Murder on the Short List (6 page)

“I'd put my last shilling on it, sir. He attacked Thackeray with a razor – Thackeray being artfully disguised as a woman of the street. He does a very good impersonation of a woman, does Thackeray.”

“Indeed.” Jowett glanced at Thackeray, seeing him in a whole new light, and took a step away. “Well, your prisoner is no Frenchman. Of that I'm sure. You'd better bring in an interpreter.”

“No gratitude,” Cribb said after Jowett had left the room. “All of London was living in fear of this monster and what thanks do I get for nabbing him? Not a squeak.”

“I know exactly how you feel, Sarge,” Thackeray said.

T
he papers were full of the arrest next morning. “
An unidentified detective posed as a woman of the unfortunate class
,” the
Morning Chronicle
stated, “
and was set upon by the murderer with an open razor. Thanks to the foresight of Inspector Jowett of the Criminal Investigation Department, the officer concerned was wearing a protective leather collar and succeeded in detaining his assailant and calling for assistance from his colleagues nearby. The arrest was effected immediately
.”

“‘. . . the foresight of Inspector Jowett?'” Cribb said, flinging the paper aside. “He didn't even know about this plan of mine.”

“Ah, but he knows how to tell a good story to the newspapers,” Thackeray said.

“Most of it untrue.”

“Well, yes. It didn't seem to me like an immediate arrest.”

Cribb ignored this dig. He had too much else to deal with. “The interpreter is coming in at noon. Claims to speak nine languages.”

“That ought to be enough,” Thackeray said. “How many languages are there?”

“More than that.”

“London's full of Poles and Russians. He looks like a Russian to me.”

T
owards the end of the morning a gentleman in a top hat arrived and asked to speak to the officer who had arrested Razor Bill.

“Right, sir. You'll be the interpreter, I dare say,” the desk sergeant said.

“No, sir, I am not. I am the Reverend Eli Mountjoy.”

“Might I inquire what you're here for?”

“
That
officer.” The Reverend Mountjoy pointed a finger at Thackeray, who was on his way to an early lunch. “He's the one I came to see.”

“Right, your reverence.” The desk sergeant beckoned to Thackeray with a curled finger.

There was no escape. Thackeray ushered Eli Mountjoy into a room where they wouldn't be overheard.

“You look almost normal without your face painted,” the minister said. “I saw in
The Times
that you arrested a man last night.”

“That's right, sir.”

“Are you sure he's the murderer?”

“Well, he did his best to cut my throat,” Thackeray said.

“Who is he?”

“That's something I can't reveal, sir.”

“Can't, or won't?”

“Both, sir. He's not speaking to us.”

“Perhaps I can be of assistance. Through my missionary work on the streets I come across many of the local ne'er-do-wells. Would you like me to take a look at him?”

Thackeray pondered for a moment, scratching his chin. “I suppose it would do no harm.”

The interpreter hadn't yet arrived, so he took Eli Mountjoy downstairs and slid open the Judas hole of Razor Bill's cell door.

“That's Vladimir,” Mountjoy said at once. “He's a Russian.”

Thackeray smiled to himself. “I thought so. You know him, then?”

“By sight. He doesn't talk. Can't understand us, I suppose. Well, there's a thing. I'd never have thought of Vladimir as a murderer.”

“We've got an interpreter coming in. We'll find out what he's got to say for himself if he isn't completely mad.”

“Let's hope he isn't,” Mountjoy said. “It would be so encouraging if he asks his Maker for forgiveness before you hang him. How many women did he kill?”

“We know of four.” Thackeray slid the cover over the slot in the door. “Would you happen to know his second name?” Mountjoy shook his head. “People call him Vladimir, or Vlad. That's all I can tell you. Four, you say. Is that certain?”

“Four corpses, all with their throats cut.”

“That's beyond dispute.” He stroked his beard thought-fully. “I expect you'll make sure.”

Thackeray frowned. “Make sure of what, sir?”

“That he killed all four.”

“Is there any doubt?”

