‘ANOTHER MYSTERY, EH, SIR?’
Webb nods.
‘Must be the week for it, eh, after that business yesterday? “A very delicate matter,” it says. Signed “Mr. S. Pellegrin, General Manager”.’
Webb nods again.
‘Can’t say as I know Stoke Newington too well, sir. How about you?’
Webb shrugs. ‘Well enough.’
‘Now, south of the river, that’s another matter. Lambeth, sir, now that was my old patch.’
‘Really?’
‘Know every alley like the back of my hand, sir.’
Decimus Webb nods, a rather dejected look upon his face. It may relate to the fact that, for the second time in as many days, he is trapped in a cab with Sergeant Bartleby. Worse, that he has forgotten his pipe.
‘How about you, sir? Know Lambeth at all?’
Webb sighs. ‘I make do, Sergeant.’
‘I expect you do, sir. Now, take the Lower Marsh, say, there’s a thieves’ kitchen, if ever there was. I could tell you a thing or two about the goings on there, sir, things that would make your hair curl.’
Webb raises his eyebrows, touching his own slightly balding head rather self-consciously.
‘So to speak, sir,’ continues the sergeant, coughing.
Before Webb can reply, the cab pulls to a halt, stopping upon a cobbled fore-court.
‘At last,’ mutters Webb under his breath.
The driver of the hansom opens the trap and leans down to address them.
‘Abney Park, gents. That’ll be two bob.’
Webb and Bartleby lean forward to swing open the cab doors, and step out on to the paving. The latter pays the cabman two shillings, whilst the former surveys their destination: the tall wrought-iron gates of Abney Park Cemetery, Stoke Newington.
Webb looks down the long gravel drive beyond the entrance, then back to the gate-posts, Egyptian in style, the fashion of an earlier decade. The twin stone lodges that guard the path likewise evoke the land of the Nile, decorated with painted stone hieroglyphs. And, beside the left-hand building, nervously tapping his foot, waits a man, about fifty years old, with a sallow moustachioed face, dressed in a smart, black great-coat and a tall hat, wrapped about with a neat band of black crape. He looks rather expectantly towards the policemen. Webb walks through the open side-gate, and goes over to him.
‘Mr. Pellegrin?’ asks Webb.
‘Yes?’
‘Inspector Webb, sir, at your service. This,’ he says, motioning towards the approaching Bartleby, ‘is my sergeant. Your letter was passed on to me to deal with. You received our telegram, I take it?’
‘Yes,’ replies Mr. Pellegrin. He seems, however, more preoccupied with looking out on to the road.
‘You were expecting someone else, sir?’ asks Webb.
‘No, no. Well, not until three o’clock, at least.’
‘Three o’clock?’
‘Local gentleman. Consumption.’
‘Yes, of course,’ replies Mr. Pellegrin. ‘Please,’ he says, rather urgently, ‘come inside.’
Mr. Samuel Pellegrin, General Manager of the Abney Park Cemetery, leads the two policeman into the nearby lodge. The interior contains two sparsely furnished rooms for the reception of visitors; the one farthest from the door is a small office, with a desk and a trio of chairs. Pellegrin ushers Webb and Bartleby within and motions them to sit down. As he seats himself, he tidies the desk, moving several sheets of paper to one side, and closing a trade catalogue of masonry, that lies open upon a page marked ‘Ten guineas and above’.
‘I am sorry, Inspector,’ says Mr. Pellegrin once he is settled, ‘forgive me if I am rather abrupt. This business is an awful strain on my nerves. I am very grateful for your prompt attention. But, really, I am not sure how to begin – it is such a delicate matter.’
‘Well, your letter was somewhat mysterious, sir,’ replies Webb. ‘You mentioned a theft of some kind? That would be a matter for your local constable. No need to write to the Yard in such strong terms, surely?’
Mr. Pellegrin shakes his head emphatically. ‘No, sir, not the local man. Word would get round every house from here to the river in next to no time. I suppose I am fortunate you are not in uniform – if anyone were to see the police . . .’
