As the carriage rattled over the cobbles, John Feather questioned Lily Wallace while Abigail kept notes of her answers in her notebook.
‘You said that Joe was going to see some rich man,’ said Feather. ‘How did you know he was rich?’
‘Because it had to be the same bloke who picked Joe up a couple of times. He had a carriage, a proper one, real money.’
‘Do you know who this man was?’
‘No. I never met him, just saw the carriage he was in. He used to park at the end of the street when he wanted Joe for a private job. That’s what Joe called it. Private work.’
‘Butchering for him?’
She nodded.
‘How do you know it was a man in the carriage? It could have been a woman?’
She gave a harsh laugh. ‘That’s how I know. I thought he might be seeing some woman, so after the first time he went out, I followed him. The door of the carriage opened and I heard the bloke talk to Joe.’
‘What about?’
‘Just, “get in”. But that’s how I knew it was a bloke.’
‘What sort of voice did he have?’
‘Well, like I said, I didn’t hear him say much. But it was a posh voice. With that and the carriage, that’s how I knew he must be rich.’
‘How old did this man sound? Young? Old?’
‘I couldn’t tell, not from just two words.’
‘And Joe never told you what sort of butchering work he was doing for this man?’
She shook her head.
‘How many times did this man pick Joe up?’
‘Twice. Like I say, it was the second time I went out after him.’
‘Can you remember the dates?’
‘I’m not much good with dates,’ she admitted. ‘To be honest, every day’s pretty much the same as the others, except for Christmas and birthdays.’
‘Which days did the man come to collect him? Two days ago? Three? Last week?’
She frowned, thinking hard.
‘The last time he went out with this bloke was Wednesday night. The 17th. And the time before was Sunday 14th.’
Abigail made a note of the days, which she underlined: Sunday 14th February; Wednesday 17th February. The two bodies had been discovered outside the National Gallery in the early hours of Monday 15th and Thursday 18th.
Daniel and Sergeant Cribbens arrived back at Scotland Yard and had the body of Joe Wallace taken from the police van and despatched to the mortuary. They then went to Inspector Feather’s office and found Feather and Abigail already there.
‘It was him,’ said Abigail. ‘Joe Wallace, working with this mysterious rich man.’ She looked at her notes. ‘Joe went out with him on the night of Sunday 14th February to do some private butchery work, as he told his wife. The body of Anne-Marie was found outside the National Gallery the following morning.
‘Joe went out with this same man again in his carriage on the night of Wednesday 17th, and Kate Branson’s body was found the next morning.’
‘So, did he kill himself, or did someone do the job for him?’ asked Feather.
‘If he decided to kill himself, why go all the way to Seven Dials to do it?’ asked Daniel. ‘My guess is he went there to meet someone, and they killed him.’ Daniel produced the razor wrapped in his handkerchief. ‘This will tell us. There’s a perfect set of fingerprints in the blood on the handle. If they don’t belong to Joe Wallace, someone killed him. Which is what I’m pretty certain happened. And his wife feels the same.’
‘The chief superintendent doesn’t believe in this fingerprint business,’ Feather reminded him.
‘John, this is scientific evidence,’ stressed Daniel.
‘To his mind it’s all hogwash.’
‘Did anyone see Wallace at Seven Dials, before he died?’ asked Daniel.
‘We got the local bobbies asking questions. One old woman offered them information in exchange for gin.’
‘Doesn’t sound as if it would be very authentic,’ commented Abigail.
‘Everything has to be taken with a pinch of salt,’ agreed Feather. ‘But she has a pitch selling matches on the corner not too far away from it, so she could see who went in and out. She’s a people-watcher.’
‘Did she see him come out?’
‘No. But over an hour later she saw this toff, as she called him, go in. The toff came out again about a quarter of an hour later and went off.’
‘That’s our man!’ exclaimed Daniel. ‘Did she describe him?’
‘No. She said he had a long coat on, and a white scarf wrapped round the lower part of his face, and he was wearing a top hat. So, it’s a good description of his clothes, but not of him. We still don’t know what he looks like or whether he’s young or old.’
‘The privy’s out the back of the pub so he must have taken Joe out the back door.’ He looked at Feather. ‘Have you talked to the barman at the pub?’
‘Not yet,’ said Feather. ‘I was going to bring him in once I’d reported everything to the chief superintendent, in case he wanted to handle the questioning. He’s very hands on with this case because of the pressure he’s under from the top.’
The door opened and they all turned to look at Chief Superintendent Armstrong. He looked at Daniel and Abigail with a scowl.
