IT IS GONE TEN o’clock in the morning, as two men approach the stone lodge and the gates of the City of London Cemetery, Little Ilford. The cemetery itself is a little larger than Abney Park, and considerably further from the heart of the capital, built not for commercial gain, but by the City authorities. Nonetheless, looking through the gates, it bears a similar likeness to a well-kept arboretum, with its landscaped vista of kempt gravel lanes, further delineated by carefully planted trees, rhododendrons and azaleas.
‘We’re too late,’ suggests Sergeant Bartleby to Webb, peering down the central avenue. ‘We should have caught the earlier train.’
‘My dear sergeant,’ says Webb, ‘please. I strongly suspect that the Eastern Counties Railway is still considerably quicker than any carriage obliged to travel the length of the Romford Road. Have some patience.’
Sergeant Bartleby says nothing for a few moments, but then adds, ‘Well, call me a heathen, sir, but I’m getting heartily sick of cemeteries.’
‘It is not my fault that you found nothing at Abney Park yesterday,’ replies Webb, looking reproachfully at his companion.
‘There was nothing to find, if you don’t mind me saying so, sir,’ replies Bartleby. ‘Except, maybe, that the grave-diggers are a little partial to drink.’
‘I am sure,’ says Webb dismissively. ‘Well, nonetheless, this little excursion is the least we can do, given Hanson’s efforts on our behalf.’
‘You think it will help, sir?’
‘It is not a bad idea of Hanson’s, Sergeant. Funerals attract all sorts, in my experience. Let us see who turns out for Miss Carter and Miss Finch. Ah, hush, here they are, if I am not mistaken.’
Webb nods in the direction of the rural road that leads west back into the City of London. Coming round the bend that leads to the cemetery’s gates can be seen three distinctive vehicles. The first is a regular hearse of painted black wood and cast iron. It is, however, of a rather second-hand appearance, with the etching on any one of its glass panels bearing no resemblance to that upon any of the others, and the iron scroll-work upon its roof, a black tiara of roses and thorns, marred by a number of missing blooms. Following the hearse are two machines of the funeral-omnibus variety. Half funeral carriage and half mourning coach, each bears five or six mourners, visible through the coach windows, sitting in some discomfort on the narrow unpadded benches within.
‘I’ve never seen a more miserable-looking crowd,’ suggests Bartleby.
‘It was never going to be a grand affair, upon parish money, Sergeant,’ replies Webb. ‘They are probably burying a few together, I should think.’
And, indeed, as the carriages pass by the two policemen, who swiftly remove their hats, it becomes clear that at least seven or eight coffins are contained within the procession, under loose black cloths; seven or eight bodies with only a dozen souls to mourn their passing, paupers destined for a common interment.
‘They’ll stop at the chapel,’ says the sergeant. Webb nods, and the two men follow behind the slow progress of the three carriages, to the cemetery chapel. But only the mourners are unloaded, swiftly shepherded by the waiting parson into the church; the dead are left behind. Whether this haste reflects a degree of social embarrassment at the prospect of officiating over the grief of such a poor collection of individuals, it is hard to say. Nor is it perhaps fair to suggest that it may coincide with a comparative dearth of gratuities at funerals of the collective parish variety. But, for whatever reason, the progress of the living indoors is quick enough, and the deceased are not provided for.
As the mourners disappear, a quartet of men in working clothes, their trousers and jackets stained with grey streaks of clay, appear from behind the building, and join the carriages as they move off again, each jumping on the rear board like a conductor upon a regular omnibus.
‘Shall we go to the service?’ asks Bartleby.
Webb shakes his head, gesturing at the sergeant to proceed. ‘No, let us follow the diggers. I’ll have a quick word with the driver once they are stopped.’
Bartleby nods and they follow the carriages for a good five minutes until they come towards the boundary of the cemetery, marked by a row of young yew trees. An open pit lies waiting, six feet in diameter, perhaps twelve feet in width. And there, the coffins, of various shapes and sizes, made of rough elm that looks to have hardly seen the edge of a plane, are unloaded and placed upon the ground by the grave-diggers. As this process is completed, a fifth man appears, strolling across the grass, dressed in a smarter unsullied suit, with a rather official-looking appearance, bearing a note-book. Then all five enter into conference, the result of which is that the tallest of the diggers jumps down between the wooden buttresses that shore up the pit. From the grave, he throws up a pair of thick ropes, which the remaining men string over the opening, hooking the ends round pegs already driven into the earth, to form a makeshift hammock for the lowering of the coffins.
