Death in Bayswater Page 19

  Frances hardly trusted herself to speak, and when she made the effort it came out as a whisper. ‘Where did you find it?’

  ‘Celbridge Mews. And I’m very sorry to say,’ Sharrock added with unusual gentleness, ‘that it was lying beside the body of a young female.’

  Until that moment Frances had clung to the faint hope that it was only the bloodied reticule that had been found – that the owner had somehow escaped, and might be lying wounded but could still be saved. What a cruel thing hope was, and how foolish she had been to entertain it.

  Sarah laid a steadying hand on Frances’ arm. ‘Murdered?’

  Swanson’s deep-set eyes were as hard and dark as flint. ‘Yes, and we think it was the same man as killed the last two, only she wasn’t cut on the face. He must have been interrupted before he could do it, and ran away. Do you know whose bag this is?

  Frances nodded, almost too overcome with emotion to speak the words, as if the very act of saying them would make them permanently and unbearably true. Her voice seemed trapped in her throat but she knew that if she was to be of any use she must be strong. She took a deep breath. ‘Yes. The owner is Effie Price, the sister of Jim Price. I gave her this card myself.’ Her eyes suddenly filled with tears. ‘Oh what a world this is! She was barely more than a child!’

  Sharrock wrote in his notebook. ‘Do you know her address?’

  ‘Victoria Place. I have the number in my notebook.’

  ‘Is there any family other than the brother and mother? Only I need someone to identify the body.’

  ‘Oh please do not ask the mother to do this terrible thing,’ Frances pleaded. ‘It would surely kill her. The news will have to be broken to her very gently but even then I think she will be unable to endure it. I don’t know of any other family. Let me spare the poor woman and go with you.’

  Sharrock looked doubtful, but saw the sense of her offer. ‘I wouldn’t expect it, but if you feel strong enough …’

  ‘I do,’ said Frances, though she was far from sure that this was the case.

  Sarah handed Frances a handkerchief. ‘How was she killed?’

  ‘Cut throat. Very quick, she wouldn’t have known much before it was over. It’s a bad enough sight, but not as bad as the others.’

  Frances dabbed her eyes. ‘That is some small mercy at least. I only wish I could have kept her safe.’ She thought of the loving daughter and loyal sister, the small slight girl in a thin dress so patched and worn it could barely keep out the autumn chills; the slender fingers abraded by long hours of work with the needle; the shy blush when she saw the young reporter. A young life, a future, gone in a moment.

  ‘Well if you are sure you want to do this we’d best go straightaway,’ said Sharrock. ‘I have a smelling bottle in my pocket if you feel you need it. ‘

  ‘I can always get you a brandy on the way,’ offered Sarah.

  Frances pressed her companion’s arm reassuringly. ‘Thank you, but I think I had best keep a clear head. Celbridge Mews, you say? Just off Porchester Road near the railway. I wonder what her errand was there?’

  Mr Candy approached them hesitantly. ‘Er, Inspector I wondered if you might like to speak to the company and advise them if there is anything they should know? Miss Doughty, will you be making your speech?’

  ‘Miss Doughty will not be making a speech,’ snapped Sharrock before Frances could reply. ‘She is coming with us on police business and everyone will know why I am here once I know all of the matter myself.’ They prepared to leave and as they stepped down from the stage and filed past the wondering crowds the hall was abuzz with gossip and speculation. Mr Candy pleaded for quiet, and started to make an address to close the meeting and invite volunteers, donations and signatures on the petition. The little drama that had unexpectedly been played out before the eyes of the audience certainly stimulated all three.

  There was a cab waiting outside and Frances, Sarah and the two Inspectors boarded it, while Sergeant Brown and Constable Mayberry, after a brief word with Swanson, followed on foot. Some of the audience had already left the hall and were milling about on the pavement waiting to see them depart. Mr Loveridge hurried out on to the street, his pencil moving across paper with fast deft strokes. As the cab drew away Frances saw Professor Pounder still maintaining his careful observation of the company, his glance alone persuading idlers to depart, while a heavily veiled lady, much bent and leaning on a stick stood still and watched intently as they moved past.

