IT TAKES SOME TIME for Webb and Bartleby to return to the heart of the capital, with Mrs. Eliza Brookes in tow, and it is the afternoon before they reach the City. It takes longer still to locate Inspector Hanson. In the end, however, they find the latter, in combination with two other detectives of the City police, maintaining an unobtrusive vigil upon High Holborn, watching Woodrow’s General Mourning Warehouse, waiting for the eventual exodus of its owner. After some discussion, a plain-looking cab is hired for the day, parked opposite the warehouse with Mrs. Brookes settled inside, with a view to following Jasper Woodrow upon his departure from his office. If Mrs. Brookes’ confession that her eyes are ‘not what they were’ does little to induce great faith in her powers of recognition, her powers of consumption are undimmed and several bottles of stout are laid by to see her through the afternoon.
Once Mrs. Brookes is comfortably settled, there is nothing more to be done until Woodrow’s departure. Webb, moreover, learns little of interest from Inspector Hanson concerning Jasper Woodrow’s movements. He is, at least, appraised of the sudden nocturnal departure of Annabel Krout from Duncan Terrace. At length, with their exchange of information finished, a second cab is hailed at a discreet distance from the Warehouse, taking Webb and Bartleby in the direction of Scotland Yard. The former takes the opportunity of smoking his pipe; the latter, perhaps having learnt from previous journeys, says very little. But as the cab turns from Whitehall under the low arch that leads into the Yard and comes to a halt, Bartleby feels obliged to speak out.
‘I think we have a visitor, sir. I wonder what he wants?’
Webb peers out of the window, to see the figure of Richard Langley, standing rather nervously by the doorway that leads up to the inspector’s office, fidgeting with a pair of gloves.
‘Mr. Langley,’ says Webb, as he steps out on to the cobbles. ‘An unexpected pleasure. Have you recalled some incident from Monday night?’
Langley frowns. ‘Not quite, Inspector. Can we speak somewhere, well, more in private?’
‘Naturally. Come up to my office,’ replies Webb, indicating the way. ‘You must forgive the state of the place.’
‘Of course,’ replies Langley as they ascend the stairs. ‘I hope this is not an awkward time.’
‘Not at all,’ replies Webb, leading him into the room, brushing aside a small heap of papers from the chair. ‘Have a seat.’
Langley sits down but looks nervously back at the sergeant.
‘Anything you say may be said in front of Bartleby, Mr. Langley,’ says Webb.
‘Very well,’ says Langley, taking a breath. ‘I have come from Miss Annabel Krout, whom I understand you met yesterday. She has asked me to convey some of her concerns to you about a certain matter . . .’
‘Yes, yes,’ says Webb, a hint of impatience in his manner, ‘do speak freely, sir. I gather she has quit the Woodrows’ home entirely, and set herself up in a hotel.’
Langley looks startled. ‘But how on earth did you know that?’
‘Never mind, sir. We have our sources. Carry on, please.’
‘Well, Inspector, to put it bluntly, Miss Krout has reason to believe that Mr. Woodrow may have quarrelled with the man you found drowned.’
‘Quarrelled?’
‘She believes his daughter, Lucinda, saw them fighting, although she was too fearful to mention it to you.’
‘The little girl?’ says Webb. ‘She said nothing at all, Mr. Langley. Not a hint. But she has confessed all this to Miss Krout? Is that what you are saying?’
‘So I gather. Miss Krout . . . well, she also has reason to believe that Mr. Woodrow was at the Holborn Casino the night the poor girl from his establishment was killed.’
‘Does she now? But she has sent you, Mr. Langley, to speak to us on her behalf – why, precisely? I would be quite happy to speak to her in person. She knows that, I should think.’
Langley hangs his head, looking at his glove, now rather twisted between his clasped fingers. ‘She is in something of a state, Inspector. But, in truth, I persuaded her that I should act as a go-between.’
‘Go on,’ says Webb.
‘I know nothing about the man in the canal, but I can vouch that Mr. Woodrow was at the Casino that night. You see, to be frank, sir, I was there with him myself, in the beginning at least.’
‘Were you, Mr. Langley?’ says Webb, raising his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Mr. Woodrow did not mention any of this.’
Langley looks nervously at the policeman. ‘I must confess, Inspector, Mr. Woodrow spoke to me the next day; I believe it was after you visited his establishment. He asked me not to say anything about it, if asked, and not to admit that we were there; to consider his reputation, and mine. But after what I have heard today from Miss Krout, well, I rather felt obligated to come forward. I would be grateful, however, if you would say nothing about it to her.’