‘What are you two doing here?’ he demanded.
‘We had some information we wanted to share with Inspector Feather.’
‘What information?’
‘About the National Gallery murders.’
Armstrong’s eyes narrowed suspiciously, then he turned to Feather. ‘Someone said you’ve got the man who did them.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather. ‘Joe Wallace. A butcher from Whitechapel.’
‘I hear he’s dead. Killed himself. Cut his throat.’
‘Yes, sir. But we’re not sure if he did it, or if he was murdered.’
‘Who’d want to murder him?’ demanded Armstrong.
‘His accomplice,’ said Daniel.
‘What accomplice?’
Daniel gestured to Feather to reply. ‘It would seem that this Joe Wallace was working with someone else, a rich man. This fits with what we’ve been told about a rich man who used to pick up Kate Branson in his carriage. Apparently, Wallace met with this rich man at the pub in Seven Dials shortly before he died. There’s suspicion that this rich man killed Wallace to silence him.’
Armstrong held up his hand to stop him.
‘No,’ he said firmly. ‘Let’s not confuse the issue. You’ve got evidence to bear out the idea that this Wallace killed the women?’
‘He may not have killed them,’ said Abigail. ‘Although we’re fairly sure he did the butchery.’
Armstrong shook his head. ‘Wallace did it. Now he’s topped himself. He must have felt the law was closing in on him.’ He looked at Feather. ‘Is that right, Inspector? I understand you’ve been making enquiries about him.’
‘Yes, sir. That’s correct.’
‘That’s it, then. Good, dogged police work. Case closed. I can tell the commissioner we’ve solved it.’
‘You’re forgetting about the rich man,’ said Abigail. ‘His accomplice. Joe didn’t have a van, so they must have used his carriage to pick up the women and move their bodies about.’
Armstrong shook his head.
‘No,’ he said, even more firmly than before. ‘If this rich man, as you call him, was Wallace’s accomplice, Wallace might have gone to meet him to ask for help. Money to get him out of the country, or something. The bloke turned him down. For Wallace that was the last straw. He’d done the killings. He butchered the women and dumped them. Now, as the net closed in on him, he killed himself. That’s all we need.’
It was almost one o’ clock when Daniel and Abigail arrived at the National Gallery to inform Stanford Beckett of the death of Joe Wallace, and the decision by Chief Superintendent Armstrong to declare the case closed.
‘So this Wallace did the murders?’ said Beckett.
‘The chief superintendent seems to think so, but we’re not so sure,’ Daniel told him. ‘We believe Wallace was working with someone else, a mystery rich man. Wallace may well have carried out the butchery on the victims, but they may have been dead already, killed by this other man.’
‘But the main thing is that Walter is exonerated,’ said Beckett.
‘Indeed,’ said Daniel. ‘We shall go and see Mrs Sickert later today and tell her.’ He sighed. ‘And now we have to meet Mr Abberline and tell him that the investigation is officially ended. At least, we assume that’s what Mrs Sickert will decide when we tell her the news. We’re fairly sure that Chief Superintendent Armstrong is currently producing a press release that will go out to the newspapers telling the public that the reign of terror of the New Ripper is over and the killer is dead.’
As Abigail and Daniel left Beckett’s office, Abigail noticed the grim expression on Daniel’s face. ‘You’re not happy with the decision.’
‘No, I’m not,’ said Daniel. ‘Are you?’
‘No,’ said Abigail. ‘But I can’t see what we can do to change it. If the chief superintendent declares the case closed and that Wallace was the killer, that’s it. No one’s going to pay us to carry on the investigation.’
‘No, but I can’t just leave it as easily as that. To satisfy us, I need to talk to the barman at The Flower Pot. He must have seen this rich man.’ He turned to Abigail and said: ‘Can you wait here in case Fred turns up early while I go to Seven Dials? I won’t be long, but I need to see if the barman knows anything.’
‘If he does, he won’t talk,’ warned Abigail. ‘That’s the impression I get.’
‘And you’re right,’ admitted Daniel ruefully. ‘But I just need to go there for my own satisfaction.
Chief Superintendent Armstrong looked at the words he’d written. He was trying to make sure his press release had impact. The journalists would rewrite it to suit their own particular readers, he knew that, but he wanted them to be excited by it. And, most importantly, to be aware that the case had been solved as a result of meticulous work by Scotland Yard’s detectives under the personal direction of Chief Superintendent Armstrong. London was safe again. The killer was dead by his own hand, despatching himself when he became aware that Scotland Yard were closing in on him. But as he read the piece, doubt nagged at him. Who was this mysterious rich man that Wilson and Fenton had mentioned? Wallace’s accomplice, they’d said. And they insisted this rich man had actually killed Wallace, cut his throat to silence him. Was that possible? If so, this mystery man was still at large. Which meant that danger still stalked the streets.
