Newcomen pursed his lips. Questions within questions. Do shadows cast shadows of their own?
In this case, yes. The shadows cast by Hyde in life had been ominous indeed. Newcomen remembered the accounts of his activities; the trampling of an innocent child in the street, the savage murder of an old man in a deserted lane. The name of the little girl who had been the object of Hyde's callous cruelty was unknown to witnesses, but the old man—Sir Danvers Carew—was easily identified. The sole witness to this particular crime had been a maidservant peering through the upstairs window of a nearby residence; according to her account killer and victim seemingly encountered one another by chance and only a few words were exchanged in the darkened lane before the man she identified as Edward Hyde struck Carew with his heavy cane. When the old man fell he was beaten senseless, then battered to death with such ferocity that the stout wood splintered and the weapon broke in two. The vision of that shattered cane and the mangled corpse beside it remained vivid in New-comen's memory.
But Edward Hyde was still a shadow. And the visit with Utterson led nowhere. Aside from the solicitor there was probably only one person who might shed light upon the matter—Jekyll's butler, Poole. He had been present on the occasion of Hyde's death and he gave testimony at the brief inquest where suicide was established. At the time Dr. Jekyll's absence didn't enter into the formal investigation, so Poole was required to say little about it. Now Newcomen wanted to hear more.
He leaned back, frowning to himself as he recalled Utterson's excuse for dismissing Dr. Jekyll's household staff and his disclaimer regarding their whereabouts. Surely the solicitor must have had a long acquaintance with the elderly butler who had spent twenty years in service. And Poole had known Utterson well enough to call upon him at his home in one instance at his master's bidding.
It was possible that the solicitor was deliberately concealing the knowledge of where Poole might be found. As to motive, again Newcomen bethought himself of the bequest. That would be reason enough for Utterson to discourage further investigation, particularly if it might lead to suspicions regarding the circumstances under which the will had been altered.
Inspector Newcomen rose and paced the floor. Not much of a trudge, really; a mere half-dozen steps brought him to the grimy windowpane, and upon turning, the ancient floorboards creaked only seven times before he came abreast of the doorway at the other end of the room. The sound of his footsteps distracted him, but there was no help for it. Bare wood was good enough for Scotland Yard inspectors; carpets were for kings.
The descent of darkness beyond the windowpane prompted the inspector to consult his watch.
Donning his coat and bowler, he extinguished the gas and stepped out into the drafty hall. As Newcomen made his way to the stairs, he exchanged greetings with several of his fellows who were arriving on night duty. Once he reached the lower landing the inspector sought an inconspicuous side exit leading to the street. Here the fog was beginning to lower and he raised his coat collar to ward chill from his cheeks.
The exit he had chosen shortened the route to Trafalgar Square. Atop the Corinthian column Lord Nelson peered down through swirls of fog, his one-eyed stony stare fixed on the blaze of light below. Inspector Newcomen, his own eyes intent on the bustle of traffic, headed for the cab stand at the nearby curbing. As he did so, church bells chimed the hour.
Seven o'clock it was, precisely on the dot, and Jerry was waiting.
The man on the box of the cab nodded as Newcomen approached. "Evenin', Inspector," he said. "Where to?"
"Home."
"Can't say as 'aow I blame you," the cabby said, descending from his perch to close the door as Newcomen settled himself inside. "It don't look to be a proper night to prowl abaht."
"Sorry you feel that way," the inspector told him. "It so happens I had an errand for you in mind."
"Errand?" The cabby's smile expanded into a toby-jug grin. "'Appy to be of service. Yours to command an' no questions arsked."
"But that's the job—asking questions." Newcomen nodded in abrupt dismissal. "Up you go again, and get cracking. On the way home I'll tell you what's wanted."
He did so, and by the time they pulled up before Newcomen's lodgings on Bayswater Road, the cabby had been provided with information necessary for the task before him. This, plus his fare, a generous tip, and the promise of a further fee if his mission was successful, sent Jerry off into the fog with a cheery whistle.