‘That rather depends. Why were you there?’ asks Webb.
‘Mr. Woodrow suggested it, Inspector. To celebrate our prospective business partnership. It was not my choice at all but I went with him; rather weak-willed of me. I have no liking for such haunts, honestly. Nor would any man of principle. In fact, I fell ill soon after we arrived – I expect it was the cheap champagne the wretched placed serves – and I caught a cab home.’
‘And Woodrow stayed on?’
‘Well, I cannot say with absolute certainty, but I believe so, yes.’
Webb looks down at the papers on his desk. ‘Let me get this straight, Mr. Langley. I will put it bluntly to you; I hope you do not object. Does Miss Krout believe Jasper Woodrow is a murderer? That, for some unknown reason, he killed these two persons?’
‘I fear so, Inspector.’
‘How about you, Mr. Langley. You know the man – what do you think? Is Miss Krout correct?’
‘I am no judge, Inspector. But she is not hysterical, I will say that much. She has her reasons, at least.’
‘All the same. It is a grave charge.’
Langley frowns. ‘I only know Mr. Woodrow has something of a temper, Inspector. But as to anything else, I cannot say one way or another. Should I not have told you all this? Do you think it is mere idle speculation?’
‘Oh, no, not speculation, sir,’ says Webb. ‘Valuable information. You did the right thing in coming to me.’
‘Then what will you do, Inspector? Arrest him?’
Webb smiles thinly. ‘I think, under the circumstances, Mr. Langley, it is quite likely. But I should like to hear directly from Miss Krout, first. She is staying at the Midland, I gather?’
‘Yes. I can take you there now – I said you might wish to speak with her in person. I hope you do not mind my interference. I just thought it best we speak in private – about the Casino. You understand?’
‘Of course,’ replies Webb.
It is just gone five o’clock when Jasper Woodrow quits his business premises. He follows his normal route across the shop floor, past the glass counters displaying rolls of bombazine and crape, past the young women in black who decorously drop a brief curtsey as he passes by. He does not tarry on the staircase, quite the opposite, and ignores the salutation of the doorman, striding briskly into the gas-lit street. Rather, he puts on his hat, and walks purposefully north, hurrying across the road in the direction of the British Museum. There is perhaps something a little too headlong about his progress, something suggestive of a degree of unhealthy nervous energy; but, whatever it may be, it does not slow him down.
He does not notice the cab that rolls patiently behind him, a good hundred yards or more distant.
‘Inspector,’ says Annabel Krout, motioning rather nervously for the two policemen to take a seat.
‘I thought it might be best if we met in your room, Miss,’ says Webb. ‘This is rather a delicate matter, after all.’
‘Of course,’ replies Annabel. ‘Mr. Langley has spoken to you? You know why I am here?’
‘Indeed. I gather some argument with Mr. Woodrow, Miss?’
‘Not just an argument, Inspector. He all but threatened me with violence.’
‘When was this, Miss?’ asks Bartleby.
‘Yesterday. It was Lucinda, you see . . . she saw him fighting with that man, I’d swear.’
‘With Brown?’
‘Yes . . . I’m sorry, Inspector. I am not putting this clearly. I am still not quite myself.’
‘Perhaps you had better tell us everything from the beginning, Miss?’
Annabel Krout takes a deep breath. ‘Yes, I will. I just . . . well, if I am right, Inspector, what will happen?’
‘One step at a time, Miss,’ says Webb.
Jasper Woodrow’s route home is his normal trajectory through the stuccoed terraces of Bloomsbury, and then towards Myddleton Square and the City Road. But then he turns, instead, along the Gray’s Inn Road, north towards King’s Cross and Pentonville. It is, undoubtedly, an insufficient diversion to arouse any suspicion in the mind of Inspector Hanson, as he waits to choose a moment when the cab may draw up beside his quarry in the evening traffic, without causing suspicion, and close enough for Eliza Brookes’ eyesight. But as Woodrow exchanges a few words with the newsvendors at the bottom of Pentonville Hill, he glances back at the cab and then abruptly vanishes from view, just as a crowd of travellers spills onto the pavement, surging from the underground station of the Metropolitan Railway. So sudden is Woodrow’s disappearance that it takes Hanson a moment to realise what has happened; namely that his man has dashed towards the stone stairs down to the station platform.
Even as the police inspector urges the cab to stop, fighting to get out amidst the bustle of the street corner, he is restrained by a firm hand upon his shoulder.
‘That was him,’ says Eliza Brookes. ‘I’ll swear an oath on it.’