‘Always room for a few more, eh?’ says Webb, strolling over to the cemetery official. Certainly, as he looks down into the pit, there are already half a dozen coffins inside, left from a previous parish funeral. He cannot help but wonder for how many days they have been resting there.
‘Can I assist you, gentlemen?’ says the man.
‘Scotland Yard,’ says Webb amiably. The man is suitably surprised.
‘Oh dear,’ he replies. ‘I trust nothing is amiss?’
‘Not at all. Tell me,’ says Webb, nodding towards the coffins, ‘do you have a list there of names?’
‘Yes, of course,’ he replies, holding up his note-book.
‘Finch and Carter?’
‘Ah,’ says the man. ‘Yes, indeed. Tragic.’
‘Well,’ says Webb, ‘do carry on. We won’t get in your way.’
The official nods, nervously taking leave of the policeman and proceeding to the coffins.
‘Drop us the first box, Arthur,’ comes the voice from the pit. The cemetery official nods; the first coffin is slid into position upon the ropes.
‘Fidyck, William,’ says one of the diggers, peering at the tin plate upon the lid.
The official scans his list and says, ‘Away,’ much in the manner of someone launching a ship.
The drivers of the funeral omnibuses are both taciturn men, and it takes all of Webb’s powers of persuasion to wrestle a few simple facts from them. Nonetheless, it becomes clear, from a combination of overheard conversations and the men’s own register of passengers, that the passing of Betsy Carter has, at least, attracted one mourner – an elderly woman by the name of Brookes. In consequence, the two policemen resolve to wait with the drivers for the mourners to return. As they stand by the pit, they observe the slow descent of each coffin into the earth, listening to the various cries of ‘only a short’un here’ or ‘to the left’ or ‘to the right’ that issue from below the ground.
The mourners, in fact, arrive early from the chapel. But the clergyman’s haste in conveying them to the grave proves counter-productive. For the bereaved are obliged to watch the descent of the last two ‘boxes’, a consequence that seems to inspire the grave-diggers with such a degree of anxiety that the process is, if not botched, then mishandled, with the sound of clattering wood, and subdued curses from within the pit. Thus it is only when the final coffin is laid to rest, and the diggers have departed, pulled up by the ropes, that the clergyman can begin his few words upon the subject of mortality. It occurs to Webb, however, as he watches the scene, that the priest, with his thick winter great-coat, collar turned up at the neck, and comforter wrapped tight around his throat, looks far less an expert upon the subject than the ragged mourners, at least one of whom looks ready to tumble directly into the earth.
‘Which is Mrs. Brookes?’ whispers Webb to the nearby driver.
‘There,’ says the man in question, pointing out a woman in her sixties of a strong-looking build, with a ruddy complexion and a tartan shawl covering her head and shoulders.
Webb nods. Then after a moment, he speaks to the driver once more.
‘Where are you bound after this? Straight back to the City?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘Not stopping at a public on the way?’
‘Aye, maybe.’
‘And where’s the nearest place, from here?’
‘The Bull and Gate, just down the road, quarter mile or so,’ replies the driver, a little wary.
Webb smiles, taking a half-sovereign from his pocket and pushing the coin into the man’s hand. ‘Make sure you stop at the Bull then, and stand a drink for all concerned, eh? But take your time getting there. Then you may keep the change.’
The man nods, seemingly not quite believing his luck. Webb, in turn, motions to Bartleby to come away.
‘Where we going, sir?’
‘The Bull and Gate. Apparently it is a charming little hostelry, a brisk walk. Now do hurry.’
The Bull and Gate is, it turns out, a decent public house of the tavern variety, in a prominent position upon the Romford Road. It is more ancient and roomy than the common ginnery that can be found in the centre of the metropolis, and still possesses a multiplicity of nooks and corners, hinting back to days when it was more of a private house, and when a landlord of the old type held court in his own small parlour, and when drinks were ferried from cellar to patron by honest potmen, without need for a bar or counter.