Whether that whistle was directed at his patient horse or intended as a farewell to Newcomen himself didn't greatly matter. As the inspector made his way into the welcome warmth of the hall beyond the entrance, what mattered to him was whether or not he might have to whistle for his money. Gab fare and tip were his obligation and he preferred to pay extra rather than brave the rigors of public transport on a cold and clammy night following a long day's duties. But he could be out of pocket for the fee he'd promised Jerry; only in special instances did his superiors at the Yard repay him for extra expenditures. Pity they weren't employed by the Chancellor of the Exchequer; their stingy, mingy ways would be of more value in that branch of government.
Newcomen plodded upstairs to his bachelor quarters, changed into more comfortable attire, plodded downstairs to take dinner with the other boarders. This being eight o'clock of a Wednesday, it was mutton as usual, but he paid little heed to what he ate or to the conversation of his companions. His thoughts were far away in the fog, following Jerry to destinations unknown.
Once back in his room he settled before the fireplace, enjoying the solitary vice of a Trichinopoly, the smoke of which mingled with the gas flame flaring before him. The warmth soothed him but he could not relax completely, knowing himself to be a fool. Cab fares, cigars, fees to informants—no wonder he was fated to live out his days in a rented room rather than a proper flat of his own, complete with housekeeper and a decent cut of beef on the dinner table.
He was a fool, and it was sheer folly to fancy the Yard paying for any money he laid out in Jerry's behalf. While the question of Dr. Henry JekylFs present whereabouts was still of interest to the authorities, it was not presently of pressing concern. What's more, Newcomen had never been officially assigned to the case, if case it was. Nothing had prompted this further and continuing inquiry except his own curiosity, and the determination to appease it.
Staring into the fire and basking in its glow, he found himself wondering once again about Jerry and what he might be finding in the fog. This was far from the first time he'd employed the cabby on such a mission; by unspoken agreement Jerry brought his hack around to the square promptly at seven every evening, and on most nights Newcomen was his fare. But on certain occasions he had undertaken special assignments, almost always carried to a successful outcome. It was the unspoken rule that the inspector never inquired as to the means Jerry employed in obtaining information. Enough to accept the fact that a London cabby was far more knowledgeable than your average constable or detective.
Enough, and yet not enough. When Newcomen prepared for bed, turning down both his covers and the gas log in the fireplace, he knew he was in for a night of troubled slumber.
This he could endure, but what he hadn't reckoned with was the morrow. Although the day dawned bright, he himself was dull, his thoughts still shrouded in fog. He was peckish at breakfast, off his feed at luncheon, and had no appetite at teatime.
But as seven o'clock approached Newcomen was positively ravenous, and it was hunger—hunger for information—that sent him out of the Yard and into the square a good five minutes before the appointed hour.
There was no fog tonight, and the lights on the encircling streets cast a garish glow, so that Newcomen had no problem in identifying Jerry's cab as it stood at the front of the long line. He'd come early, the inspector noted; that was a good sign.
As Jerry glanced down at him from his perch the cabby's gargoyle grin was reassuring, and once inside the cab, the homeward-bound Newcomen had reason to rejoice.
&
nbsp; "Found him?" he said.
Jerry shrugged. "In a manner of speakin'. Leastwise I found 'er."
"Her? Who are you talking about?"
"The missus. Or so she says."
Newcomen frowned. "I didn't know he was married."
The cabby's voice rose above the clatter of wheels and the clop of hooves. "What say?"
Newcomen frowned. "I suggest you take a turn straightaway at the next crossing and pull up," he said. "At least we can talk without all this commotion."
"Right you are."
And it was to the right that they turned, halting beneath the street lamp just beyond the corner of a small lane terminating in a mews entrance at its far end. It was here, in solitude and silence, that a series of questions and answers began. During their course Jerry revealed for the first time just how he set about searching out information and informants.
"I reckons you 'eard of the Salvation Army," he said.
Newcomen nodded, but there was a guarded edge in his voice. "You went to them for help? Where?"