‘We generally keep to plain clothes at the Yard, sir.’
‘Good, good. But I need your word, Inspector, that this will go no further. Discretion is vital in our business.’
‘And mine,’ replies Webb, though there is a degree of impatience in his tone. ‘You have my word, sir. Perhaps if you can begin by telling us what was stolen?’
Mr. Pellegrin looks nervously at the two policemen; noticing the door of the office has been left slightly ajar, he quickly gets up to go and close it. Once he has sat down again, he bites his lip before he addresses Webb.
‘A body, Inspector.’
Samuel Pellegrin leads the two policemen along the winding path that curves round the back wall of the cemetery, at the rear of the chapel.
‘Any famous names here, sir?’ asks the sergeant.
‘In the cemetery?’ says Pellegrin. He seems visibly cheered by the opportunity to talk. ‘There is the Watts’ memorial. And Mr. Braidwood, the fireman, of course, the far side of the chapel – you recall the Tooley Street fire? That was a fine day – the whole city lined the route – or that’s how it seemed; quite affecting.’
‘I can imagine, sir.’
‘Ellen Warwick, of course,’ continues Pellegrin, as if going through some memorised roll-call of the dead. ‘Also a large turn-out, if I recollect correctly. Not long after I started here.’
‘Who?’ asks Bartleby.
‘She was . . . ah, now, here we are, gentlemen. I am just grateful it was here, and not somewhere more in the open.’
The area in question, to which Mr. Pellegrin points, lies against the grey stone wall of the cemetery, in its farthest north-westerly corner. Shaded by an old cedar, the cold ground supports nothing so substantial as the stone angels and monumental urns that mark the cemetery’s more prosperous burials. Rather, it is only broken by a scattering of makeshift-looking wooden crosses, none of which are quite perpendicular or particularly well-crafted, so that they appear to rise from the earth like the shoots of some peculiar withered shrub. In front of one cross, however, a series of planks have been laid out, which partially conceal an open grave. Bartleby leans down and looks at the cross, upon which the inscription ‘J. S. Munday, 1848’ is painted in small black letters, though the paint is considerably weathered and faded.
‘Tell me again how you discovered the, ah, theft?’ asks Webb. ‘You said, did you not, that you think the grave was opened and then filled in again?’
‘There is no question, Inspector,’ replies Pellegrin. ‘It was Greggs, one of our gardeners, who spotted it. He noticed the earth had been disturbed.’
‘Very observant of him?’
‘It is his job – he knows the grounds well enough. He thought at first it was an animal.’
‘And what caused Mr. Greggs to change his opinion?’
‘He could see it was the whole plot – I mean that it was a very particular area. Then he turned over some of the earth and found the nails.’
‘From the coffin?’
‘All in one spot, or thereabouts, where the fellow had left them. It was obvious the grave had been interfered with, so I told him to open it.’
‘And you found?’
‘It was empty. The lid had been replaced, rather inexpertly, upon the top. Please, take a look – I took care not to damage anything myself.’
Pellegrin bends down and, motioning for the assistance of Bartleby, slides away the planks covering the grave, revealing the dark long-buried wood of the lid, splintered in several places.
‘It is not very deep,’ says Webb. ‘Three feet at most?’
Pellegrin nods. ‘The ground in this corner is not so good, Inspector. I believe the roots are a hindrance. It is, in part, why we reserve it for paupers and other unfortunates.’
‘But the coffin is quite substantial, is it not? Too substantial for a parish burial?’
Pellegrin shrugs. ‘I should say so. But it was not a normal parish affair. It was a case of felo-de-se. Suicide. It seems the family made some provision for a decent coffin.’
‘Really? That is interesting. You do not know the details, I suppose?’ asks Webb.
‘That is not really our business, Inspector. We place a mark against our register for all such burials, but no more.’
‘No, I suppose not. May I see your records, all the same?’
‘Of course – we have them in the chapel – but they will tell you nothing more, I am afraid. They merely confirm the name and year.’
