03 - Murder in Mink (20 page)

At first glance Mrs Patterson did not appear to be at
home. At first glance…

Inspector Jennings knocked at the door repeatedly while
Clara idled behind him. When no answer was forthcoming he peeped through the
window.

“Maybe she is out.” Clara suggested.

“There is a full cup of tea on the table.” Jennings was
grinning, “They always forget something.”

Mrs Patterson’s front door faced onto a wide alley
between two houses. She occupied the back portion of a terrace house, the
front, with large windows was currently occupied by an ex-sailor living on his
pension. Jennings tapped at his door and it was opened almost at once.

“Aye?” Asked the sailor, peering at them with bad
eyesight.

“Can I get into your backyard through your house?”
Jennings asked politely.

“No you can’t, anything to do with the backyard you go
through that gate.” The sailor eyed them cautiously, “Is it about the rats? The
little buggers keep coming back you know.”

“It isn’t about the rats.” Jennings smiled, “We wish to
talk to your neighbour Mrs Patterson.”

“Her?” The sailor gave a knowing nod, “Good.”

Then he slammed his door shut. Jennings winked at Clara.

“I think we’ll speak with him later, but first the lady.”

The gate was not bolted so Jennings held it open for
Clara and then followed her into a narrow passage between the end terrace and
the one next door. A low arch of bricks covered the first portion of the
passage and connected the two houses. The passage was filled with rubbish, old
boxes, newspapers, piles of decomposing rubbish, from food to garden clippings,
all dumped in this little grotto of filth. Clara gritted her teeth as a fat rat
scrabbled out of an empty tin just in front of her and raced towards the
opposite wall.

“Yes, this is just the sort of person you wish to entrust
with giving girls abortions.” Jennings said sarcastically.

They picked their way down the passage, it opened into a
barren yard, also semi-blocked with old rubbish. There was a sweet, rancid
smell of decomposition all around. Clara found herself staring at the washing
line straddling the yard and wondered how anyone could hang their clothes on it
and expect them to smell clean afterwards. She had never seen such layers of
dirt. Fresher, identifiable rubbish was sitting on oozing black piles of… who
knew what? It was disgusting in a way that made Clara feel sick.

“I’ll bet the back door’s unlocked.” Jennings was picking
his way over a puddle of brown water. Clara followed, wincing as another rat,
fat and wet, eased itself out of a stack of discarded beef and chicken bones.

Jennings had reached the door and was trying the handle
gingerly. He gave Clara a sly smile, she was about to respond when something
caught her eye. She pointed, there was no way to speak of what she had just
seen. Jennings moved back from the door and looked in the direction she
indicated.

Close to the house, in what might be deemed a ‘clean’
corner in that pig-sty, a bloody bundle of cloth sat. For once Clara’s nerve
failed her. She glanced at the inspector, but even he was reluctant. Finally he
stepped forward and warily nudged the rags with his food. Something pink and
unformed plopped out of the cloth, along with a small rat that scurried away
with unerring speed.

“Is it what I think it is?” Clara asked as calmly as she
could.

“Yes. And fresh too, the rats have hardly touched it.”
Jennings looked back at the door, “No wonder Mrs Patterson isn’t at home to
strangers. She has been busy recently.”

Jennings returned to the door and opened it as quietly as
he could manage. Clara crept behind him as they entered Mrs Patterson’s abode,
surprisingly the interior was rather neat considering the grime in the yard.
Though everything was rather old and tattered and there was a pervading smell
of stale grease and cabbage. Jennings closed the door and wedged it shut with
an old chair to prevent their suspect fleeing, then they took a pace into what
proved to be a narrow passage between a tiny bedroom and a kitchen. As they
reached the kitchen door there was the sound of someone moving.

Jennings jumped through the open doorway and Mrs
Patterson dropped the dish she had been wiping dry onto the floor. It smashed
loudly. They all stood and stared at each other in silence.

Mrs Patterson was neither plump nor thin, her clothes
hung on her uneasily, as though trying to escape her presence. She wore her
hair up underneath a dull, grey cap, though thick strands fell about her face.
She was very ordinary in appearance, not the sort who stood out. Her surprise
turned to anger as she glared at the intruders.