"Nightly prayer meetin'. Queen Victoria Street, one-oh-one."
"That's City, isn't it?"
"Right you are, but no matter. The boozers come from all over, an' arter the band stops playin' an' the preacher stops prayin', that's when they stand up to be counted. An' them as won't come or can't stand, it's their wives an' muwers what gets up to testify an' pray for 'em." The cabby's hand rose to scrape the stubble of a chin that had not recently been scraped by a razor. "Staggerin', 'ow much you learns abaht, jus' by cockin' a ear."
"So that's how you found her!" Newcomen muttered.
"Found 'oo?"
"'The missus,' as you call her."
Jerry shook his head. "It was Betsy Dobbs I saw."
"I don't know the name."
"Nahrt likely you would. Sails on 'er bottom down Tower way, gettin' street trade from the barracks. Come to pray for 'er dear oP dad, she did, 'im as turned 'er out to earn keep for them both. 'E drinks up the rent money fast as she brings it in, so she stopped by the meetin' to pray for 'is salvation. While she was at it she thought to put in a word to the Lord for 'er friend 'oose 'usband suffers from the same complaint. That's when she made mention of 'is name—Edgar Poole."
"It was that easy?" Newcomen shook his head. "I can't believe it!"
The cabby shrugged. "Bit o' luck. Most I 'oped for when I went there was bumpin' inter some bloke I knew 'oo might steer me onto anower. You keeps on going 'an somewheres down the line you 'it the target." Jerry's gap-toothed grin returned. "But 'oo am I to tell you, Inspector? That's yer line of business."
"Get on with it, man. Tell me what you learned."
"Per'aps I'd best tell you on the way there."
"Where do you propose to go?"
"To Poole and his missus. I 'ad a chat wiv friend Betsy arter the meetin' broke up. She give me their number over on Newgate Street. Seein' as 'ow you was so keen on the matter, I took the liberty of askin' Betsy to speak to Mrs. Poole and noterfy 'er y'd pay a call on the 'appy couple tonight."
"Why didn't you tell me this before we started? Now I daresay we've come a good quarter of a mile in the wrong direction?"
"No 'arm done," Jerry assured him. "We'd 'ave ter clear round the square in any case, an' if I doubles back at the next crossin' we can 'ead into 'Igh 'Olborn by way of Shaftesbury."
During the journey the inspector pressed for more information on Poole's background. He discovered that Dr. Jekyll's longtime butler had entered matrimony only a few months ago, after being discharged from his position by Ut-terson. That in itself was hardly unusual; it was not customary for house servants to marry without the specific permission of their employers, because experience had shown it tended to disrupt them in the performance of domestic duties. What surprised him was that Poole's bride was Nell Curtis, who had been Jekyll's housemaid.
Even more surprising was the fact that between the two of them they had apparently saved a sufficiency to rent decent living quarters. Instead of settling in an East End tenement they now occupied a rear three-room flat on the ground floor of a comparatively respectable dwelling. Quite possibly they had it on the cheap, for Aldergate was hardly a fashionable address, at least not in the shadow of Newgate Prison.
Once past St. Paul's there was little traffic to be encountered on the darkened side streets, and when Jerry's cab rounded the corner Inspector Newcomen anticipated a similar situation ahead.
But there was light aplenty surrounding the address they sought: a bobbing of bull's-eye lanterns darting to and fro before the entryway to the four-story dwelling.
Apparently it had been emptied of its occupants, for most members of the clamoring crowd on the walkway were in shirtsleeves or house aprons, with no protection against the evening's chill. Rays of lantern light slivered the sides of box-shaped vehicles stationed along the curbing; the form of these conveyances left no doubt as to their function, nor did the uniforms worn by the lantern bearers.
"Pull up!" Newcomen commanded. Even before the cab halted completely he was out the door and headed toward the nearest light source. The constable was wielding his lantern as a warning signal, waving it in the face of the crowd and shouting at them to stay clear of the walkway.