  Frances felt a sudden pang, and could not help wondering if the mystery lady was her mother, who had come to see her, not daring to reveal herself. Had there been a chance to meet at last, one that might just have been snatched away and could be gone forever? Or was she hoping foolishly and seeing too much in what might have been no more than the natural curiosity of a stranger?

  As they travelled north up Porchester Road, Frances saw an unfamiliar glow that resolved into the light of lanterns against which loomed the dark shadowy figures of policemen. Constable Stuckey was standing guard at the entrance of the arched passage that led into Celbridge Mews, while further down, past the glimmer of gas lamps, the space opened up into a small but rather better lit courtyard, where an officer was speaking to some of the residents. About halfway down the passageway, in the soft wash of light Frances saw something shapeless and crumpled lying on the ground. ‘We’ve not moved anything like you said, sir,’ Stuckey reported. ‘Dr Collin is on his way.’

  Sharrock gave Frances an anxious look. As Mayberry and Brown joined them, Swanson had a brief word with his sergeant, telling him to look sharply about for any footprints or bloodstains. Sharrock, with a quick nod and a gesture of the thumb, sent Mayberry down the passage with his lantern then waited until Frances felt steady enough to continue. Sarah laid her hand on Frances’ arm, just enough to show that she was there, and Frances patted her companion’s hand, braced herself and followed Sharrock, Swanson and Mayberry into the mews. The body was half leaning against the wall where it had fallen, slumped forward so that the face could not be seen.

  As Frances drew near she realised that something was not as she had expected. The dress, the coarse woollen shawl with its colourful darning and the cheap straw bonnet were not the clothes of Effie Price, but the ones she had last seen worn by the girl’s mother. For a moment she thought that the body might be that of Mrs Price, but then saw that the figure was slender, and not the rounded shape of the older woman. So it must be Effie after all. Perhaps the girl’s clothes were being laundered, and having no others she had been obliged to borrow her mother’s, even though they were a poor fit. She had not tried to defend herself, and had probably never had the chance to do so, since the hands lay loosely on her lap uncut and undamaged, although the fingertips appeared to be smeared in blood.

  ‘Is this Miss Price?’ asked Sharrock.

  ‘I think so,’ said Frances, uncertainly. ‘But it is her mother’s gown. Constable, please bring the lantern nearer.’

  Mayberry obliged, but as the light fell fully on the body, Frances saw to her surprise that the dark smudges on the fingertips were not blood at all, but ink, and the hands, while youthful and slim, were not as delicate as those of Miss Price.

  ‘No,’ she said, mystified. ‘This is not Effie Price, nor is it her mother.’

  ‘Then who is it?’ demanded Sharrock.

  Frances, with a new thought, just as horrible as the old one, knelt by the body and carefully untied the bonnet from under the chin, the ribbons already stiff with dried blood that had flowed from the throat leaving a dark bib on the chest. As she lifted the bonnet away she saw the bruise on the cheek, the imprint of the filigree-topped cane still visible.

  She rose to her feet, the grief she had felt earlier renewed in a fresh surge of pain.

  ‘It is George Ibbitson, a reporter for the Bayswater Chronicle.’

  ‘What? Are you sure?’ exclaimed Sharrock.

  ‘Yes. I recognise him from the bruise on his face. He was injured a few
days ago outside the Chronicle offices.’

  Sarah stepped forward and after a quick glance turned to the Inspector and nodded. ‘That’s him, all right. I cleaned up that wound myself. Won’t be two like it.’

  Sharrock stared at the body in astonishment. ‘Does he usually go about in women’s clothes? Not a Boulton and Park type, was he?’

  ‘I really don’t know what you mean by that, Inspector,’ said Frances with a sigh, ‘and I would prefer it if you did not try to explain.’

  Sarah gave Sharrock a fierce look. ‘He wasn’t what you’re thinking at all. Very sweet on Miss Price he was.’

