ANNABEL KROUT STANDS up, facing Jasper Woodrow.
‘Sir!’ she exclaims, ‘what do you mean by this?’
Woodrow takes a step forward; there is, once more, the familiar aroma of brandy about him. In turn, Annabel takes a hasty step back, scraping her ankle against the wooden leg of the dresser. Woodrow throws his hat and gloves down upon the bed.
‘My apologies,’ he replies, ‘if I do not observe the social niceties. It is only because, Miss Krout, I do not know how much time I have left me.’
‘I do not understand you, nor do I wish to. Please, sir, leave at once, or I shall ring for the maid, and have you thrown out.’
Woodrow looks over his shoulder at the bell-pull behind him, by the door.
‘I think not,’ says Woodrow. ‘And I am not sure I ought to give much consideration to your feelings, Miss Krout. You have certainly not taken those of myself or my family into much account.’
Annabel looks at the door and the bell, then back at Jasper Woodrow. His rather breathless speech and flushed complexion, his features locked and rigid, all combine to give the impression of barely suppressed rage.
‘You are drunk, sir.’
Woodrow shakes his head. ‘You mistake indignation for intoxication, Miss Krout.’
Annabel says nothing. Woodrow breathes a weary sigh, as if attempting to compose himself. ‘Come, there is no need to make a scene. I am simply here to ask you to cease your spiteful campaign against my family.’
‘Sir, you are drunk.’
‘Hardly surprising, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, ‘if a man seeks a little Dutch courage before confronting a . . . well, I will not say the word. But, then, I confess, I can hardly credit what you have done.’
‘And what do you suppose I have done?’
‘Concocted some perverse tale for the benefit of the police. Perhaps even poisoned my own daughter against me. Is that not sufficient grievance for any man?’
‘Sir, as to the latter, well, I should think you have done a fine job by yourself. As to the rest, yes, I have spoken to the police, but only to confirm what I know to be truth.’
‘More insults. I come here, only to receive more insults! They are pursuing me through the streets, Miss Krout,’ says Woodrow, his voice far from measured, reaching forward and suddenly grabbing Annabel’s arm. ‘Did you know that? Like some common criminal from the gutter.’
Annabel squirms in Woodrow’s firm grip. ‘You are hurting me! For pity’s sake, let me go. The police shall hear of this, I promise you.’
Woodrow grabs Annabel’s free arm, holding her at arm’s length in front of him.
‘The police have heard enough from you already,’ says Woodrow. ‘You must retract whatever you have said, every word. Confess it is all a fiction.’
‘It is not,’ she replies, though her eyes brim with tears, ‘I will not.’
‘Damn me,’ exclaims Woodrow, ‘if you were a man, I would strike you down, I swear it, and give you the beating of your life.’
‘I do not doubt it,’ says another male voice at the door. Woodrow looks over his shoulder to see Decimus Webb standing behind him. ‘But, under the circumstances, sir, I strongly suggest you release Miss Krout immediately.’
Woodrow stares at the policeman, then throws Annabel Krout roughly down on to the bed, turning to face Webb.
‘You believe this girl’s charges?’ says Woodrow. His voice trembles with emotion.
Webb shrugs. ‘I merely would like to discuss things a little further, sir. We don’t need to make it any more unpleasant than it already is, eh?’
Woodrow stares at Webb for a moment, and nods. But his acquiescence is somewhat artificial; for, as he steps towards the door, following the policeman’s guiding hand, he makes a dash past Webb into the sitting-room. And Decimus Webb, for all his merits, has neither the strength nor the speed to prevent Jasper Woodrow shrugging him off, as he sprints back into the corridor, leaving the inspector slumped upon the carpet, lying against an armchair.
‘Are you all right, Inspector?’ asks Annabel Krout, her voice stammering, standing in the door between the two rooms.
‘Don’t concern yourself, Miss,’ says Webb, levering himself up from the floor. ‘Did he hurt you?’
‘No,’ replies Annabel, unconsciously rubbing her arms.
‘Good,’ says Webb, ‘then please wait here and lock the door until I come back.’
Annabel Krout nods, as the inspector runs into the gas-lit corridor. Webb is far from athletic in physique, however, and, in truth, does not harbour high hopes of catching up. Nonetheless, he makes his best effort at pursuit, following Woodrow’s trail by the highly audible complaints of several discomforted guests of the Midland Grand, pushed to one side by Jasper Woodrow’s headlong progress down the grand staircase. As he himself comes to the steps, which seem to extend in an endless fatiguing arc, he can hear a greater commotion below. And when he finally reaches the ground floor and follows the curving corridor towards the entrance hall, he finds a small crowd of guests has gathered around the source of all the noise. Webb pushes his way through, to find Sergeant Bartleby and a constable grappling Jasper Woodrow to the ground. Woodrow’s protests echo round the hall, his feet scuffing the mosaic floor, as Bartleby cuffs his hands behind his back.
‘This what you were looking for, Inspector?’ says Bartleby. ‘I thought you might need some assistance.’
Webb nods, taking a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiping his brow. ‘Well done, Sergeant.’
‘You are making a terrible mistake, Inspector,’ growls Woodrow, straining at the handcuffs, to little effect. ‘It is some sort of vile conspiracy, I swear it.’
‘Get him out of here, Sergeant,’ says Webb.
‘Inspector!’ protests Woodrow.
‘You’ll get your say, sir, I promise you that.’