Preoccupied with the enthusiastic performance of his duties, it took a full moment and a hard nudge in the ribs before he acknowledged the inspector's presence. He turned with a glare matching that of his lantern.
'"Ere now, whacher fink yer doin'?"
"Inspector Newcomen, Metropolitan Police." The reply was accompanied by a proper display of identification, but had scant effect on the constable's glowering. And no wonder; there was little love lost between the Metropolitan and the City police. But rank has its privileges, and the City constable forced himself to be civil to a superior.
"Sorry, sir." A perfunctory pinch of his helmet served as the modern substitute for a tug at the forelock or a full military salute. "I diden' reckernize—"
"No matter," Newcomen said. "Just tell me what's happening here."
The constable's lips moved in a reply that could not be heard, for as he spoke the voices from both sides of the walkway rose to a deafening level. Newcomen glanced toward the dwelling as, preceded by a lantern carrier, four uniformed members of the City constabulary emerged bearing a stretcher. The coarse departmental-issue blanket completely covered its occupant, as they moved in the direction of an ambulance at the curb.
No need now to inquire what had occurred; there was only one question and Newcomen asked it.
"Who?"
"Can't rightly say, sir. But we come 'ere on report uv a murder. Some chap as lived in the flat at the rear."
Chapter 5
Edgar Poole had been beaten to death.
There was no question about that; Inspector Newcomen obtained the name of the victim from one of the City detectives on the night of the murder.
But little else was forthcoming and no further information had been volunteered. It was made plain to him—not in so many words, but rather by their absence—that the City Police were definitely in charge of the case and wanted no interference from their Metropolitan rivals.
Naturally, he had no opportunity to speak with Poole's widow at the time. She had been taken immediately to headquarters on Old Jewry Street for further questioning, and Newcomen had to content himself with the cursory accounts of the crime published in the papers on the following day.
As determined by these reports, Poole had absented himself from home during the afternoon before he became the object of foul play. Where he had spent his time, and quite possibly a shilling or so, was still a matter of conjecture, but there was no doubt regarding what he'd spent it for. When he reeled home shortly after six o'clock in the evening, Poole immediately took to his bed, ignoring both the reproaches and the tears of his spouse.
According to Mrs. Poole he had been despondent ever since the loss of his former position and made no effort to find further employment. It w
as she who had been contributing to their support by doing piecework, “sewing hats and such," at home. Indeed, it was the necessity of delivering the results of her day's labor to a millinery establishment in nearby City Road that required her to leave their lodgings while her husband, fully clothed, lay in deep slumber on the bed.
"Drunken stupor, more likely," Newcomen had muttered to himself when he read the newspaper story. But his uncharitable comment was the product of professional frustration rather than moral judgment. What Poole did was his own business; what was done to him was Newcomen's.
Just exactly what had been done to him during the hour's interval between his wife's departure and her return remained unclear. None of the other occupants of the dwelling who'd rushed outside to view the spectacle after the police arrived had since stepped forward in the role of an eye- or even an ear-witness to the crime.
"Same old story—hear no evil, see no evil, speak no evil," Newcomen muttered to himself. "Fine lot of monkeys they are, too."
As for Mrs. Poole herself, she'd come back from her errand with some hope of a cold supper but little expectation of sharing it with a cold-sober husband.
What she was not prepared for was the discovery of his battered corpse sprawled just beyond the doorway of their bedroom.
Bones had been broken and facial features disfigured by the force of the blows inflicted upon the victim; even if he'd made no outcry, surely the impact of his fall should have attracted some attention from other residents. But no one admitted as much and it was only Mrs. Poole's own screams that summoned the neighbor woman from down the hall and sent her out into the street in search of a constable.
There had been no further notices in the public press, a circumstance that did not greatly concern the inspector, for he placed little credence upon the probity of the penny papers. His immediate thought was to seek out another opportunity to interview Poole's widow, but the plan was scotched; upon presenting himself at the Aldergate address following her return there, he was informed by a neighbor— coincidentally, the one who had first summoned the police— that Mrs. Poole was in a state of prostration and had taken to her bed.