THE FOG OF the previous night has finally cleared, but a dense pall of black cloud hangs over the streets of the metropolis, threatening rain. Outside Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, a pair of young men undo various padlocks and grapple with the panelled wooden shutters that protect Woodrow’s plate-glass windows. They exchange a few friendly words, then the screens are raised up from the polished brass sills into which they are slotted during the hours of darkness. In a matter of minutes, the shutters are stacked against the exterior of the building, then despatched with expedition to some secret location at the rear of the shop. Indeed, it is the hour when shop-keepers throughout the capital stir into action, and so the same delicate exercise is carried out all along High Holborn, uncovering the displays of several stationers, a gentleman’s outfitter, Henekey’s Imperial Wine and a dozen other redoubtable retail establishments.
But the young men of Woodrow’s notice something different about their daily task. For such early-morning activity, no matter how mundane it may be, generally attracts the satiric attention of some ragged street-child, lolling by the nearest lamp-post, or the rather more pleasant scrutiny of a maid-servant, bound upon an errand, who finds something peculiarly admirable about one or the other of the winged-collared young shopmen. Today, however, there are no curious passers-by, no-one intrigued by the secret life of the London shop. Such idle individuals are, instead, gathered a few hundred yards to the south and east, crowding the road and pavement around the steps of the Holborn Casino.
This crowd, in itself, is quite unusual. For the Casino is normally quite shut up during the day, when there is little call for drink and dancing, and respectable folk might catch an unwelcome glimpse of its sinfully gilded interior. In consequence, the peculiar gathering soon attracts its own peripheral hangers-on, who merely stop to make the simple inquiry ‘What is the matter here?’ Then they too are swiftly absorbed into the milling group. For the answer to their question, in one word, whispered between man, woman and child, complete strangers who exchange the news with an odd familiarity, is ‘murder’; and it is an answer that encourages most of them to linger and crane their necks towards the entrance to the infamous dance-hall.
It is the presence of this self-same crowd that leaves Decimus Webb in no doubt of his destination, as his cab pulls up on the opposite side of the street; but this is, perhaps, the only positive aspect of such unchecked public enthusiasm. In fact, it takes Webb a good couple of minutes to edge his way through the mob to the burly pair of constables who guard the doors, despite proclaiming the word ‘police’ at the top of his lungs, and he acquires at least one bruised rib and a stubbed toe in the process. Once inside the Casino’s lobby, however, he finds that he is on his own. Walking down the entrance stairs, past the cloakroom and sundry ante-rooms, he pulls open the glass-panelled doors that lead into the great marble hall. It is quite empty, with only the odd relic of the previous night’s revelry, whether an empty wine bottle or a broken glass, lying beneath one or two of the tables. It strikes him that there is almost something eerie in the absence of noise.
‘Bartleby?’ shouts Webb, puncturing the silence.
There is no reply but his voice echoes around the empty chamber. Then the sound of rapid, muffled footsteps echo in the gallery above.
‘Is that you, Sergeant?’ continues Webb.
‘Yes sir, I’m coming,’ replies the sergeant. Webb waits patiently, until Bartleby appears, trotting down the carpeted stairs that lead up to the gallery.
‘Thought I’d just have a look around, sir.’
‘Did you?’ says Webb.
‘I knew we’d end up busy this week, sir. What did I tell you?’
‘I expect you said just that, Sergeant. In any case, before we begin this conversation, I should like to make you aware of two facts. First, your telegram, or rather the wretched youth that delivered it, woke me from a profound and deeply satisfying sleep. Second, I came here directly without so much as a sip of coffee touching my lips.’
‘Sir?’
‘I merely suggest you tell me the details directly, Sergeant, and, in particular, why this could not wait at least until I had had breakfast?’
‘Sorry, sir. I thought you’d be keen, that’s all, given the circumstances.’
‘Sergeant . . .’ says Webb, lending the word a heavy tone of admonition.
‘Sorry, sir. Well, I got in early myself – didn’t get much sleep as it happens – and no sooner had I sat down than we got word down the line to come here, double quick. I came myself, first off, and well, all things considered—’
‘What things, Sergeant, for pity’s sake? Do you think I enjoy mysteries?’
‘It’s the same one, sir. That did for those two girls in Knight’s Hotel. He’s done it again.’
Webb follows the sergeant through a narrow corridor at the rear of the Casino, behind the musicians’ portion of the gallery above. The décor becomes increasingly plain as they progress and it is not long before the red and gold wall-paper above the wainscoting gives way to flaking white paint and bare plaster. At last, they come to a battered-looking door, that leads outside into an small open courtyard, surrounded on all sides by tall window-less walls, with an alley, round the side of the building, the only other obvious method of egress.
