INSPECTOR WEBB WALKS briskly into the elegant entrance-hall of Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, accompanied by Sergeant Bartleby. He ignores the bow given by the doorman, liveried in black and gold, who acts as guardian of the establishment. Instead, he walks directly to the nearest counter, that of the stationery department, where a lone shopman stands ready to receive customers. Beneath the glass-topped counter are the various grades of black-trimmed envelope and writing paper available to the more fashionably bereaved, but Webb ignores the display and beckons the man forward, whispering in his ear. It is only a few discreet words, and they are not distinct enough to be heard by the sergeant. Still, doubtless they encompass the phrase ‘an urgent police matter’, for the young man in question hastens toward the rear of the building, and returns with a more senior member of staff. In turn, the second man, grey-bearded and solemn as the stationery, leads the two policemen upstairs, and through the door marked ‘Employés’, which leads to the back offices.
‘We may talk here, sir,’ says the gentleman in question, leading Webb and Bartleby into the small private room which constitutes his workplace. ‘I would offer you a seat . . .’
Webb looks around: the office is a rather barren affair with only a single desk and chair. There are a few ledgers and the implements of a book-keeper, a pen, inkstand, blotting pad, balanced upon the desk; but nothing else except a series of shelves, stacked with files.
‘Don’t trouble yourself, Mr. . . .’
‘Prentice, sir. I am the senior clerk and floor-manager. I am afraid my superior, Mr. Woodrow himself, is not yet on the premises; we do not expect him for a half-hour or so.’
‘I am sure you will suffice, Mr. Prentice. Tell me,’ says Webb, retrieving the receipt from his pocket, ‘what do you make of this? A customer of yours, perhaps?’
Prentice retrieves a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from his jacket, puts them on, and casts his eyes over the receipt. ‘No, sir. I should say not.’
‘Not?’ says Bartleby.
‘No, sir,’ replies Prentice, quite firmly, ‘it is not. This stamp, you see, “Deduct”. It means it is a receipt given to one of our staff, one of our girls, though I cannot say which one in particular. A deduction from their salary.’
‘Ah, I see,’ replies Webb.
‘You mean for material they have bought for themselves?’ asks Bartleby.
‘Or family. It is a common arrangement; nothing underhand, I assure you,’ replies Prentice hurriedly. ‘We find the girls like to make themselves up a new dress, now and then, to wear of a Sunday; if we have any old stock, then we allow them to purchase at a discount.’
‘For regular dresses, not mourning?’ asks Bartleby.
‘Of course. I am told a dark colour, such as we suggest for half mourning, can be quite fashionable, if made up to the latest taste. Of course, a young woman will squander much of her remuneration upon whatever might be the fashion, if given the opportunity – we only allow it once per annum.’
‘Indeed?’ says Webb. ‘And, tell me, do you know the girls well yourself? They live on the premises, I assume?’
‘Certainly; we have twenty females and eight young men; and a lady superintendent.’
‘To care for their morals?’
‘Indeed.’
‘Admirable. Now, Mr. Prentice, do you encourage the girls to go out at night? Do you give them much in the way of liberty?’
‘Liberty, sir? Why, the usual amount, though we are not early closers here at Woodrow’s. We say one evening per week between seven and ten, and Sundays, of course.’
‘But you expect them back by ten, of an evening?’
‘Of course. This is a decent, well-conducted establishment, Inspector. Forgive me, sir, I do not follow any of this – where did you find this receipt?’
‘I regret it was a short distance from the body of a murdered girl, Mr. Prentice. Not far from here.’
The gentleman in question stands back in astonishment. ‘Good Lord.’
‘Tell me, are all your girls at work this morning?’
‘Yes, of course,’ replies Prentice, then checks himself. ‘Well, all except one. But she is due her notice, the moment I set eyes upon her.’
‘A trouble-maker?’
‘Quite. A Miss Price – she has been with us a year or more but the girl is nothing but a source of vexation, Inspector. And she hasn’t been seen all—’
‘Is she a dark-haired girl, about five feet three inches tall?’
‘Good Lord, you don’t mean to say . . .’
‘I mean to say nothing, my dear fellow. But if you can spare us a few minutes, I am afraid I must ask you to go with the sergeant.’
‘Now? Go where?’
‘The Holborn Casino. That’s where we found the girl – your Miss Price, I fear it is quite likely – but we won’t know until you take a look at her?’
Mr. Prentice takes a step back. ‘Surely not? I am not the man to do it. I mean to say, Mr. Woodrow will be here shortly. I mean, I should not leave my post.’
‘Come, Mr. Prentice, it is only a few minutes. It is a matter of some importance, as you can imagine. Besides, I should think it nothing to a man like yourself, in your line of work.’
Mr. Prentice pales visibly. ‘We dress the living, Inspector. I have very little acquaintance with . . .’
‘Bodies?’ suggests Bartleby.
‘It’s just that there’s no time like the present, in our line of work, sir,’ says Webb, amiably. ‘And you would be helping Her Majesty’s Police. Think of that.’
‘Well, I suppose . . .’ stammers Prentice.
‘Good man,’ says Webb.