CONSTABLE FRED BILLINGS, COMING off his first beat of the day, spoke to Sergeant Gough about a lady resident’s complaint concerning a suspect loiterer who began to follow her. Wisely, he omitted any mention of her female intuition.
‘Come off it, Billings,’ said Sergeant Gough.
‘Thinkin’ about it,’ said Fred, ‘I considered it me duty to report it.’
‘You’re reportin’ that some lady friend of yours was follered last night in Back Church Lane?’
‘The same, sarge.’
‘Any lady in Back Church Lane at that time o’ night can expect to be follered,’ said Sergeant Gough. ‘And much as it grieves me, some of ’em like to be follered. For purposes of a licentious nature, with money changing hands. Unfortunately, it don’t always happen like that, as you know, or should know. Some of ’em get laid out, their ’andbags nicked and their wearables removed. That’s on account of what we call the recipients bein’ in need of overgarments and undergarments, and not too proud to put ’em on for Sunday church. I wouldn’t be surprised if ’alf the hard-up females in Bow Bells on Sundays ain’t wearin’ what don’t rightly belong to ’em.’
‘I know all that, sarge,’ said Fred, ‘but I think what this partic’lar lady was on about didn’t concern ’er wearables. I think she meant ’er virtue.’
‘Eh?’
‘Virtue, sarge.’
‘You feelin’ ill?’ enquired Sergeant Gough.
‘Right as rain, sarge.’
‘D’you mean that after three years on yer present beat, you’ve found a female in Whitechapel that’s still in ownership of ’er virtue?’
‘I wouldn’t rightly say I’ve found her, sarge, I’ve known ’er for years.’
‘Who is she?’
‘Bridget Cummings, sarge.’
‘Bridget Cummings?’ Sergeant Gough eyed Fred pityingly. ‘The middleweight champion of Petticoat Lane, Caledonian Market, Whitechapel and Mile End? Constable Billings, any suspect geezer that takes to follering Bridget Cummings home is liable to be found in a mortally wounded condition.’
‘Beg to differ, sarge.’
‘You beg what, Billings?’
‘Well, I grant Bridget Cummings is a bit quick to get aggravated, but under all that it’s me genuine opinion she’s got a warm heart and good intentions.’
‘You’re off yer rocker,’ said Sergeant Gough. ‘Bridget Cummings is ’ighly fortunate not to be in jug for participatin’ in that riot.’
‘She was only there by accident, sarge.’
‘Billings, if you’ve gone weak in the head, get yerself a job openin’ cab doors for the gentry. By the way, how’d you come to be speakin’ to the middleweight champ first thing this morning?’
‘I’m lodging with her and ’er family, sarge, ’aving moved in yesterday evening. It’s already in the records.’
‘Billings, see a doctor,’ said Sergeant Gough.
‘Sarge—’
‘It’s an order.’
Lulu Swann shared a flat with a lady friend in Albany Mansions off Shaftesbury Avenue. Albany Mansions looked as if it had seen its better days long ago. The stone stairs were pitted, the tiled walls dull with neglect. On the first floor, a woman stood in the open doorway of her flat. There were curlers in her fair frizzy hair, and she wore a pale green feathery wrap that looked as if it was struggling to survive constant wear. It also looked as if it was on its own.
‘Hello, darlings, heard you coming up,’ she said to the two men as they reached the top of the first flight of stairs, ‘but no daytime clients, sweeties – oh, ’elp.’ Her tone changed. She’d recognized two arms of the law. She vanished, closing the door fast.
Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross traversed the landing and climbed the second flight of stairs, their boots treading stone. They were looking for flat number seven. They found it and Sergeant Ross knocked. The door opened after a short interval. Another woman appeared, another gaudy feathery wrap, another head of hair, but loose in the absence of pins or curlers. A pretty face, a face that looked as if it had just had a lick and a promise, took on an expression of caution.
‘Good morning,’ said the Chief Inspector breezily.
‘Er?’ said the woman, in her mid-twenties.
‘Would you be Miss Swann?’
‘Who’s askin’?’
‘I am. We are.’
‘What for? I ain’t done nothing.’
‘Why d’you say that?’ asked the Chief Inspector.
‘’Cos yer coppers, ain’t yer?’
