The Lodger (26 page)

Nicholas, who had checked the notes of that particular constable, along with all others, said, ‘You answered that he never went out, Mrs Stubbs.'

‘Well, I wasn't meself, I don't like coppers knockin' on me door when I'm busy and askin' questions that's not very nice.' Mrs Stubbs busied herself then, by bustling about and putting cushions to rights, a sign, thought Nicholas of a worried woman. She went on to say that she told the constable her husband and lodger played crib every night, going at it hammer and tongs, as if it had got into their bloodstreams, like drink. But she'd started to think a bit more about it, and she'd asked her husband if he did play crib with Mr Cox, the lodger, on that horrible Friday night. Her husband thought about it and said only for about an hour, then Mr Cox went out. That made her think some more, it made her remember that he had a visitor before he went out. It was a woman. She heard her on the stairs, she must have used the latchcord to let herself in. She heard her call up, ‘I'm here.' And Mr Cox called down, ‘That's nice, come up.' Mrs Stubbs remembered thinking perhaps he'd got a lady friend all of a sudden.

‘Then he went out?' asked Inspector Greaves.

Mrs Stubbs said yes, after about five minutes. Nicholas grimaced. He'd have liked it better if the answer had fitted his theories. Mrs Stubbs said her lodger also went out on the Friday evening when the young woman was attacked in Manor Place. Her husband, when she asked him last night, had said so.

‘Can you remember what time he got back on those two nights?' asked Nicholas.

‘It must've been late because he 'adn't come in before me 'usband and me went to bed, which we usually do a bit after half-past ten. But 'e's never been the sort to come in noisy an' drunk, 'e's a quiet man, yer know.'

‘Would you allow us to examine his room?' asked the Inspector.

Mrs Stubbs was glad to. She didn't want it all hanging over her, she said. Mr Cox rented two rooms, bedroom and living. Inspector Greaves and Nicholas searched both under the landlady's worried eye. They found a flat cap, a dark mackintosh, and boots with rubber soles. But no lock of hair, length of cord or little notebook came to light. They persevered, but without success.

‘Mrs Stubbs,' said the Inspector, ‘if the young woman let herself in by the latchcord, would you know if that meant she'd visited Mr Cox on other occasions?'

‘I don't remember 'im 'aving no lady visitors before, I never 'eard none. But 'e did 'ave one that evenin', me memory come back very clear once I'd spoke to me 'usband and me worried thinkin' started. When yer constable first called, I only thought about all that crib reg'lar as clockwork, except on Saturdays. Me an' me old man like to go to the pub Saturday evenings, an' Mr Cox liked to go up West.'

‘Is that a fact?' asked Nicholas.

‘Yes, I got to 'oping 'e'd find a nice young woman for hisself, 'im bein' a deservin' gentleman, I thought. Not that we wanted to lose 'im as a lodger, but yer can't 'elp wishin' kindly for some people. I can't 'ardly believe I might 'ave a lodger that might be the man you're lookin' for, and I just won't rest till it's settled one way or other.'

‘We'll see, Mrs Stubbs,' said the Inspector.

‘'E does clerkin' work at the coal merchants offices in the Walworth Road, yer know,' said Mrs Stubbs.

‘We'll give him a call,' said Inspector Greaves.

A young woman looked up as the CID men entered the offices of the coal merchants. In her white blouse and black skirt, the blouse adorned with a black neck ribbon tied in a bow, she was a typically neat lady clerk. Coming to her feet, she advanced to the counter.

‘Can I help you?' she asked.

‘Yes, we'd like to see Mr Cox,' said the Inspector. ‘Is he here?'

‘I'm sure he is,' she said, her manner bright and extrovert. She pointed to a door. ‘That's his office. Just knock and go in. It's business, is it?'

‘Yes, it's business,' said Nicholas.

‘Well, as long as you haven't come to rob the safe,' she said.

Nicholas smiled, the Inspector knocked on the door and a man's voice called, ‘Come in.'

They went in, Nicholas closing the door. At a desk and facing them sat a broad-shouldered, pleasant-faced man. He was about thirty, and wearing a workaday grey suit, with a stiff white collar to his shirt, and a grey tie. On the desk were account books, an open ledger in front of him and a pen in his hand. He looked as if he could have been a competent woodsman or wheelwright, except that his steel-rimmed spectacles placed him in a more sedentary mould. He took them off to inspect the callers, and Nicholas guessed they were only for reading.