‘Nevertheless, I should like to see it,’ continues Webb. ‘And I should like to speak to the gardeners, diggers . . . all your men.’
‘That may take some time to arrange. We have business at three.’
‘Still, if you please, Mr. Pellegrin,’ replies Webb. ‘Whoever you can muster – we must speak to all of them, whether now or later.’
‘But, Inspector, why should someone take a body like this, and after so many years? To break in at night and do such a thing?’
‘It must have been at night?’
‘Nothing like this could happen during the day, Inspector. They would be noticed.’
‘Perhaps there was more than a body, sir?’ suggests Bartleby. ‘Something buried with him, maybe. A family heirloom, that sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps,’ replies Webb, bending down and looking closely at the coffin lid. He stands up abruptly. ‘In any case, Sergeant, I will go with Mr. Pellegrin and talk to his men. You stay here and see what you can find.’
Bartleby nods, but as Webb turns away, he stops and looks back at the sergeant.
‘Well, what are you waiting for, man?’
‘Sir?’
‘Get down there and examine the blasted thing.’
Bartleby looks into the grave. ‘Down there, sir?’
‘If you have any other suggestions, Sergeant, I am happy to listen to them.’
Bartleby takes a deep breath. ‘No, sir, can’t say as I do.’
The two policemen stand to one side, hats in hand, as the three o’clock funeral procession rattles down the drive towards Abney Park’s chapel. At its head are the mutes, a pair of stately, bearded men in middle age, bearing long crape-encrusted wands and black sashes about their chests. Then the four coach-horses drawing the glass hearse, their harnesses wrapped in black velvet, their heads plumed with black feathers. Finally the mourners, a dozen gentlemen in solemn mourning, arm-bands and hat-bands in black silk. Mr. Pellegrin brings up the rear, head bowed, hands clasped in contemplation. And yet he steals a nervous look at Webb and Bartleby as he walks past. Webb waits until he is out of earshot before speaking.
‘Nothing in the grave, I take it?’
‘No, sir,’ mutters Bartleby, ‘not much except dirt. Though I’d say the coffin was well lined. There was a good deal of cambric. Probably very fine in its day.’
Webb nods. ‘Pellegrin thinks he may be able to find the manufacturer through his catalogues – he will let us know.’
‘How about the men, the diggers, sir?’
‘Hmm. Neither the gardeners nor diggers had much to say for themselves. Except to confess that they hadn’t cast an eye over that plot for a month or more. Mr. Pellegrin was quite aggrieved about it.’
‘You don’t think it was one of them, sir?’
‘Maybe; but they would conceal it a trifle better, would they not?’
‘Why take a body at all? I mean, sir, let’s be blunt – it’d just be the bones, wouldn’t it? I’m blowed if I understand it.’
‘I don’t know, Sergeant,’ says Webb pensively. ‘They bury the suicides at midnight – did you know that?’
‘I knew it was after dark, sir, yes.’
‘And here, someone comes at night, twenty-five years later, and digs one up.’
‘Maybe they wanted to give him a decent burial.’
Webb shakes his head. ‘A queer way of going about it.’
‘Folk are very concerned with the welfare of their dead, sir.’
Webb looks at the now distant cortège, approaching the tall spire of the chapel and frowns.
‘So are we, Sergeant.’
THAT EVENING? LET me see. The fog had cleared and so I took a walk through the streets. To begin with, I had no particular purpose in mind. I merely needed time to think and I found myself on Drury Lane.
I expect you do not know it?
You have heard of the theatre? No. Even the theatre of that name is a couple of hundred yards shy of the road itself; and with good reason. It is an awful street by night, the haunt of beer-soaked Irish and the lowest sort of unfortunate, with a ginnery upon every corner to sustain them. They are the rougher sort of public house, too, with large advertisements for Cream Gin upon the door, and blazing naked jets of gas that spit fire into the street. I expect the landlords despair of decent lamps, even if they might afford them, since they are so easily broken.