‘Very observant of you, Miss Swann. I’m Chief Inspector Dobbs of Scotland Yard, and this is Detective-Sergeant Ross. Might we come in and talk to you?’
‘’Ere, this ain’t fair, Scotland Yard comin’ it ’eavy on a gel,’ said Lulu Swann.
‘You’re in no trouble as far as the Yard is concerned,’ said Dobbs. ‘We’re simply making enquiries about a certain gentleman you might know.’
‘Me?’ said Lulu Swann. ‘I don’t know no gentlemen, except—well, a gel can never tell who’s a gentleman and who ain’t. You sure you ain’t after layin’ something on me?’
‘Sure,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘’Ere, you’re nice-lookin’ for a copper, did yer know that?’ said Lulu.
‘Yes, Sergeant Ross knows it,’ said Dobbs. ‘Can we come in?’
‘Well, all right, only I ain’t prepared for visitors, not this time of the day I ain’t, and Irene, me flatmate, is still in bed.’ Lulu stood aside and the men entered. Sergeant Ross closed the door for her and she took them into a living-room, cluttered and untidy. There was a faint aroma of scent and musk. ‘Well, this is me sumptuous abode,’ she said. ‘Still, we don’t get the mice up ’ere like they do downstairs. What certain gent was you wantin’ to ask about?’
‘First,’ said Dobbs, ‘would you know a woman called Maureen Flanagan?’
‘Is that Irish?’ asked Lulu, drawing her wrap closer over a fairly capacious bosom.
‘Yes, Irish,’ said Ross.
‘Never ’eard of her,’ said Lulu.
‘Sure?’ said Ross.
‘Positive,’ said Lulu, ’never met any Flanagans in me life. Is she a gel that gets arrested occasional?’
‘One of the arrestable kind, you mean?’ said Ross.
‘If yer like,’ said Lulu.
‘We’ve no record that she’s ever been arrested,’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, I still don’t know ’er,’ said Lulu.
‘D’you read the papers?’ asked Ross.
‘Papers? No, only picture magazines.’
‘D’you know of or have you heard of a man called Baz Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Baz what?’ said Lulu. ‘Who’s ’e with a monicker like that?’
‘A gentleman engaged in procuring,’ said Dobbs.
‘Oh, blimey,’ said Lulu, ‘you’re ’ot stuff, you are, mister. A gentleman, you said? That’s a good one, that is. But I’ve never seen ’im, spoke to ’im or ’eard of ’im.’
‘Who looks after you, Miss Swann?’ asked Ross.
‘Give over, you know the game, don’t yer?’ said Lulu. ‘I ain’t comin’ across with ’is name. He’s me insurance.’
‘You’ve never heard anyone mention the name Baz Gottfried?’ asked Dobbs.
‘No, honest I ain’t,’ said Lulu.
‘How about Godfrey?’ suggested Dobbs.
‘No, nor ’im, either,’ said Lulu.
‘Your friend Irene,’ said Ross, ’d’you think she might help us, Miss Swann?’
‘She’s in bed,’ said Lulu. Her wrap, loose, gaped a little. Abundance made a fleeting attempt at emergence. ‘Oh, beg yer pardon, gents,’ she said, and forestalled revelation by adjusting her wrap and holding on to it. ‘Irene had – well, a busy night. But she wouldn’t be able to ’elp, she’s new and a bit green. Me insurance man only brought ’er up from the country a week ago.’
‘Your insurance man’s heading for a nasty fall,’ said Dobbs.
‘Yes, ain’t some people wicked, mister?’ said Lulu.
‘People like Baz Gottfried?’ said Ross.
‘Blimey, that one sounds like a circus knife-thrower that’s ’it ’is target when he shouldn’t ’ave,’ said Lulu. ‘Sorry I can’t ’elp you gents, I never met nicer coppers. ’Ere, listen, handsome,’ she said to Ross, ‘you got any money? Only you could buy me out for a hundred quid, and I’d come and ’ouse-keep for yer, and do yer washin’ as well.’
‘I’m short of money in the bank,’ said Sergeant Ross.
‘Well, if yer luck changes and a windfall lands on yer doorstep,’ said Lulu, pert and saucy, ‘just come and knock.’
‘And if you should hear of a man called Baz Gottfried,’ said Ross, ‘get in touch with us at the Yard.’
‘Crikey, I don’t want to be seen at the Yard,’ said Lulu.