‘Mr Cox?' enquired the gravel-voiced Inspector.

‘Yes?' Puzzled grey eyes regarded the CID men. ‘Are you from head office?'

‘No. Scotland Yard. I'm Detective-Inspector Greaves, this is Detective-Sergeant Chamberlain. We're makin' certain enquiries. We think you can 'elp us, Mr Cox. Sorry to interrupt you at your work, but I'd be obliged if you could answer a few questions.'

Mr Cox flinched. ‘What about?' he asked.

‘Our enquiries concern the murder of a Miss Mabel Shipman.'

‘Oh, good God,' said Mr Cox, and looked stunned. Then he shook his head as if to clear his mind of shock. ‘You'd better sit down, I suppose.' The Inspector and Nicholas drew up chairs and sat down. ‘Are you investigating me?'

‘Askin' for your co-operation, sir,' said the Inspector.

‘We understand you're keen on cribbage,' said Nicholas.

‘What?' Mr Cox looked utterly perplexed.

‘The card game.'

‘Oh, that. Yes. Good game for two.' Mr Cox was flat-voiced, his fingers twisting his spectacles about. ‘I think you must have been talking to my landlady.'

‘An 'elpful woman,' said the Inspector. ‘Now, sir, let me put it to you, what were you doing the evening of the murder, last Friday fortnight?'

‘Doing? Last Friday fortnight?' It seemed to pain Mr Cox, the effort of casting his mind back.

‘It wasn't an evening when nothing 'appened, Mr Cox. You can remember, can't you?'

‘My God, yes.' Mr Cox's nervous fingers became still. His forehead showed a slight film of perspiration. ‘Steedman Street.'

‘You got it, Mr Cox, at one go,' said the Inspector.

Mr Cox exhaled breath, leaned back in his chair and laughed, a man hugely relieved. It was a laugh totally unexpected in the face of his nervous twitches.

‘Can we share the joke?' asked Nicholas drily.

‘God, it's no joke,' said Mr Cox, ‘you had me on the rack for a bit. D'you mind if I call Kitty in?'

‘Is that the young female clerk?' asked the Inspector.

‘Yes. Miss Kitty Lane. D'you mind?'

‘Not if it's goin' to 'elp us.'

‘It will,' said Mr Cox. He got up, walked to the door and opened it. Kitty Lane was at the counter, attending to a customer. He waited until the customer departed, then called her in.

‘What d'you want?' she asked with a smile.

‘Kitty,' said Mr Cox, ‘we've been out together lately.'

‘Yes, so we have, but why d'you ask?' She looked in curiosity at the CID men.

‘When was the last time we went out?' asked Mr Cox.

‘Saturday night.'

‘And before then?'

‘Last Friday week,' she said. The Inspector's grizzled look darkened. That was the Friday when Miss Morley had been attacked. ‘What d'you want to know for?' asked Kitty.

‘I'll tell you in a moment,' said Mr Cox. ‘Can you remember the other time before last Friday week.'

‘Yes, the Friday before that. Percy, what's it all about?'

‘The police are asking me to help them with their enquiries,' said Mr Cox.

Kitty's eyes flashed. ‘What enquiries?'

‘The murder,' said Mr Cox.

‘Oh, that's wicked!' Kitty looked furious. ‘Or it's a sickening joke.'

‘Murder's no joke, neither is an investigation into murder,' said Nicholas, ‘it means questioning the innocent as well as the guilty. Miss Lane, can you remember what time you reached your home on each of those two Fridays?'

‘About eleven both times,' she said.

‘You're quite sure?'

‘Of course I am.'

‘And Mr Cox was with you on each occasion?' asked the Inspector.

‘Of course he was. Mr Cox wouldn't let a young lady go home on her own. It would come to something, wouldn't it, if a man did that?' Kitty put a question to Nicholas who was that much younger than the Inspector. ‘Wouldn't you take a young lady home if you went out with her?'

‘Yes, I would,' said Nicholas.

‘I don't know how you can come asking Mr Cox questions about murder. He wouldn't hurt a fly. He's gentle, he is. He was out with me those nights, and when he brought me home he came in and my mother made a pot of tea for us, so she can tell you too where he was.'

Inspector Greaves uttered a low, growling murmur of frustration.

‘Yes, thank you, Miss Lane,' said Nicholas. ‘What was the arrangement last Friday fortnight?'

‘Arrangement?'

‘Yes, where did you meet each other?'