  ‘Oh, I think I can guess what may have happened here,’ groaned Frances in sudden realisation. ‘Mr Ibbitson has been trying to help Miss Price – he wanted to exonerate her brother and must have hoped to do so by trapping the real killer. The foolish, foolish good-hearted boy – he thought to act as a decoy, and so he borrowed Mrs Price’s garments and now it has led to his death.’ Frances turned her head away, as she could feel fresh tears spill down her face. ‘If you don’t mind, Sarah, I think I could do with that brandy, now.’

  Sarah took her firmly by the arms. ‘I’ll get you home. There’s nothing else you can do here.’ She was drawing Frances from the terrible scene towards the street when there was the sound of running footsteps and the panting of a man in a hurry. It was Constable Cross, and he stopped at the head of the mews and hung on to the corner for support. ‘Inspector! If you could come quick! There’s been another one! In Hereford Mews. And this one’s all cut about, and there’s a funny sort of chalk mark on the wall.’

  ‘You get off home now, Miss Doughty,’ ordered Sharrock. ‘Leave this one to the police. Miss Smith, can I trust you to see her safe?’

  ‘Always.’

  Frances was allowing Sarah to lead her away when she suddenly stopped. ‘Someone needs to go and tell Miss Price. She’ll be waiting for Mr Ibbitson to come back and tell her what happened. I don’t want her to hear it from gossips or read about it in the newspapers.’

  Sarah hesitated and eyed Frances warily. ‘Please,’ begged Frances. ‘It is better from me than a policeman.’

  ‘All right, but we go home straight afterwards.’

  There was a flickering candle in the front window of the Price family cottage, and as they approached they saw the pale ghost-like face of Effie Price glancing out into the lane, hoping to see the sight that she would never see again.

  The young girl knew that it was dreadful news as soon as the two women arrived. Thankfully Mrs Price had gone to her bed so it was only the daughter that Frances had to gently tell the worst, and Effie, weeping, confirmed what Frances had suspected; George Ibbitson, hoping to decoy the killer and put an end to the terror, had borrowed Mrs Price’s gown as a disguise. Effie had placed the little reticule on his arm herself as a finishing touch. There were tears on both sides, and then Effie, gathering what little strength she had, wondered aloud what she could say to her mother.

  ‘Keep it from her as long as you can.’ Frances took a coin from her purse and pressed it into Effie’s chilled hand. ‘She will need a new dress.’

  ‘I will repay you,’ Effie murmured, although they both knew how many hours of work it would take her to do so.

  ‘Please, there is no need. Think of it as a gift.’

  Effie stared at the coin, and the tears started again. ‘And is there no news about Jim?’

  ‘I was at a meeting today with many hundreds of people present. I am hopeful that very soon all of Bayswater will come to the conclusion that your brother is innocent. I promise I will continue to do everything I can to see him reprieved.’

  ‘Please help us! Only I couldn’t bear it – especially now – to lose Jim in that cruel way, with everyone thinking him such a bad man, and I know that mother would sink and follow him.’

  Frances looked into the face of a girl who was almost crushed with grief and only managing to live from day to day for the sake of two people she loved, both of whom she felt sure she would very soon lose.

  ‘I will not abandon this cause,’ she said steadily. ‘And whatever happens I will be a friend to you.’

  As they made their way home Sarah said, ‘I thought for a minute you were going to promise to free her brother.’

  ‘I very nearly did,’ Frances admitted. ‘But she has lived through so much false hope that I dared not give her more. If I can free Jim Price, I will, but if not then I will see that his family does not suffer for his loss.’

  When they arrived home, they found Mr Loveridge waiting for them, and invited him into the parlour. ‘Mr Gillan has gone to Paddington Green police station in search of news,’ he said, anxiously. ‘I hope it is not very bad, but I can see from your faces that it must be.’

  ‘Yes, and far too close to home. The murderer has struck again, twice it seems.’

  ‘Twice? While we were all at the meeting?’

  ‘I can’t be sure.’

  ‘Because the police thought that the killer would be at the meeting.’ There was a pause as they all considered this. ‘After you left the rumour ran all about the hall that there had been another murder and you were being engaged to help the police. The collection boxes were filled almost to overflowing and there were long queues for men to sign up for the Guardians of Virtue. I applied myself, of course, but as I am not known in Bayswater I will have to obtain a letter from a clergyman who knows me and will vouch for my good character. Once I have that I will be available to protect the ladies of Bayswater, and it will be my great honour to do so.’