‘There’ll be a couple of quid for any useful information,’ said Dobbs.
‘Two quid?’ said Lulu, looking pained.
‘Four,’ said Dobbs. ‘Good day, Miss Swann. Stay off the streets.’
‘Yes, be a good girl,’ said Ross.
‘Nice to ’ave met yer, I’m sure,’ said Lulu, hugely relieved she’d hadn’t been copped for soliciting. She saw them out, opening the door for them before suddenly sparking into life. ‘’Ere, half a tick, wait a bit. Baz you said? Baz? You sure you don’t mean Basil?’
‘You’re saying there’s a Basil Gottfried?’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, you said four quid and I remember I did ’ear a gel mention ’im once.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Dobbs, shaking his head. Lulu gave a very good impression of not understanding. ‘You’ve been naughty,’ said Dobbs.
‘Lying, guv, is that the word?’ said Ross.
‘Me?’ said Lulu.
‘Didn’t you say you’d never heard of any Gottfried?’ said Ross.
‘It’s me memory,’ said Lulu, ‘it goes blank sometimes.’
‘Dear, dear,’ said Dobbs again.
‘Look, mister,’ said Lulu, ‘anyone could go blank about a name like that.’
‘The reverse, I’d say,’ said Ross.
‘I told yer, though, that I’ve managed to remember,’ said Lulu. ‘By the way, could yer make it a fiver?’
‘That depends,’ said Dobbs.
‘Well, could yer ’old on a minute while I see if Irene’s still asleep? Only it ain’t clever to talk about names if someone’s listening.’ Lulu moved down the corridor, carefully opened a door and looked in. Satisfied, she quietly closed the door and returned. ‘Dreamin’ of country chickens, I expect,’ she said. ‘Anyway, Basil Gottfried’s got gels, but I ’eard he’s a bit nasty. He scarred one gel for life when she crossed ’im. Mind, that’s only what I ’eard.’
‘Where’s he live?’ asked Ross.
‘I don’t know that, honest,’ said Lulu, ‘he sort of keeps ’is head down, he sort of disappears and reappears, but ’e still keeps ’is eye on ’is gels, all of ’em.’
‘You sure you don’t know where we could find him?’ said Dobbs.
‘Honest,’ said Lulu.
‘I think you’re withholding information,’ said Dobbs.
‘No, I ain’t,’ said Lulu.
‘Tck, tck,’ said Ross.
‘Mind, I could find out for yer,’ said Lulu, ‘I could find out this afternoon, if you ’ad a fiver up yer sleeve.’
‘How?’ asked Dobbs.
‘Mister, I know one of ’is gels that likes me a lot. D’you mind if I don’t tell yer any more?’
‘I won’t mind too much if you can come up with the man’s address,’ said Dobbs.
‘Could yer come back ’ere tomorrer mornin’?’ asked Lulu.
‘We could do that,’ said Ross.
‘With me five quid?’
‘If you’re worth it,’ said Dobbs.
‘Could yer make it six quid?’ asked Lulu.
‘Two quid was a fair start, four quid was handsome, a fiver’s a promise, but six quid is coming it a bit,’ said Dobbs.
‘Still, it ain’t a fortune,’ said Lulu, ‘and you didn’t mind me askin’, did yer, mister?’
‘Well, we all like to have one more go at the lucky dip,’ said Dobbs. ‘Good day, Miss Swann, we’ll be back tomorrow morning.’
‘I won’t let yer down,’ said Lulu, ‘specially if yer going’ to put Basil out of business. He’s a real nasty insurance man, ’e is.’
‘That’s only what you’ve heard, of course,’ said Ross.
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Lulu.
Chief Inspector Dobbs and Sergeant Ross said nothing as they descended the stairs to the tiled hall. Leaving the building and entering the flow of the West End’s busy life, Ross said, ‘Saucy little madam, that one.’
‘Fighting for survival, my lad,’ said Dobbs, ‘which is why she and her kind get into a habit of telling fibs.’
A weak sun had given up the attempt to brighten the misty air. Barrow boys were active, horse-drawn traffic rolling up from Piccadilly Circus, and the colourful adornments of ladies’ large hats challenging the sober hues of winter. The Chief Inspector’s brown bowler sat squarely on his head, while Sergeant Ross’s black bowler was worn at a slightly rakish angle, which would not have pleased the Chief Superintendent.