‘I went to his lodgings,' said Kitty. ‘I had a little framed water colour for him. It was his birthday. I jolly well hope that satisfies you.'

‘Could you oblige me with your address, miss?' asked the Inspector.

‘Yes, Merrow Street.'

That was close to Camberwell Road. It put Mr Cox definitely in the clear.

‘Thank you, Miss Lane,' said the Inspector and came abruptly to his feet. ‘Thank you, Mr Cox.'

Nicholas rising, smiled ruefully and said, ‘Sorry we had to trouble you.'

‘Exactly why did you?' asked Mr Cox.

‘Because you were out on the two evenings in question,' said Nicholas. ‘That alone made it necessary for us to interview you.'

‘Yes, of course, I understand,' said Mr Cox. He saw them out and shook hands with them.

Outside, the Inspector said, ‘First-class lead, bloody useless result.'

‘I thought we were on to something when he started to sweat,' said Nicholas.

‘Never count your chickens,' said Inspector Greaves sourly.

Trary came out of school in company with friends, and at a moment when Bobby turned into West Square from St George's Road. Trary's boater went up and so did her nose.

‘I'm in a hurry,' she said, and detached herself from her friends to walk fast. Bobby came across to meet her. She went straight past him in her haughtiest fashion. She entered St George's Road, going at a quick, springy pace. Bobby went after her.

‘What's up, your house on fire, Trary?' he said.

‘Kindly don't speak to me, whoever you are,' said Trary.

‘Now what've I done?' asked Bobby.

‘I'm sure I don't know,' she said. ‘I've never hardly seen you before, and you can stop followin' me or I'll call a policeman.'

‘Well, blow me hat off,' said Bobby. ‘I come all this way with a kind 'eart, and what do I get? A carry-on.'

‘I'm just not speakin' to you, that's all,' said Trary, her nose higher.

‘That's not much of a change,' said Bobby.

‘Oh, you cheeky beast. Go away.'

‘Well, I'd better walk you 'ome first, seein' you've had to do it by yourself for nearly a week. I've had a worryin' time about that, I can tell you.'

‘Oh dear, what a cryin' shame,' said Trary.

‘Hello, something gone wrong at home, Trary?' Bobby was cheerfully impervious to her aloofness, if still a little peaky. ‘Is yer mum up against it again? I've suffered a chronic week meself, laid up with tonsillitis. Couldn't eat, couldn't hardly talk. Me mum said she didn't mind me not talkin' – '

‘Tonsillitis?' said Trary, and cast him a look. She saw his peakiness. A guilty feeling assailed her. ‘Oh, you Bobby Reeves, why didn't you say?'

‘Say? I've just told you, I couldn't hardly talk, let alone say.'

‘You could've sent a note. I don't know, you boys, you just can't take care of yourselves. Fancy gettin' tonsillitis when it's summer. That's just the sort of thing you would do, Bobby Reeves, and I don't suppose you should be out of bed yet, either. I'll just have to take you straight home. D'you want to lean on me?'

Bobby shouted with laughter. People looked. Trary went haughty again.

‘I think I can manage to keep standin' up,' said Bobby, ‘in fact, I feel miles better for seein' you, Trary. You get prettier all the time. Did you wear the silk stockings with yer Sunday frock. I bet your legs looked swish in them, I'd like to 'ave seen 'em.'

‘Oh, you blessed cheeky devil,' said Trary, hiding every ounce of delight she felt that her talking boy was in such good form. ‘You're talkin' about my legs again.'

‘Yes, it's nice you've got legs, Trary. I've seen some at the music hall, but I bet yours are better. Of course, I wouldn't look unless you insisted. I mean, I wouldn't mind you insistin'.

‘You'll be lucky,' said Trary. ‘Of all the nerve. Me insistin'? Well, I don't know, you've got the sauciest talkin' mouth I ever heard. I don't show my legs to any boys, let alone hooligans like you, what d'you think I am?'

‘Grand, that's what you are, Trary,' said Bobby. ‘I was fair racked last week, thinkin' about what might be 'appening to you with all the West Square boys chasin' after you, and me not there to knock 'em silly. I had a real grievin' week, what with bein' laid low and worryin' about you, besides not bein' able to swallow or say much. You're 'ardly livin' when you can't talk, yer know.'

‘Oh, bless my soul, poor boy,' said Trary, hugely enjoying herself, ‘but you're doin' all right now, you're pleased to say.'