“Get out!” She shouted, pointing a finger violently at
them.

“Not so fast Mrs Patterson, I’m inspector Jennings and I
would like a little chat.”

Some of Mrs Patterson’s fury left her. She took a good
look at the inspector, trying to decide if she believed him. Then her eyes
drifted helplessly about the small room, looking for something she had
forgotten, something she had left in plain sight.

“You seem uneasy about visitors.” Jennings remarked,
nonchalantly pulling out a chair to sit down.

“A woman’s entitled to her privacy.” Mrs Patterson
snapped.

“That she is, she is also entitled to a reasonable degree
of medical care, especially during intrusive procedures. I think we both know
why I am here, don’t we?”

Mrs Patterson’s eyes flitted back and forth. She licked
her lips anxiously.

“I don’t know what you can possibly want from a poor
widower like me.” She declared.

“Shall I fetch that unfortunate bundle from just outside
your door?” Jennings answered blithely, “Might that help explain my presence?”

“What bundle?” Mrs Patterson was still trying to play the
innocent, but her nervousness was growing by the moment.

“The bundle you left out for the rats to eat. With all
the rich pickings in your yard it seems they have taken their time getting to
it. When was the girl here? Last night?”

Mrs Patterson was desperate to deflect attention from
herself. She turned on Clara.

“Who’s she?”

“Clara Fitzgerald.” Clara announced herself, taking a
step forward, “I have a vested interest in seeing you put out of business.”

Mrs Patterson glowered.

“Don’t know you and I don’t know what you are talking
about. I can’t help the rats, the dustmen won’t come down the alley and collect
the rubbish. What I am supposed to do with it? I’m just a poor widower with a
bad back, who is virtually housebound.” Mrs Patterson reeled out her sob story,
“And don’t the neighbours take advantage! I imagine it was one of them left the
bundle you were talking about, they are always throwing their rubbish in my
yard. They know I can’t do nothing about it.”

“Can we stop these games Mrs Patterson? You are an
illegal abortionist.”

“I never heard such unpleasant tosh!” Mrs Patterson flung
her hands in the air furiously, “I’m a respectable widow, my poor husband was
in the late Queen’s light infantry. He fired a gun as part of the salute at her
funeral. He would be horrified to hear me accused of such nasty business.”

Jennings was losing his patience. Suddenly he stood and
exited the kitchen, within moments he was back with the cast-out bundle in his
hand. Clara turned her head away as he dumped it on the small kitchen table and
exposed the contents.

“Can you deny this Mrs Patterson?” He demanded.

“Han’t you ever seen a dead kitten before?” Mrs Patterson
growled back, “My old tabby had it last night, poor creature weren’t even
formed, just this little pink blob. What was I supposed to do with it?”

“So you are claiming this is a dead kitten, not a dead
baby?”

“Didn’t I just say so? You policemen are ever so stupid.”
Mrs Patterson’s anxiety was being superseded by delight at turning the tables,
“Now you can get out of my house and stop upsetting a poor old widow who has
done nothing wrong.”

Jennings fumed for a moment, but he was snagged. It was
his word against hers. She could claim the pink bundle a dead kitten, he could
claim it a baby, but no layman would know which was right.

“I shall take this to the coroner and have it tested.”

“You do that.” Mrs Patterson said confidently, “And take
this little miss with you, she is giving my place a bad stink with that look on
her face. Sour-faced creature.”

Clara refused to be drawn into the argument, she knew
when she was beaten. She touched the inspector’s sleeve and he angrily snatched
up the bundle. They could do nothing that day, but they would come back with
their proof and then Mrs Patterson would be really worried. Clara consoled
herself with that fact as she and Jennings exited the house.

It was a relief to leave the rubbish-filled yard and
stand in the sunshine at the front of the house.

“I need to get this back to the station at once.”
Jennings scowled, “Will you be all right to make your way home?”

“Yes,” Clara assured him, “I’m going to speak with that
sailor fellow first though.”

“Go ahead, perhaps he can give us some hint how to nab
that old crow.”

“Do you think a doctor will be able to tell if that mess
was a human baby?”