‘The offer of a few quid changed that,’ said Ross. ‘Do we make a call on the second lady, Mary Smith? I’ve got her address down as Wardour Street.’
‘Right, with luck, Mary Smith might save the Yard five quid,’ said Dobbs.
That piece of wishful thinking fell apart. Mary Smith, if such was her name, had departed from the Wardour Street address two weeks ago, and the present occupant, a coloured lady in pink swans-down and very little else, knew nothing of her or of anyone called Baz Gottfried or Basil Godfrey.
‘That puts Lulu Swann back on course for tomorrow,’ said Ross, as he and the Chief Inspector retraced their steps to Shaftesbury Avenue.
‘And there’s still Mrs Pritchard and her fidgets,’ said Dobbs.
‘Any further thoughts on her old man, guv?’
‘Basil’s favourite at the moment,’ said Dobbs.
‘Odds-on, would you say?’ asked Ross.
‘Evens, sunshine, evens,’ said Dobbs.
‘They ’aven’t come back, the police,’ said Mrs Pritchard, when her husband walked in for his midday bite to eat.
‘Well, if they do,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘don’t open yer north-and-south too much. Even opening it a bit ain’t clever, not when it’s in front of coppers from the Yard. Uniformed rozzers that walk the beat ’ave got the looks of the law, but not a lot up top. Yard coppers are artful sods.’
‘You didn’t ’ave much up top yerself when you told ’em you didn’t go out that night,’ said Mrs Pritchard.
‘You ’ad even less when you said I did.’
‘It just slipped out, it was me state of mind,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘I ’ope them coppers ain’t been askin’ questions down at the pub.’
‘Ruddy ’ell, did you ’ave to mention that?’ said Mr Pritchard.
‘It’s on me mind, ain’t it?’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘They might of found out you was there.’
‘If they ’ad,’ said Mr Pritchard, ‘they’d ’ave been back ’ere to ask a lot more of me. Listen, I dunno why we ’ave to ’ave troublesome lodgers.’
‘For their rent, of course,’ said Mrs Pritchard. ‘And they ain’t troublesome. It’s you that is. Goin’ after Maureen Flanagan at your age, that was trouble all right, you an old married man and all.’
‘Leave it alone, will yer?’ said Mr Pritchard.
Bridget was not given the opportunity to have another set-to with Constable Fred Billings that evening, for along with other constables he’d been despatched to investigate a disturbance at a lodging house in Crispin Street. Everyone in the place seemed to be fighting everyone else, women clawing, scratching and shrieking, men wading in on each other in attempts to break bones. It took the little band of uniformed policemen quite some time to quell the brawl and to save the lodging house owner from having every stick of furniture broken up.
Daisy had cooked a rabbit stew not only for herself and Billy but for their lodger as well. However, she kept Fred’s helping hot, and he enjoyed it later, paying the agreed sum of sixpence for it. Bridget by then was at work, so Fred ate his supper in welcome peace.
The fog returned, not thickly, but in drifting rolling masses of pale brown mist. It searched for the alleys of Whitechapel, and for whatever doors that were open. It was the kind of fog that curled, crept and sneaked. It followed people into the ever-open pubs, causing drinkers to offer up violent protests.
‘Shut that bleedin’ door!’
It was a night which some people thought would tempt Old Nick to emerge from nowhere and prowl about in search of those who belonged to him. They were everywhere, Old Nick’s own, seen one moment and gone the next, the drink-sodden, the degraded doxies and the men of ill repute. Imaginative people might have said the gentleman who walked with a measured tread did so in the way of the devil himself, as if evil had no fear for him.
He turned into New Road from Whitechapel Road, and from a doorway came the sound of a voice he knew.
‘Lookin’ for someone nice, are yer, dearie?’
He was ready for her this time.
‘How much?’ he asked.
She had her back to the door. It was slightly ajar and a thin streak of light showed. She was dressed in a red velvet bodice and a black skirt, her fair hair piled and dully gleaming. The pale brown fog curled around the gentleman, but she could see enough to place him as a toff.
‘Four bob to you, love,’ she said. ‘I’m fresh, and only accept gents.’
‘Upstairs?’ he said, his voice a deep murmur.
‘In me own room, ducky,’ said Poppy Simpson. ‘Here, do I know yer?’