“I suppose not. I was reflecting that if – for the sake of argument – he was responsible for only three of the murders, and he refused to speak, or is mad, you might never find out who carried out the fourth.”

Thackeray thought about that for some time. “It's pretty far-fetched, isn't it? There isn't much chance of two evil people cutting women's throats in Pimlico at the same time of year.”

“I have to concede that it is. Pretty far-fetched.” On the way upstairs, Mountjoy said, “They'll all flood back onto the streets now, all those women who were too frightened to parade themselves while Razor Bill was about. He did more to clean up the streets of Pimlico than you or I.”

“That's another way of looking at it,” Thackeray said. He was pleased when the Reverend Eli Mountjoy raised his hat and left. The man made him feel uncomfortable.

C
ribb was decent enough to congratulate Thackeray on finding out that Razor Bill was a Russian called Vladimir. He said the interpreter had made no headway at all. “He tried all of his nine languages. The only response he got was when Bill spat on his shoes.”

“But we have got the right man, sarge?”

“I'm sure we've got the right man.”

“Is he mad?”

“No, I've come to the conclusion that he's clever. He was caught in the act, so he's got no way of talking himself out of it. By saying nothing, he opens a chink of doubt. But we know something he doesn't.”

“What's that?”

“He doesn't know we know he's a Russian called Vladimir.”

“Speaking of a chink of doubt, sarge, there was something the reverend said that made me uneasy.” Thackeray explained about Eli Mountjoy's suggestion that someone else might have carried out one of the murders.

Cribb was intrigued. “Did he have a reason for this theory?”

“No.”

“It's a strange thing to suggest.”

“He did say something about the women being too scared to walk the streets while Bill was at large. He said they'd all come back to Pimlico now.”

“He's right about that. I think I'd better meet your clergyman. What's his address?”

Thackeray had to admit he hadn't enquired.

“No matter,” Cribb said. “He's a local. We'll find him.”

T
he same evening they called at the Terminus Wash-house in Lupus Street and met Mrs Lettice Mountjoy. She was sitting inside the entrance with a pile of folded towels on a table beside her. There was also a large urn of soup simmering over a paraffin burner. She was about forty-five, slim, with a lined face. She was wearing a white pinafore over a black dress.

“Is this where the sins are washed clean?” Cribb asked.

“Ladies only, I'm afraid,” Mrs Mountjoy said.

“Gentlemen sinners need not apply?”

“It's the rules,” she said without a smile. “The mission hires the bath from ten o'clock until two. We aren't permitted mixed use.”

“I understand,” Cribb said. “You
are
Mrs Lettice Mountjoy? We're police, wanting a word with your husband.”

“Oh, dear.”

He held up his hand. “It's all right. He's been helping us over these murders. He's a public-spirited man, your husband.”

“He's more than that,” she said with animation. “He's a saviour.”

“And are they saved for good, or do they go back on the streets after the bath and the soup?”

She looked upset by the suggestion. “It's permanent in almost every case. He's very persuasive.”

“And let's not underestimate your part in the process. Has he brought any in tonight?”

“Not yet, but he will.”

“We'll wait, then. He's on the streets every night, is he?”

“Except Sundays.”

“So in the past three weeks, when these horrible murders were happening, he's carried on as usual, out every night saving souls?”

“There were three days last week, Monday to Wednesday, when he was unable to do it. He was suffering from a bad cough.”

“So he spent those nights at home inhaling friar's balsam?”

“He was at home, yes.”

Tuesday was the night the fourth victim, Mary Smith, had been killed in Buckingham Palace Road.

There was not long to wait. Out of the mist came a hansom cab, and from it stepped the Reverend Mountjoy looking so worthy of his calling that a halo wouldn't have been out of place. He helped down a young woman heavily rouged and in a fur jacket. His wife greeted her charitably and handed her a bar of carbolic soap and a clean towel and took her into the bath-house.

Cribb introduced himself. “I want to clarify something you said to Constable Thackeray here.”

