Chapter 11 #2
After a week of clear weather, a “London particular” took hold on Wednesday, and their cab crawled from Westminster to Aldgate in the fog.
At every intersection, coppers waved bull’s-eye lanterns in the impenetrable gloom, trying to move the traffic along.
After an hour’s halting drive, their hackney stopped on the High Street in front of the only timber-and-wattle structure standing amid a row of brick houses.
Gilt lettering on a black sign identified the Hoop and Grapes.
It was late morning, but gaslights glowed yellow above the front door and the mullioned window.
Inside, a polished oak bar ran the length of the room. Bright, whitewashed rectangles of plaster wall shone between blackened half-timbered beams. A snowy-aproned barman with a handlebar mustache and pushed-back shirtsleeves nodded a greeting as he polished circles into the bar top.
“Your building is a survivor in the neighborhood,” Tennant said. “Seventeenth century?”
“You’ve got that right, guvnor. The Great Fire stopped fifty yards from that door.” The barman grinned. “They must have sold a pint or two that day.”
“The firefighters would’ve had a thirst on them something fierce,” O’Malley said.
“Speaking of … what can I get you gents?”
“Paddy?”
O’Malley smoothed his busy mustache. “’Tis a shade early, but a pint of Guinness wouldn’t come amiss. And a cheese-and-pickle sandwich if there’s one to be had.”
“Make that two,” Tennant said.
The publican drew two pints of stout, their creamy heads bulging above the rim. He set them on the bar and turned his attention to a carving board, slicing from a loaf of crusty bread. He layered on the cheddar, cracked open a new jar of chutney, spooned it on top, and delivered their plates.
“We’re looking for an old colleague of ours,” Tennant said. “Ted Watford.”
He looked Tennant up and down. “You’re coppers?”
“Detective Inspector Tennant. This is Sergeant O’Malley.”
The barkeep gave him a doubtful look. “Ted’s not in trouble, is he?”
“Not a bit of it,” O’Malley said. “Information is what we’re wanting.”
The publican looked at the wall clock. “Shouldn’t be long. Ted’s usually here by now. Maybe this peasouper is slowing him down.”
Tennant asked, “What does he usually drink?”
“Same as you.”
“Slice up another sandwich. And draw a Guinness when he comes in.”
The publican nodded. “He could use a meal that isn’t only liquid.”
Five minutes later, the door opened. “Morning, Ted,” the barman said to the new arrival. “Couple of gents here to talk to you.”
The inspector introduced himself and extended his hand. Warily, the man took it. Tennant noticed his tremor, bloodshot eyes, and cheeks covered in spidery veins. The barman placed a freshly poured pint and delivered a sandwich to the former copper.
Tennant said, “Join us, Mister Watford.”
The man licked his dry, cracked lips. He gripped the Guinness, closed his eyes, and sank a third of the glass.
After Watford put his glass down, Tennant said, “I have a few questions about your old army days.”
Ted Watford didn’t know Major FitzGerald or Captain Locock, but his slack face stiffened at Oliver Montgomery’s name. “That sod.”
O’Malley wiped foam from his mustache. “Now, why would you be calling the captain that?”
“He commanded a firing squad they forced me to serve on. A poor, pathetic private who had frozen at the order to charge. Dropped his rifle and ran.” Watford propped his elbows on the table and dropped his face in his hands. “Jesus.”
Tennant said, “I’m sorry, Mister Watford.”
“Cold as ice, he was. Montgomery. When it was over, he said to the burial party, ‘Take him away and clean him up.’ The poor blighter had crapped and pissed his trousers before we blew a hole in his chest.”
Watford couldn’t tell them anything else, but it had been enough. His shoulders sagged. He pulled his glass toward him, staring into the pint. Then he lifted his head and looked out through bleary eyes.
“Montgomery lied to us. Said they’d loaded most of our rifles with blanks, and we’d never know whose bullet … But I felt the kick against my shoulder. Feel it, still. Bastard.”
Outside the pub, O’Malley said, “No wonder the drink has taken him. The fella’s haunted.” A few seconds ticked by. “You never talk about the Crimea, sir.”
“I’ve spent a dozen years trying to forget it.” Tennant buttoned his coat and pulled up its collar. “I’m sorry I forced Watford to remember.”
O’Malley nodded. “Ours is a bloody business, sometimes. Sorting other people’s messes. Still, we’ve learned that Montgomery is a practiced, cold-blooded killer.”
“Remotely, by command, and in the performance of his duties. I’m not sure it gets us far.”
“Our murderer is another creature with ice on him. Fits the bill, the captain does.”