In any case, it was there, as I walked along and watched the drunks and the whores, that it struck me. It is a simple truth that is never acknowledged: a man may do exactly as he likes, in this life at least, as long as he is not caught. You see, all that day, I had had nagging fears of the police, of the prison cell, nay, even the gallows. But there was no detective at my door, nor policeman dogging my steps, nor was there likely to be. A man requires only a little good fortune, courage and intelligence, and he cannot be caught.
Very well. Then I shall stick to the facts of the matter.
In short, I walked without stopping until Drury Lane gave way to Holborn, and, quite by chance, I turned eastwards and suddenly came upon the crowded pavement outside the Holborn Casino.
Yes, indeed, the dance-hall.
I knew of its ill fame, of course: a magnet for fast young men and loose women eager for their company. And, indeed, that night, there was no doubting the wretched place’s popularity with a certain class of ‘gentleman’. For a seemingly endless row of beetle-black hansoms and clarences lined both sides of the street, whilst unacquainted men and women trotted gaily in, or stumbled drunkenly out, in bunches of two and three. In fact, it was a scene of utter dissipation.
Then it came to me, what I must do.
The police? Oh yes; they were there, to ‘keep the peace’. Two of them. But my theory was quite correct. They had their minds fixed upon pickpockets and carriage-sneaks – I was quite safe. I strolled in with a few young gentlemen in evening dress, accompanying a party of ladies in satin gowns and an excess of frills and feathers. An attendant relieved us of our hats, another of our coats. Then we went down a half-dozen steps into the hall.
What do I recall about the Casino? A good deal of gold leaf and marble. I could make out the band in the gallery, a dozen or more strong, striking up a merry polka; but I could barely see the floor for dancers. The women wore high-heeled boots, the men patent leathers, and both made a riotous noise as they spun this way and that in the large hall.
The clientele? Ah. The men affected pristine kid gloves and jewelled tie-pins, but I should say they were largely the middling sort, clerks and the like, that seek out such fast entertainments. There were only a handful of true gentlemen, who had quit their clubs and homes for a night on the ‘spree’. They mostly hung back by the tables, smoking cigars, talking amongst themselves.
The women? I could see that many were demimondaines; they made no secret of it. Others, I found harder to place. Some were most likely shop-girls, who had already gone wrong, in thought if not in deed. A few were the daughters of tradesmen, perhaps; the sisters and cousins of the young men and their friends, who dragged them this way and that across the dance-floor.
You think so? I do not know. I suppose it is possible that some of them retained their virtue; that they had come in ignorance of the place’s reputation. But I rather doubt it.
What then? Why, I saw her; I had been strolling around the balcony above the hall. A pretty thing. Dark-brown hair and deep hazel eyes, lace around her neck, and a gold locket that danced about as she danced. She was a graceful creature, though quite free with her favours; it was not long before I saw her kissing some pimple-faced shop-boy upon the cheek. Then, to my good fortune, her hair became loose and she had to withdraw and spend a minute or two fixing up the pins in her chignon. It was clear she was by herself; there was no beau, nor a particular table to which she retired. I went down and stood near by as the M.C. called up parties for the next set. Then, as we danced, I asked her her name, and if she cared to take a drink with me, so that we might talk.
What? Oh, I believe it was ‘Kate’, or ‘Kath’ or some such.
I have found it does not take much to win such a woman’s confidence, not one of that sort; in this case, a glass of champagne was quite sufficient. And I told her she had beautiful eyes; it is always best to say something of that nature. In any case, she was mine, if I wished it; we had but to agree a price. You see how easily virtue is bought and sold in this wretched city? But then the band struck up some wretched Prussian waltz, and she averred it was her favourite song, and ‘didn’t I want another dance?’
I had the knife. I might have done it there, in that booth under the stairs. No-one would have noticed. But I bided my time and said I would see her again.
Really? The family said she was not loose? Yes, I do recall that; I thought it odd at the time. I mean to say, why was she there at all?