“By all means.”

“You suggested someone other than Razor Bill might have carried out the fourth murder.”

“I floated the possibility, no more,” Mountjoy said. “It seemed to me that if some person were disposed to kill one of these unfortunate women, they might adopt the same
modus operandi
as the murderer in the expectation that Razor Bill would be blamed for the crime.”

“It's an ingenious idea,” Cribb said. “Do you have any reason for believing it happened?”

He hesitated. “Nothing tangible.”

“As a religious man, you'd owe it to the One Above to tell me everything, wouldn't you?”

Now the Reverend Mountjoy coloured deeply. “It's no more than a theory, sergeant. I'm a pastor, not a policeman.”

“Did you know any of these unfortunate women who were killed?”

“Only one. The latest.”

Thackeray said, “Strike a light!”

“Don't misunderstand me. I didn't know her as, em –”

“In the Old Testament sense?” Cribb said.

“Gracious, no. I knew her at arm's length, as a sinner I tried to save. Some, unhappily, will not be persuaded whatever I say. Some, a few, give promise of redemption and then back-slide.”

“They take the bath and the clean towel without meaning to reform?”

“Who can say what they truly intend?”

“Was the fourth victim, Mary Smith, a back-slider?”

“Regrettably, yes.”

“That must be a savage blow.”

“A kick in the teeth,” Thackeray added.

“But I wouldn't have wished her to suffer, if that's what you're thinking.”

“Far from it, sir. To change the subject, I was wondering if my constable and I might be permitted a look inside the bath-house.”

“Absolutely not,” Mountjoy said in a shocked tone. “That young woman will be in a state of nature by now.”

“I wouldn't trouble yourself about that,” Cribb said. “In her profession she's used to being seen by all and sundry.”

“It would be improper.”

Cribb smiled. “It's
our
immortal souls you're concerned about, isn't it?”

He spread his hands. “You are God's creatures, too. If you
must
see inside – and I can't understand why it's necessary – you can come back at two after midnight, when we leave the premises.”

“As you wish.”

They watched Eli Mountjoy climb into the waiting cab for another rescue mission.

“We can just walk in,” Thackeray said.

“No, we'll play his game,” Cribb said. “Let's find somewhere to eat. I don't like the smell of this soup.”

T
hey returned at two, when the streets were more quiet. The Reverend Mountjoy was waiting while his wife washed the soup bowls.

“How many did you save tonight?” Cribb asked.

“Three, if the Lord pleases.”

“Good going. Can we look inside now?”

“Certainly. There's no one in there.”

Cribb insisted that the couple came in with them, so Mountjoy led the way and turned up the gas for a proper view of the interior. The air was still steamy, and wasn't the sweetest to inhale. To the left was a row of wash basins, each with a simple mirror over it. Opposite were the bathrooms. Cribb glanced inside the one that had been used for the mission and immediately turned away. The wash basins interested him more.

“It brings it all back,” he said. “When I started out in the police, I lived in a section-house without running water. Used a wash-house like this as a daily practice. Penny a wash and shave, twopence for a second-class bath, which was a once-a-week treat.”

“Have you seen enough?” Mountjoy asked, impatient with the reminiscing.

“Not quite. I'm picturing this place in the morning, full of working men standing at the basins shaving. Do you own a razor, sir? No, you wouldn't, with such a fine beaver as yours. For a clean-shaven man like me, a razor is an everyday object. I keep mine beside the kitchen sink at home. But in those days I'd leave it in the wash-house after my shave, tucking it out of sight above the basin. There were ventilation windows over the mirrors just like these.” He reached up and ran his hand along the ledge under the window. “Dusty.”

“It would be.”

“What do you know?” Cribb said. “Someone else has the same idea.” He took down a razor from the ledge.”

“There's nothing remarkable in that,” Mountjoy said. “You'd find others up there, I'm sure.”

“Yes, I'm not saying this is the murder weapon. I'm just satisfying myself that a razor could be acquired by anyone using this wash-house on a regular basis.”