Peter Tremayne - An Ensuing Evil and Others

He suddenly dropped to one knee and pushed experimentally at a small piece of planking near the door, part of the skirting board. It seemed loose, and a small section gave way, revealing the cavity beyond. Dickens felt inside with his gloved hand and came up smiling. There was a key in his hand.

“Strange how people’s habits follow a set course.”

A moment later they entered the rooms beyond. There was a strange odor, which caused Collins to sniff and wrinkle his features in bewilderment.

“Opium? The smell of dope?”

“No, Charley,” replied his father-in-law. “Its the smell of incense, popular in the East. I think it is sandalwood. Find the gas burner, and let us have some light.”

The first room was plainly furnished and was, apparently, an office for prospective clients of the solicitor. On the desk there was a rolled sheaf of papers. Legal documents. Dickens absently took from his pocket the red ribbon, rolled the paper, and slipped the ribbon over it. He shot a glance of satisfied amusement at Collins. He then removed the ribbon, put it back in his pocket, and examined the documents. It was not helpful.

“A litigation over the ownership of a property,” he explained. “And a cover note from an agent offering a fee of a guinea for resolving the matter.”

He returned the document to the desk and glanced around.

“By the look of this place, it is hardly used and indicates that our Mr. Wraybrook had few clients.”

A door led into the living quarters. There was an oil lamp on a side table. It was a sturdy brass-based lamp, slightly ornate, and a very incongruous ornamented glass surround from which dangled a series of globular crystal pieces held on tiny brass chains.

“Light that lamp, Charley,” instructed Dickens. “I can’t see a gas burner in this room.”

Collins removed the glass and turned up the wick on the burner, lighting it before resetting the glass. The crystals jangled a little as he picked it up.

Beyond the door was a bed sitting room. Collins preceded Dickens into the room. Again the furnishings were sparse. It seemed that the late Mr. Wraybrook did not lead a luxurious life. There was little that was hidden from their gaze. A tin traveling trunk at the bottom of the bed showing that its owner was a man recently traveled. The wardrobe, when opened, displayed only one change of clothes and some shirts. The dressing table drawers were empty apart from some socks and undergarments.

“Gene! I thought that… Oh!”

A voice had spoken from the doorway behind them. They swung round. There was a young woman standing there. She was not well dressed and was not out of place among the residents of Narrow Street.

She stared at them, slightly frightened. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, silently strident. “Where’s Gene… Where’s Mr. Wraybrook?”

Dickens assumed a stern and commanding attitude. “We will ask the questions, young lady. Who are you?”

The girl seemed to recognize the voice of authority. “Polis ain’t cher?”

“Name?” demanded Dickens officiously.

“Beth Hexton. I lives ‘ere.”

The East End accent did not seem to fit with the delicate features of the girl. Collins could see that whatever her education, she was very attractive, a kind of ethereal beauty that his artist’s eye could see in the kind of paintings that Millais and Rossetti and Hunt indulged in. She would not be out of place as a model for an artist of the High Renaissance.

“Here? In these rooms?” he queried.

“Naw!” The word was a verbal scowl. “In this ‘ouse. Me dad’s Gaffer Hexton,” she added, as if that might mean something.

“Ah, Gaffer Hexton.” Dickens smiled, “And he might be-?”

“Owns two wagerbuts on the river. Thought all you peelers ‘ad ‘eard o’ me dad.”

A wagerbut was a slight sculling craft often used for races along the Thames.

“A dredger?” Dickens said softly.

“Ain’t we all got a livin’ t’ make?” replied the girl defensively.

“How well do you know Mr. Wraybrook?” he demanded.

Her cheeks suddenly flushed. “ ‘E’s a friend, a real gen’leman.”

“A friend, eh?”

“Yeah. What’s ‘e done? Where yer taken ‘im?”

There was a movement in the other room, and they swung round. They had a glimpse of a stocky, dark-haired man making a hurried exit through the door.

Dickens frowned. “Who was that?” he asked.

“ Tm? That’s Bert ‘egeton.” The girl spoke scornfully.

“And he is?”

“ ‘E’s the local schoolteacher. Fancies ‘imself. Thinks I fancy ‘im. I don’t think!” she added with sardonic humor. “ ‘E’s out of ‘umor since Gene… since Mr. Wraybrook asked me to step out wiv ‘im.”

Dickens glanced at Collins with raised eyebrows. Although Dickens was certainly no social prude, it seemed a little incongruous that a solicitor would “step out” with a dredger’s daughter. But then, she was an attractive girl, and if a local schoolteacher was seeking her favors, why not a solicitor?

A movement at the door, and a dry, rasping cough interrupted them again.

It was the thickset policeman, Sergeant Cuff. “Well, Mr. Dickens… for someone who did not know the corpse, you seemed to have reached here pretty quickly.”

There was a little scream from the girl. She had gone pale, the back of her hand to her mouth, staring at the detective.

Dickens made an irritated clicking noise with his tongue. “Miss Hexton was a friend of Wraybrook,” he admonished.

“ ‘E’s dead?” cried the girl in a curious wail.

“Murdered, miss,” the policeman confirmed without sympathy.

The girl let out another wail and went running out of the room. They heard her ascending the stairs outside.

“Congratulations on your diplomatic touch, Sergeant,” Dickens reproved sarcastically.

Sergeant Cuff sniffed. “The girl’s a dredgers daughter. Gaffer Hexton. He would rob a corpse without thinking any more about it. In fact, he was going to be one of my next port of calls. He and his daughter probably set Wraybrook up to be done in, if they didn’t do it themselves. Wraybrook was a godsend to these river thieves. Whoever did him in has made themselves a fortune.”

Dickens frowned. “You seem very positive that it was a robbery.” Then he started. “You’ve just implied that you knew Wraybrook and knew that he had something of value on him. Look around you, Sergeant Cuff. Would a rich man be living in these frugal rooms?”

Sergeant Cuff had a superior smile. “We’re not stupid in the force, Mr. Dickens. Of course I knew Wraybrook. Been watching him for some months. I recognized the body at once but had to wait for a constable to arrive before I came on here. I suppose that you haven’t touched anything?”

“Nothing to touch,” retorted Dickens in irritation.

“I don’t suppose there would be. How did you come to know Wraybrook?”

“I didn’t. His name was on his shirt collar. A laundry mark. I deduced he was a solicitor by the cut of his cloth and went to look him up in Kelly’s . Miss Mary at the Grapes saved me the trouble as she knew of a Eugene Wraybrook and indicated where he lived. It was as simple as that.”

“Very clever. Had you confided in me that you had seen the name, I would have saved you the trouble of coming along. Wraybrook arrived in London six months ago from India. We had word from the constabulary in Bombay that Wraybrook was suspected of a theft from one of the Hindu temples. The theft was of a large diamond that had been one of the eyes in the statute of some heathenish idol. But while he was suspected, there was no firm evidence to arrest the man. He was allowed to travel to England, and we were asked to keep a watch on him. It was expected that he would try to sell the diamond and make capital on it. He was a clever cove, Mr. Dickens. I suppose, being a solicitor and all, he was careful. Settled in these rooms and plied for business. Not much business, I assure you. Seems he was eking out some living from his savings. We’re a patient crowd, Mr. Dickens, we watched and waited. But that’s all…. Until tonight. I guess someone else had found out about the diamond. He must have kept it on his person the whole time, because we searched these rooms several times, unbeknown to him.” Sergeant Cuff sighed deeply. “I suspect the girl and Gaffer Hexton, and that’s where my steps take me next.”