  Sarah narrowed her eyes as if to say that she knew which lady he particularly had in mind.

  ‘I will go to Paddington Green tomorrow and see if there is any news,’ said Frances. ‘Maybe the police will have gained some further clue as to the killer. And I will write more letters on behalf of Jim Price. I will ask for an interview at the Home Office to make my case in person. Surely if one good thing can come out of this terrible business it’s that the authorities cannot now ignore the fact that there is a dangerous criminal at large in Bayswater and Jim Price’s conviction must be overturned. One life at least can be saved.’

  Loveridge could see that she was weary and grieved, and left her to the quiet of the late evening and Sarah’s company. Frances was able to busy herself with letter writing, but once that was done there was nothing to prevent her thoughts dwelling on the loss of the young newspaperman. He had been a frequent visitor, and she almost expected him to suddenly appear at her door, his face glowing, his energy undiminished, saying that it had all been a ruse common to journalists and he was alive after all, and just about to go and see Effie. He did not come, and she wept again.

  Early next morning, after a night of little sleep and what sleep there was disturbed by bad dreams, Frances peered out of her window and saw a larger group of pressmen than before, huddled in the cool misty rain. Some she recognised as employees of the Chronicle. She decided to address them, and so went downstairs, opened the front door and appeared on the doorstep. There was an immediate clamour of questioning but she held up her hands for silence.

  ‘I have a statement to make. Please listen and take note. Last night I was present at the scene of a terrible crime. I identified the body of George Ibbitson who was cruelly murdered by the person who has been holding Bayswater in fear these last few weeks. Your colleague was a kind, brave and resourceful young man. You may have heard that when found he was costumed as a woman. This was a disguise he adopted in order to decoy the killer into making an appearance so that he might capture him. Sadly, this led to his death. He was a hero and I hope he will be remembered as such.

  ‘I wish also to take this opportunity to appeal for the reprieve of Jim Price, who I think we can now agree in the light of the recent tragedies is an innocent man who has been blamed for the crime of another. Thank you. That is all I have to say. And now, since Mr Ibbitson was a friend of mine, I beg you to leave me in peace.’

  The new
smen wrote copiously in their notebooks and rather sheepishly walked away.

  ‘You need to rest,’ Sarah told her, ‘though I know you won’t.’

  ‘There is no time for that. I need to see Inspector Sharrock. I know why Mr Ibbitson was killed, he was simply mistaken for a female, but I want to find out as much as possible about the second murder. If I could put together all the facts I might see something apart from the obvious which is common to all these crimes and that might assist me.’

  ‘Assist you in what?’ Sarah demanded. ‘Not chasing after a man with a knife I hope?’

  ‘No, but if I can study what has occurred then I might be able to draw a picture of the type of individual we are looking for, a type that might exonerate Jim Price.’

  ‘Got very interested in picture drawing just lately,’ said Sarah, meaningfully.

  ‘And what is wrong with that?’

  Sarah did not reply.

  They took a cab up to Paddington Green, and on the way Frances’ weariness and the movement of the vehicle overcame her and on their arrival Sarah had to shake her gently awake. The area around the station house was busy with newsmen clustering on the pavement outside interviewing men and women, some of whom were there to report missing relatives and others to try to identify the second victim found the night before. As Frances stepped down from the cab a few of those present recognised her and eager reporters left the visitors they were interrogating to swarm around her, with a hailstorm of questions. Sarah did her best to keep the worst of the shoving and pushing away, sometimes with a growl, sometimes with a shake of the fist, sometimes just by interposing her stout body between Frances and some of the more persistent offenders.

  At last, Frances was able to assure the newsmen that she had no further information to give. They all wrote furiously in their notebooks and she only wished she understood the whirls and loops of their shorthand in order to know what fictions they were devising. It was time to turn the tables. ‘But you may know more than I do. What can you tell me about the second body found last night?’