My hus— Inspector Ross asked me to ensure no one went upstairs before he returned!’ I said loudly.

  Constable Butcher paused and looked round, his boot already planted on the first tread of the stair. ‘’E didn’t mean the law, madam!’ Now both his look and his tone were scathing.

  I was obliged to stand there while he laboriously climbed the stairs. I could hear him moving about up there and then I heard him exclaim, ‘Strewth!’ Subsequently I heard doors opened and shut as he searched, I supposed, for the culprit. He then reappeared on the landing and began to descend again.

  ‘I will guard the house, madam, until the arrival of the Yard,’ he announced. ‘You’d best go and sit in the parlour with the other lady.’

  At that moment there was distant clatter towards the rear of the house and the sound of voices.

  ‘Intruders!’ exclaimed Constable Butcher, grasping his truncheon and preparing to tackle them.

  I caught his sleeve as he started forward and told him, ‘It will only be the maidservant who ran to tell us what had happened. She’ll have returned with our maid.’

  ‘We’ll see about that, madam!’ said Constable Butcher. ‘Until I have investigated, it is possible there are intruders. You have a body upstairs, all bloodied and awful to look upon, and the miscreant what done it might still be on the premises. At any rate, there are desperate criminals about!’

  I thought, and devoutly hoped, the murderer had long left the house. But at least Butcher had promoted Tapley’s death from an ‘incident’ to an act of violence, even without the assistance of the coroner.

  He strode forward and I hurried along behind him. He threw open a door and sure enough, there were Jenny and Bessie, sitting at the kitchen table. They jumped up in alarm as Butcher burst in. Jenny screamed and looked as though she might start sobbing again.

  I pushed past him into the kitchen and told him, ‘It’s as I said. That young woman is employed here and the other one is my maidservant.’

  ‘If you say so, madam,’ he agreed reluctantly. Then, fixing the two girls with a glare, he demanded, ‘How did you get in?’

  ‘Through the back door,’ snapped Bessie. ‘How do you think? We don’t come in and out the front door. We’re servants.’

  Butcher surveyed the back door, perplexed. I guessed he was working out how he could guard both front and back doors at the same time. At last he plodded across to it and dropped the bar across that secured it against entry from outside. He then moved to the kitchen window and rattled the catch.

  Only then he turned back to the three of us and announced. ‘That bar stays there until an officer of the law removes it. You go back to the parlour, Mrs Ross, that’s your best course of action. And you two girls . . .’ Butcher stared mistrustfully at them. ‘You stay here and don’t touch that bar across the door, not if the Angel Gabriel himself was to come knocking to be allowed in. I shall now go and make a thorough inspection of all the other downstairs windows and guard the front door. If anyone calls, I shall answer and deal with the situation as I see fit.’

  To our great relief, he stalked past us en route to carry out these duties.

  ‘Who’s that great lump?’ asked Bessie, exasperated.

  ‘It’s the constable whose beat this is.’

  ‘He ain’t going to be the one investigating, is he?’

  ‘I most sincerely trust not,’ I said. ‘But don’t worry. Inspector Ross will take care of it. How are you feeling now, Jenny?’

  ‘Something awful, all shook up inside, missus,’ said the wretched girl.

  ‘Make her some more tea, Bessie. Jenny, the police will want to speak to you when they come from the Yard, so pull yourself together.’

  ‘I can’t drink no more tea,’ protested Jenny, ‘I’m all awash with it.’

  ‘Then just sit quietly. Bessie, make up the fire in that range and stay here with her.’

  I went back to the parlour and assured Mrs Jameson all was well and under control. At that point we heard the clatter of hooves and the grinding roll of wheels. I ran to the window yet again. Outside a closed four-wheel cab, of the sort called a growler, had just drawn up. The rain had painted it with a coat of gleaming lacquer and made the heavy caped coat of its driver glitter as if with spangles. To my relief, Ben jumped down from the cab, followed by two o
ther men. One of them, the younger, I recognised as Constable Biddle. The other was a stranger to me, an older man with a grey moustache, but he carried a familiar bag. It was the doctor, brought both to certify death and give an opinion as to how long poor Tapley had been dead.

  They hastened towards the front door and I heard Butcher greeting them, then their voices in the hall.

  ‘It’s all right,’ I soothed Mrs Jameson, who was looking at me with frightened eyes. ‘It’s the Yard.’

  Chapter Four

  * * *

  Inspector Benjamin Ross

  I HAD left the house with great reluctance. I thought Lizzie would have enough sense not to go upstairs. As for Mrs Jameson, having seen the body once, she would have no wish to see it again. All in all, I could be confident they’d stay in the parlour with the door locked. But they were alone and that wasn’t desirable with a murderer on the prowl. I set off in the direction of Waterloo Station where I could find a cab to take me to the Yard. It had begun to rain, a light persistent drizzle that found its way down the back of my neck. I had left home without my hat, too, but had no time to go back for it. I turned up my coat collar and hurried through the now empty streets, glimmering in the gaslight.

  Then I had a bit of luck. I turned a corner and saw, proceeding towards me in a stately fashion, the unmistakable form of a police constable on his beat. He was better protected against the weather than I was, wearing his cape. I hailed him and he responded by turning on his bull’s-eye lamp and playing its beam over me.

  ‘It’ll be Mr Ross, if I’m not mistaken, sir!’ he said in a surprised voice.

  ‘You’re not mistaken and for goodness’ sake, turn that beam away from me. You’re dazzling me!’

  He obliged, turning the lamp off altogether. I peered at him and thought I recognised a man who regularly patrolled this beat. ‘It’s Butcher, isn’t it?’