Jennings shrugged.

“I have no idea, but right now I’m low on options. I’ll
let you know if I get any news.” The inspector walked off.

Clara straightened her hat and rapped on the front door
of the sailor’s portion of the property. The old sailor answered and gruffly
asked what she wanted.

“Would it be possible to have a word with you about your
neighbour Mrs Patterson?” Clara asked.

The sailor’s demeanour suddenly improved.

“Now that is something I would
like
to talk
about.” He showed Clara into his small house, which was well kept and aired
regularly.

His furniture was minimal, a life at sea did not lend
itself to collecting tables, chairs and sideboards. But in the small property
the lack of large pieces meant the rooms felt open and bright. The old sailor
offered Clara a small armchair and pulled another close so he could listen
easily. Then he offered her tea or whisky. Clara declined both.

“I hope not to take up too much of your time.”

“No matter, isn’t often I have a pretty girl in my house
these days.” The old sailor gave a lop-sided grin, “My name’s Able Seaman
Samuel Fairing, but you can call me Sam.”

“Nice to meet you Sam, you can call me Clara.” The
formalities over Clara got down to business, “I presume you know a little about
your neighbour’s varied activities?”

Sam folded his hands in his lap.

“What business have you got with her?”

“In honesty, she has had dealings with a friend and I
wish to prevent her from laying her hands on anyone else.”

Sam gave a gentle nod.

“You understand, I just wanted to make sure we weren’t
talking at cross-purposes. I know Mrs Patterson performs abortions. These walls
aren’t exactly thick and I’ve heard the girls crying out. Not to mention some
of the things I have seen in the back yard. Not that I am supposed to go down
there, Mrs Patterson has made that very plain.”

“How long have you lived here?”

Sam did a rough calculation in his head.

“Nine years, since I gave up the sea. My rheumaticks
couldn’t take it anymore.”

“Was Mrs Patterson already here?”

“That she was, in fact I picked this place thinking it
would be nice to have a quiet old lady living just behind me. Peaceful, I
thought to myself. I’ll get no bother from her. Pfft, what did I know!” Sam
chuckled, “Since I’ve been here, aside from the comings and goings of the
girls, I’ve had all sorts knocking on my door after my neighbour. Some of them
were right thugs, scared the life out of me. I suppose they were fathers and
brothers and lovers, all up in arms over the matter. Not to mention the police.
I knew at once that was what that fellow you had with you was.”

“That was inspector Jennings.”

“Yes, well I just knew he was a policeman. They stand
out, you know.”

“There must have been lots of girls over the years.”
Clara said, mostly to herself, thinking of so many desperate women beating a
path to Mrs Patterson’s home.

“I suppose once a month would be average. Occasionally
there are more. I think a couple of them I’ve seen more than twice, but my eyes
aren’t so sharp, so I couldn’t swear to it.”

“Have you seen the person who brings them?”

“Aye, that would be Reverend Draper.” Sam watched his
guest’s face, “You don’t seem surprised.”

“I’m not. Does he come always?”

“Mostly. Sometimes the girls come alone.”

Clara leaned back in her chair trying to think what to
ask next. Sam could be a witness, but much of what he had seen and heard was
circumstantial. It was simply not enough. Sam was sensing this and was keen to
be of more use.

“He came on his own the other night. I thought that was a
strange thing.”

“Reverend Draper?”

“That’s right. He come calling on Mrs Patterson and they
sat in her parlour talking. Her parlour wall is my bedroom wall.” Sam indicated
to another room, “I could hear almost every word. Quite a fuss that vicar was
making, something about this woman turning up out of nowhere and causing a
stir. He said she had ruined everything. Mrs Patterson was trying to calm him
down, though she isn’t really the sympathetic sort. She finally got rid of him,
anyhow.”

Clara was certain the reverend had been referring to
Shirley Cox. He had been shaken by the wedding being interrupted. What a
peculiar man to be upset in such a way, though she supposed it was not good for
a church or a vicar’s reputation to have gate-crashers barging into a wedding.

“I don’t suppose you happened to recognise any of the
girls who have come here?” Clara asked, slightly hopelessly.