DECIMUS WEBB, HAVING made his way back to Scotland Yard, spends the remainder of his day, and much of the night, at his desk, writing a report upon the Woodrow affair for the benefit of the Assistant Commissioner. He writes fitfully, however, reflected in the numerous blots of ink upon the paper, and, even when finished, he reads through the document with a sense of deep dissatisfaction. In the end, he merely places it in a drawer within his desk, safely out of sight, and extinguishes his lamp, making his way downstairs in the semi-darkness, illuminated only by the gas-lamp in the courtyard below, shining through the staircase window. There he finds Sergeant Bartleby, chatting to a couple of fellow sergeants.
‘You off home, sir?’
‘I am, Sergeant.’
‘Sorry, sir. Forgot to say earlier – message from Inspector Hanson. Said that he was sorry to miss you in court, but he’ll call tomorrow morning, compare notes, if you’re agreeable.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant,’ says Webb, distractedly, and continues walking, through the arched gatehouse and past the Clarence public house, out on to Whitehall. As is his wont, Webb resolves to make his way home on foot. It is gone ten o’clock at night, and he takes his regular route past Charing Cross station and along the Strand, though his face retains a rather pensive expression.
It is a quiet hour for the streets of the capital; for the hotels and public houses have not yet called ‘time’ and evicted their merry clients on to the streets; likewise the theatres and music-halls still contain all their dramatic devotees. Upon the other hand, the day-time workers of the metropolis have all, by and large, long since headed homewards. In consequence, as Webb progresses down the road, past the ancient church of St. Mary’s, which looms in the centre of the thoroughfare, rather like a ship marooned in the asphalt, the inspector barely notices a soul: a baked-potato man by St. Clement Danes, warming up his nightly call of ‘All hot’; a solitary girl, no more than thirteen years, doubtless turned out upon the streets, loitering under the arch of Temple Bar. Webb is quite alone with his thoughts. It is only when he comes to Fetter Lane, however, that his musings prompt him to a definite action and, instead of proceeding north towards Smithfield and Clerkenwell, his normal course, he carries on down Fleet Street, until he reaches the alley that leads into Salisbury Square.
In truth, it is unlikely he expects much to come of the expedition; and if he is initially inclined to ring the bell to summon Joshua Siddons forth from his rest, he wavers when he sees no sign of gas-light within. But as he approaches the door to Siddons’ establishment, still uncertain, he notices that it is slightly ajar. And, inside, he can hear the noise of someone stumbling around in the darkness, and see the occasional flash of light.
Webb pushes the door cautiously open, and peers into the undertaker’s. In turn, he is abruptly met with the beam of a lamp shone directly in his face. He sees enough, however, to make out the garb of its owner.
‘Who’s that?’ inquires a stern voice.
‘Put that blasted thing down, constable,’ says Webb with considerable gravitas.
‘Lord! Sorry, sir,’ exclaims the blue-uniformed constable. ‘It’s Inspector Webb, ain’t it?’
‘I suppose it is pleasant to be recognised,’ says Webb, ‘although you almost blinded me, man. E Division, I see.’
‘Yes, sir,’ replies the constable, fingering the ‘E’ marked on his collar rather nervously, ‘this is my regular beat. But I ain’t called the Yard, sir, not yet anyhow.’
‘Never mind that,’ says Webb, impatiently, ‘what brings you here, Constable?’
‘Well, I normally say good night to the old party that lives here, sir, just to keep an eye on him. He owns the shop; lives above it.’
‘But?’
‘Found the place left open, sir. Thought it was burglars but I can’t see nothing taken.’
‘And Mr. Siddons?’
‘You know the gentleman, sir?’
Webb sighs. ‘Why else would I be here?’
‘Well, there’s no sign of him. It’s not like him, sir. Man of regular habits is Mr. Siddons – known him for years; never known him to quit the shop, much less leave it open like that.’
‘I suggest, Constable, you go back inside and light the gas. Then we can have a proper look and not break our necks, eh?’
Constable E59 accedes to the suggestion and, once the gas is lit, Webb enters the shop. A tour of the upstairs living quarters, however, reveals nothing. The two show-rooms downstairs likewise appear empty, though they contain the impedimenta of the trade: palls and shrouds, principally in white, black or purple, laid out in delicate folds; coffin fabrics, from cambric to silk; handles, name-plates, lid ornaments and crosses, in copper, silver and bronze. All are carefully laid out in cabinets and glass-topped sliding drawers. The second room, however, also holds a row of substantial shelves, upon which are laid a dozen or more display-caskets of varying sizes and designs. The room is deliberately reminiscent of a church vault, with an architecturally redundant arch of bricks above the shelves to emphasise the point.
‘He’s not here, sir,’ says the constable.
‘Wait a moment,’ says Webb, pondering the shelves. ‘Tell me, Constable, have you been in here before?’
‘On occasion, sir. The old gent has showed me round once or twice, as it were. Proud of his work.’
‘Do you recall if he normally stacks his boxes quite like that,’ says Webb, gesturing towards the bottom shelf, where two substantial-looking oak caskets are laid, one atop the other.
‘Can’t say I do, sir – maybe they’re running out of space.’
‘The room is for display, constable. They do not need to pack them in. Besides, there is space. Here,’ says Webb, bending down, ‘help me lift this one clear.’
The constable offers Webb a rather puzzled expression, but does not disobey, and the two men lift the top casket and place it on the floor.
‘Weighs a ton,’ exclaims Webb, breathlessly.
‘The best ones are lead-lined, so he tells me, sir. I’m sorry, sir, but what do you think is wrong?’
Webb motions for the policeman to be silent, as he tentatively crouches down over the shelf, and pulls at the lid of the coffin that rests there, tilting it up and back, so he can see inside.
As he does so, the constable audibly gasps. For inside, lying curled to one side in the ruched cambric layers, is the body of Joshua Siddons.