“Montgomery is in the frame. The trouble is all of them are.” Tennant looked around. “We’ll never flag a cab in this murk, Paddy. Let’s walk to the stand on Fenchurch Street.”
When they arrived back at the Yard, the duty sergeant handed Tennant a message. “Coachman for Doctor Lewis dropped this ten minutes ago.”
The inspector read it. “Doctor Lewis says she has information about Lizzie Dowling.”
They climbed the stairs to Tennant’s office. There, they found a constable’s report on his desk and a summons from the commissioner.
“The results from the canvass of Camden Town.” Tennant read it and passed it to O’Malley. “What do you make of it, Paddy?”
“So, milkman Downey stops at the same coffee vendor each morning.”
“He’s alive and well when he finished his cup and left for Harrington Square.”
“Not for long,” O’Malley said. “A driver blows past the baked potato man at the corner of Euston Road without stopping for his usual breakfast or giving a wave. Likely, he’s our murderer, now.”
“It’s a reasonable surmise, Paddy. It’s only a distance of a few hundred yards. Our killer lurked somewhere along that stretch of road, killed the driver, and tossed him in the back.”
“I’ll look for a likely place.”
“Talk to the vendors, and then go home. It’s a filthy day.” Tennant pulled out his pocket watch. “Sir Richard wants to see me at four o’clock, and I have a few questions for Lady Styles. After that, I’ll take a cab to Finsbury Circus.”
Eliminate, damn it, Tennant thought in the crawling cab. Why is it so hard?
It was a critical step in any investigation.
Every murder case was like a game of skittles: knock eight pins away, and it left the killer standing.
So far, the only man in the Marlborough House set that Tennant had excluded was George Trevor.
He had been too busy running for Parliament to go yachting at the Isle of Wight.
He’d had a frustrating interview with Sir Richard.
For both of us. At least he reported directly to the commissioner, leaving Chief Inspector Clark out of the loop.
But Tennant’s case was long on theories and short on evidence, and an arrest was nowhere in sight.
Many investigations went through a similar phase.
Still, Tennant feared the case was stuck.
Julia’s note had asked him to stop by the clinic.
She’d written, “Or come to dinner if your afternoon is full. I have news.” Tennant could have postponed the interview with Lady Styles and gone to Whitechapel.
But a whisky with Dr. Lewis, an excellent meal, and a chance to spend a few hours with Julia?
He’d sent a runner to the clinic to accept her dinner invitation. But first, Lady Styles.
The cab made a slow right turn from Marlborough Road, and Tennant registered an enhanced presence at the gate.
Four ghostly soldiers stood guard in the fog, their scarlet tunics and lofty black hats appearing out of the mist as the cab drew closer and stopped.
Tennant held out his warrant card. The sentry scrutinized it, stepped back sharply, and saluted.
In addition to the soldiers, Sir Richard had assigned additional teams of constables to patrol the grounds’ perimeter.
The footman at the front door recognized Tennant and ushered him to the familiar sitting room to wait for Lady Styles. She arrived promptly, offering her hand and a seat.
“You have news, Inspector?”
“A few developments, but nothing that brings me closer to a resolution. I’m hoping you can assist in a winnowing process.”
“I will, if I can.”
“Thank you. I have two questions. One goes back to Osborne House on the afternoon Lizzie was murdered. I understand the day was fine. Did you leave the house that day? You or perhaps Princess Louise?”
“As you say, you are taking me back.” Lady Styles smoothed her skirts. When she looked up, the inspector thought, Buying time? And was that wariness in her eyes?
“I thought perhaps a walk around the estate?” Tennant said. “Major FitzGerald claims he rode on Osborne’s grounds that day. It would be helpful if someone provided independent confirmation.”
“Yes, I see.” Lady Styles folded her hands. “Now that you mention it, Princess Louise and I left the house and rode in a pony cart around the park. I don’t remember seeing Major FitzGerald on the grounds, but I was at the stables when he returned his horse.”
“Perhaps Princess Louise might recall—”
“She’s resting,” Lady Styles said quickly. “The princess is plagued by frequent headaches that only repose will ease. Shall I ask her and get back to you?”
“Thank you. The police rely on frank and cooperative witnesses.”
She dropped her gaze. “Of course. You … you had a second question?”
“Yes. The day you expected Brigid Dowling, was anyone here for luncheon?”
Lady Styles considered. “Princess Louise and Alexandra. Harriet FitzGerald—no, that was another day. And two other ladies of the household.”
“I wondered about Captain Montgomery. As a royal equerry and a friend of the princess, was he here that day?”