He reread his words again, and gave an inward groan. These were the words of a politician doing his best to assure the public that everything was all right and they were safe again. Yes, it was a sad fact that a man in his position had to be part-politician to deal with the press, the commissioner, the home secretary and Uncle Tom Cobbley and all. But first and foremost he was a policeman. His job was to keep London safe by solving crimes, not by pretending they’d been solved because some miscreant had killed himself. Or, worse, been murdered. If another murder happened, another woman butchered like the previous two, there’d be an outcry, claims of ‘foul’ against him for claiming the case was solved.
With a sigh of resignation he crumpled the piece of paper and dropped it in his waste basket. Then he got up and walked along to Inspector Feather’s office, coughing as he went in as a result of the thick acrid smoke from Sergeant Cribben’s infernal pipe.
‘I’ve changed my mind, Inspector,’ he announced as Feather looked enquiringly at him. ‘Send a note to Wilson and Fenton. Tell them to come in. Just in case there is anything in this business of this mystery rich man.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Feather, reaching for a piece of paper and pencil. ‘When do you want them to come in?’
‘Today,’ said Armstrong. ‘Tell them we’ll be here all day.’
‘We, sir?’
‘You’re included, Inspector. You seem to have a rapport with them.’ He turned to Cribbens. ‘You’re not included, Sergeant. It’s bad enough having to endure the foul fog you create in here, I don’t want it contaminating my office.’
The barman at The Flower Pot regarded Daniel suspiciously as he entered the pub and came to the bar. He knows I’m a copper, thought Daniel. Public or private doesn’t matter, the crooks recognise us straight away.
‘Remember me?’ asked Daniel. ‘I was here this morning when the body was discovered in your privy.’
‘Nothing to do with me,’ grunted the man. ‘I never saw the bloke before.’
‘That’s strange,’ said Daniel, ‘because we spoke to someone who said the dead man was in your pub for quite a while on his own before the man he was due to meet turned up. A rich toff, he was described as.’
The barman shook his head. ‘I never saw him. Whoever told you they was in here was seeing things. I never saw either of ’em.’ He looked at Daniel with suspicious hostility and demanded: ‘Anyway, who are you? You’re not a regular copper.’
‘Private investigator, hired to find Joe Wallace. The dead man in your privy.’
‘Well, you found him.’
‘And the rich toff he was meeting in here yesterday.’
The barman glared angrily at Daniel.
‘You ain’t the police, so you’ve got no power here. I’ve told you, I didn’t see anything and that’s an end to it.’
Daniel met the man’s glare with a cool look of his own.
‘As I see it, you’ve got a choice. You can talk to me, or you can be hauled in to Scotland Yard and they can put you through the wringer. I can make that happen. I used to be a detective sergeant with the Yard and we still work together, which is why they brought me in this morning.’
The man produced a leaded stick from beneath the counter, which he slammed down menacingly on the bar.
‘And you’ve also got a choice,’ he said. ‘You can walk out or be carried out with a broken head. And no one’s taking me to Scotland Yard.’
Daniel looked at the leaded stick, unimpressed.
‘You’re making a big mistake,’ he said calmly. ‘You’re looking at a charge of being an accessory to murder. That’s a hanging matter. Now whatever this rich bloke’s paying you isn’t enough to stop that happening.’ He reached into his pocket and took out one of his business cards, which he laid on the bar. ‘If you change your mind, get in touch. The name’s Wilson. I’ll be at the National Gallery for the next hour. That address is where you can get hold of me if I’m not there. If I’m out, leave a note and I’ll come back. I’ll give you till four o’clock today to think about it, and then I tip the wink to the boys at Scotland Yard. It’s up to you.’
With that, Daniel left, aware of the barman’s eyes burning into his back. Yes, Scotland Yard had been an empty threat now that Armstrong had decided the case was closed; but Daniel hoped the barman wouldn’t know that. It now depended on how quickly the chief superintendent issued his statement to the press. Usually, the earliest the statement would appear in the press would be first thing tomorrow morning, but if Armstrong worked fast, it might even be in tonight’s late editions. He could only hope the barman made his mind up in the next few hours, before the late editions came out.