But those days have long passed, and the present-day landlord is used to trade from the City of London Cemetery. Consequently, the appearance of Webb and Bartleby, followed in short order by the mourners arriving by coach, causes him no great consternation, nor much disturbs his regular clientele. If he is surprised by the peculiar generosity of one Jack Bludgen, a coachman he has known for some years, in standing the whole party a drink, he has the grace not to show it. And, if he notices how the first two men soon separate off from the group, entering into conversation with a particular woman, then it matters little to him.
‘Who did you say you was, again?’ says Mrs. Eliza Brookes, downing a second glass of stout donated by her new companions.
‘Commercial travellers,’ says Webb, hurriedly. ‘Just buried a pal of ours. Terrible business.’
‘Comes to us all,’ says the woman, grimly. ‘I’m a widow myself.’
‘Was it close family today, ma’am?’ says Bartleby.
The old woman shakes her head. ‘Knew her mother. Thought she deserved someone ’spectable to see her off. Poor creature.’
Bartleby raises his eyebrows at the word ‘respectable’.
‘Long illness, was it?’ says Webb.
The old woman looks about her, then whispers, ‘Murdered in cold blood.’
Webb struggles to look suitably shocked. ‘Good heavens.’
‘That’s what I said,’ replies the old woman, warming to her theme. ‘I tell you something, sir, awful business. I used to do her laundry, you know.’
‘Really?’
‘Course, I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead, sir. Between you and me, she had gone wrong; some young girls will, however you learn ’em. But she didn’t deserve what she got. Poor little thing.’
‘I expect the police were involved. Murder and all.’
‘Oh, I steer clear of them bluebottles, sir. Never done me no good.’
Webb smiles. ‘She had no family then? Sad state of affairs.’
‘No,’ says the old woman, draining her glass. ‘Long gone.’
‘Here,’ says Bartleby, ‘let me get you another.’
‘Kind of you,’ says the old woman.
‘No sweetheart either?’ continues Webb.
‘Didn’t I say, sir? She’d gone wrong, I told you, didn’t I?’
‘Of course.’
‘Now, there was one fellow she had hopes of . . . well, that’s all done with now, anyhow.’
‘You can tell me, ma’am,’ says Webb, leaning towards her, tapping his nose, ‘man of the world, I am.’
‘Well, he said he’d leave his missus. I said to her, “Betsy, that’s all moonshine. Means nothing.” But she wouldn’t have it.’
‘Criminal, ma’am,’ says Webb, as Bartleby returns with more stout. ‘Tell me, you know the chap’s name?’
She shakes her head. ‘She kept that dark. Saw him a couple of times. Here, you’re a queer sort of salesman, you are. I thought you was going to try and flog me something.’
Webb smiles. ‘You have me. I give in.’
‘What are you, then?’ asks the old woman suspiciously.
‘A bluebottle, as you put it, ma’am. But, we’ll let that lie,’ says Webb, taking a sip of ale, ‘because we may need your help. Now describe this man who kept company with Miss Carter.’
The two policemen stand outside the Bull and Gate some half an hour later, waiting for a passing cab.
‘That woman can’t half drink,’ says Bartleby looking back at the pub, where Mrs. Brookes still sits comfortably ensconced.
‘She’s a washerwoman, Sergeant; they’re used to sweating it out; probably takes her a couple of pints just to get up in the morning. But she still has her wits about her. That is all we need to make sure of. We must take good care of her, mind; she is our only witness.’
‘But to what, sir? I mean, what if the Carter girl had some fellow sweet on her? It doesn’t necessarily mean a thing.’
‘But what if it is our Mr. Woodrow, Sergeant?’ says Webb. ‘The description matches well enough. What if it’s him, eh? That would put an interesting complexion on matters.’
‘So what’s your plan, sir?’
‘We’ll get a cab, and give her over to Hanson. He’ll have a better idea about her story; and, remember, it is still his investigation. I do not wish to tread on his toes. Though I will suggest he allows her to get a good look at our man, surreptitiously, as soon as he can.’
‘And if she identifies him?’
‘Then we must have a quiet word with Mr. Jasper Woodrow.’