‘Here?’ says Webb.
‘Just round the corner, sir,’ says the sergeant, leading the way. Webb follows him, towards a trio of large dust-bins and several wooden crates, full to the brim with empty wine bottles. The atmosphere of the alley is unpleasantly acrid and Webb cannot help but cough.
‘Foul, isn’t it, sir?’ says Bartleby. ‘I’m told the gentlemen generally use it for a privy, if the WC back there is occupied.’
‘Yes, I rather gathered that, Sergeant.’
‘Just behind the bin, sir,’ replies Bartleby. ‘I haven’t moved her.’
Webb steps past the sergeant, and looks behind the over-size tin dust-bin. On the ground, curled up into a ball, lies the body of a young dark-haired woman, her hair loose, her burgundy dress torn along her arm.
‘I see. Throat, you said? Have you examined the wound thoroughly, Sergeant?’
‘No, ah, not in any detail, sir,’ says Bartleby.
Webb reaches down and gently pulls back the dead woman’s locks, revealing a dark gash across her throat. He scowls, and deliberately tilts the head slightly back, exposing the blood-encrusted wound.
‘There, Sergeant. Can you see it? He cut through her windpipe.’
‘I’ll take your word for it, sir.’
‘Sergeant,’ says Webb, annoyance in his voice, ‘I do not expect you to possess a degree in medicine, but you must familiarise yourself with basic anatomy.’
Bartleby reluctantly leans over the body. ‘Yes, I see it, sir.’
‘Good,’ says Webb. ‘And the paper was where?’
‘Just by her hand, sir. I reckon he put it in her hand again. Probably fell out.’
‘Show it to me.’
Bartleby reaches into his pocket, revealing a small piece of paper, with writing in scrawled block capitals.
‘“There is no darkness, nor shadow of death, where the workers of iniquity may hide themselves.”’
‘Job again, I believe, sir,’ interjects Bartleby.
Webb looks at him quizzically.
‘Lot of Dissenters in the family, sir. Given to studying the Good Book.’
Webb sighs. ‘Well, at least you’re good for something, Sergeant. And this alley, where does it lead?’
‘Along the side of the building. Out to High Holborn. But it’s barred and gated. You wouldn’t get past it. They open it only for the dustmen on a Monday.’
‘And the person that found her?’
‘Young woman, sir. Comes in early to clean the place out, every morning – there’s a few of them that does it – she just found her lying there when she was tipping out the ashes. Quite distraught – I’ve got her in one of the rooms out front. You won’t get much sense out of her though.’
‘No, I don’t expect I will,’ says the inspector wearily, looking back at the body. ‘Has the manager of the place been contacted?’
‘Sent out a constable to do just that, sir.’
‘Very well, Sergeant, I think you’d best also send for Inspector Hanson; it’s only fair we notify him. He was rather prescient, wasn’t he?’
‘Yes, sir. Very good, sir.’
‘And not a word about this piece of paper to anyone except Hanson, eh?’
‘Sir?’
‘Whoever is doing this, Sergeant, wants to be recognised in some way. He is enjoying sending out these little messages. I do not know why – but I do not intend to give him the satisfaction of seeing it in the press.’
‘No, sir. But they’ll put two and two together soon enough, won’t they? I mean, three girls in one week?’
Webb frowns.
‘Three girls? Yes, I suppose they may well. Let us just hope, Sergeant, that is the limit of the wretch’s ambition.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Wait a moment, Sergeant,’ says Webb, ‘what’s this?’
The inspector bends down beside the dust-bin, and peers into the dirt, flicking it away with his fingers, revealing a small red-beaded purse, half-hidden by spilt ash. Webb picks it up and shakes it.
‘Look, Sergeant. Now that hasn’t been there long, I should think. Tell me, did you not notice it, or were you trying to test my powers of observation?’
‘Well, in any case, let us look inside. What have we here? Three of four shillings in change; a silk handkerchief; and, ah, this is better, a folded receipt for nine yards of muslin, at one shilling and one pence a yard. A black-bordered receipt at that, on printed paper, with the word “Deduct”. stamped upon it.’
‘Does it have the name of the shop, sir?’
‘Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse.’
‘Woodrow’s? That’s just round the corner,’ says Bartleby. ‘Do you think it belonged to the girl?’
‘I do not know,’ replies the inspector, ‘but I think we had best pay them a visit.’