‘I gave you sixpence a few nights ago,’ he murmured.
‘Why, so yer did, and it was ’andsome of yer. I’ll be really nice to you for that and four bob.’
‘Lead the way.’
She turned and pushed the door open, revealing a passage partially illuminated by a small boat-shaped flame from a gas jet. He stepped in. She looked at him, a clean-shaven man. He smiled. He was a gent all right. He placed his walking-stick against the wall and closed the door.
‘Come on up, lovey,’ she said.
He heard the sounds of people, little sounds. She turned again towards the stairs. Silently, he placed his bag on the floor, took one long stride, whipped his left arm around her from behind and clapped a gloved hand hard over her mouth, pulling her head back. She gurgled and choked. From his pocket of his coat he drew a knife with a thin, razor-sharp blade. With one fierce slashing incision he cut her throat wide open. Her blood spurted as he let her drop, retreating fast from her. He bent, wiped the knife clean on her skirt, and put it back in his coat pocket. He picked up his bag, put his stick under his arm, opened the door just wide enough to let himself out, then closed it silently behind him. He took hold of his stick and walked away, into the floating clouds of fog, his footsteps those of a man who felt no need to hurry.
Bridget, hastening home, entered Commercial Road, making for Back Church Lane, which led to Ellen Street. As usual, she had ridden to Aldgate on the underground tube train, the City Line, the fare three ha’pence. From Aldgate, she walked. The fog could have been a lot worse than it was, and the street lamps in Commercial Road were visible, even if they did seem to be floating in the misty pall. Into the patchy light of one walked a man, tall, over-coated, and carrying a bag and walking-stick.
‘Oh, ’ello, doctor, how’dyerdo?’ said Bridget.
‘I beg your pardon?’ He stopped and loomed.
‘Oh, I don’t suppose you recognize me,’ said Bridget, ‘it was ’orrible foggy that evenin’, when the workers was set on by the police and someone knocked me out.’
‘Oh, yes, I remember, young lady.’ The gentleman smiled. ‘How’s your head now?’
‘Well, I’m still carryin’ it about,’ said Bridget.
‘Should you be carrying it about at this late hour?’
‘Oh, I’m just goin’ ’ome from me evening’s work in the West End,’ said Bridget.
‘The West End? I see.’ He peered at her, taking note of her full figure. ‘I see,’ he said again. ‘Well, this neighbourhood isn’t to your taste, I dare say, so hurry along. Or would you like me to see you to your door?’
‘Well, yer a kind gent offering,’ said Bridget, ‘but I’ll be all right.’
‘Are you sure? It’s no bother.’
‘Thanks, but I’ll manage,’ said Bridget.
‘Goodnight, then.’
‘Goodnight, doctor.’
They parted, Bridget resuming her walk to Back Church Lane, and he going his own way thinking well, well, her work is in the West End? Well, well.
As Bridget approached Back Church Lane, a policeman turned out of it. She glimpsed his helmet and uniform.
At this moment, a woman was making her frantic cries heard in New Road.
‘Murder! Murder’s been done!’
The cries did not reach Commercial Road, where neither Bridget nor Constable Fred Billings heard them as he came face to face with her amid the floating mist.
‘Fred Billings, what’re you doin’ ’ere? asked Bridget.
‘I though I’d come and meet you,’ said Fred.
‘What for?’
‘To see you safely ’ome,’ said Fred, ‘and to make sure that you didn’t get follered again.’
‘Look, when I need a copper to walk me ’ome, I’ll ask for one,’ said Bridget.
‘No need to ask, Bridget,’ said Fred, ‘I’m ’appy to volunteer. Besides which, I feet it’s me duty as a policeman and me privilege as yer lodger.’
‘As a policeman you ain’t my kind of bloke,’ said Bridget, ‘and as me lodger you can take yerself off as soon as yer like.’
Fred wouldn’t be put off, however, and insisted on seeing her home. Bridget told him not to think he was doing her any favours, and she also told him she’d seen that doctor again, the one who’d attended to her that evening of the riot. Fred said a doctor who had patients in Whitechapel was a bit of a rarity.
By this time the Whitechapel police station had seen the arrival of a man and woman, both of whom were white-faced as they reported the finding of a murdered prostitute, one Poppy Simpson, in what they said was their lodging house in New Road.