When Daniel returned to the National Gallery, Abigail was outside the main entrance, waiting for Abberline.
‘How did you get on in Seven Dials?’ she asked.
‘Not well,’ he admitted. ‘I tried a bluff on the barman of the pub in the hope it might persuade him to tell us about the rich man.’
‘Did it work?’
‘I don’t know. We’ll find out in the next couple of hours.’
‘Here’s Fred,’ said Abigail.
Daniel turned and saw Abberline arriving.
‘Here I am,’ he said. ‘What’s our first move?’
‘Our first move is to sit on this wall while we tell you it looks as if the investigation is at an end,’ said Daniel ruefully.
He directed Abberline to the nearby decorated concrete wall that edged the entrance area. They sat, and Abberline regarded them with puzzled eyes. ‘At an end?’ he asked.
Daniel told him about Armstrong’s decision to declare the case closed. ‘The butcher we told you about, Joe Wallace, was found dead this morning. His throat had been cut and a bloody razor was found beside the body.’
‘The way you say that suggests you don’t think it was suicide.’
‘No, I don’t – we believe he was murdered by his accomplice. But all the evidence pointed to Wallace having been involved in the murders, and the butchering of the bodies. So, as far as Armstrong is concerned, that’s the end of it. Wallace was the guilty party and he killed himself when he realised the net was closing in on him.’
‘Have you told your client yet? Mrs Sickert?’
‘No, but we’re fairly sure she’ll say that’s the end of it. All she wanted was for her husband to be proved innocent of these latest killings. Whatever statement Armstrong puts out will do that.’
Abberline gave a sigh.
‘So, I’ve had a wasted journey.’
‘We’ll make sure you’re paid for today,’ said Daniel.
Abberline shook his head.
‘Forget it. I haven’t done anything.’ He got up. ‘I think I’ll have a look around the shops, get something for Emma. We don’t get up to town much. And since I’m here, perhaps you can give me my old notebooks back. I don’t trust the post. Too many things disappear.’
‘They’re at home,’ said Abigail. ‘We didn’t expect this kind of news. We’re not far away. Come home with us and we’ll have some tea and cake.’
‘What sort of cake?’
‘Fruit cake,’ said Abigail.
Abberline’s eyes lit up. ‘I love fruit cake.’
Abigail gestured towards the entrance to the gallery. ‘Do you want to look around the gallery, as you’re here?’
‘No,’ said Abberline. ‘If it’s a choice between art and fruit cake, I’ll take fruit cake every time.’
Abberline elected to walk to Camden Town rather than take a bus. ‘I’ve had enough of buses today to last me,’ he said. ‘And I still like a good walk. It’s the best way to see a city.’
‘It is,’ agreed Daniel.
Their journey home took them longer than usual because Abberline was keen to stop at different shops in Charing Cross Road, and then Tottenham Court Road. ‘We don’t have shops like these in Clapham,’ he explained.
Daniel and Abigail were happy to humour him in his window-shopping. They both felt deflated at having the case ended, for them, unsatisfactorily. The killer, the ‘rich toff’, was still out there.
When they arrived home, they found a plain buff envelope on their doormat.
‘That could be from the barman at The Feather Pot,’ said Daniel eagerly.
‘No, this is John Feather’s handwriting,’ said Abigail as she picked it up. She opened it and read the note inside, and a smile lit up her face. ‘It looks like Chief Superintendent Armstrong has had second thoughts. The case isn’t closed, after all. We’re summoned to a meeting with him to discuss the continuation of the investigation.’
Daniel and Abberline exchanged puzzled and suspicious looks.
‘What’s his game?’ asked Abberline warily. ‘Armstrong never does anything except in self-interest.’
‘Perhaps there’s been another murder?’ suggested Daniel.
‘We’ll soon find out,’ said Abigail, putting the letter in her handbag. ‘You’ll come with us to Scotland Yard, won’t you, Mr Abberline? It looks as if we’re still on the case, and it will be good for you to hear what the chief superintendent has to say.’
‘No thank you,’ said Abberline, tight-lipped. ‘I never liked the man, and he never liked me. I’ve no interest in sitting listening to him praising himself. I’m a citizen, now, not one of his employees, so I’ll pass.’ Then he smiled at them as he added: ‘But I’ll meet you afterwards and you can tell me what he says, and what happened at this meeting, and where we stand. Is Freddy’s still open?’
‘It is,’ said Daniel.
‘Then that’s where you’ll find me. First, I’ll take a wander round the shops and see what I can get for Emma. Then I’ll see you at Freddy’s.’