It sounded like a complicated arrangement, but many of the parish divisions in London were left over from centuries of conquest, regime changes, fire and rebuilding, and the natural expansion of the metropolis.
Wellclose Square contained more than private abodes, I saw as we strolled it—several theatres graced the long sides of the square, along with a gin hall or two, but those looked quiet and subdued in the daylight.
Thompson took us to a house in the middle of the square’s north side. This house was taller than Mr. Clay’s, with a mansard roof and large dormer windows, which reminded me of the house in which I’d lodged in Paris during the Peace of Amiens.
This residence had once been grand, but the grandeur was fading. Paint flaked from the stuccoed walls and the black front door, and bare wood showed through the green paint on the shutters. An old bird’s nest peeked from the sill on a higher floor, and bird droppings decorated the arches over the windows.
Before Thompson could tap on the door, it was wrenched open, and a thin, harried woman with a lined face, her mobcap askew, stared out at us.
“Pardon us for disturbing you, madam,” Thompson said formally. “I am Mr. Thompson of the River Police—”
“Are ye another here about Mr. Warrilow?” the woman snapped. “He’s dead, and I’m sorry for it, but tramping into my house day after day won’t bring him back.”
“But it may help us find his killer,” Thompson said smoothly.
“I thought that tow-headed officer did it.” The woman’s rabbity brown gaze darted to me then Brewster. “Who are they then?”
I made her a bow. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, madam. Why do you say the officer did it? You mean Major Eden?”
She regarded me as though I were a simpleton. “Saw the papers saying he were wanted for the crime.”
“Yes, but he has been able to convince the magistrate he was not here to commit the murder. You are Mrs. Beadle, correct? You yourself saw him at nine-thirty the evening Mr. Warrilow was killed. You told Major Eden that Mr. Warrilow was already abed.”
“So I did.” Mrs. Beadle came out onto the stoop, folding her arms. “Your major came at the time you said. He stood in the hall at the foot of the stairs while I went up to tell Mr. Warrilow he had a visitor. Mr. Warrilow called through his door that he was abed and wouldn’t get up, and he said this exactly—not for the likes of a self-important army officer who doesn’t understand what’s what.”
“You conveyed this message to Major Eden?”
Mrs. Beadle’s thin smile creased her face and showed me she once had been pretty. “Not in those words, sir. I told him Mr. Warrilow had retired and was seeing no one.”
“Did Major Eden ask you about a book?” I ventured. “He’d come to retrieve it from Mr. Warrilow.”
The smile faded, and the blank stare returned. “I don’t know about no book, sir. The major—he had very nice manners—bowed to me, told me not to distress myself, and off he went.”
“You never saw him again?”
“Never. When the constables came tramping all over yesterday I told them about the major, but they only nodded as if it were of no import. I was surprised, I confess, when I saw the printed bill for his arrest when I went out to market this morning. As I say, I never saw the major again, but I suppose he could have come back to the house later that night, after I went to bed.”
Thompson took up the questions. “Do you lock the doors every night?”
“’Course I do. But a few of my lodgers who’ve been here for years have their own keys. They might have let in Major Eden, as he was so nice-spoken, or they might have forgotten to lock the door behind them when they came in. I run a good house, but one never knows these days. I suppose a ruffian of some sort broke into Mr. Warrilow’s room and knocked him down.” She let her glance linger on Brewster, who, with his large hands and habitual scowl, was the very picture of a ruffian.
“May we speak to the boy who works here?”
“Boy? Oh, you mean me grandson.” Mrs. Beadle did not look old enough to have a grandson, but she might have married very young. “He only stays with me sometimes. But he’ll say the same—Major Eden came at nine-thirty or thereabouts and left a quarter of an hour later.”
“Do you mind, madam,” I began, “if we looked over the room Mr. Warrilow stayed in?”
Mrs. Beadle shrugged thin shoulders. “I’ve had constables from the Tower, and then a giant Runner, what’s another set of gents? The Runner was quite friendly, happier than he ought to be. Laughing and loud.”
“That would be Mr. Pomeroy,” I said quietly, and Thompson’s lips twitched in amusement.
“Well, at least he were cordial. Come in, gentlemen. Wipe your boots, please. I just done the floors.”
The house was narrow, like the Clays’, but taller and deeper. The staircase was rather grand, with a wide handrail and a double row of twisted spindles of polished walnut. The proprietress must be proud of it, because unlike the exterior of the house, the staircase shone with varnish, the steps in good repair.
Warrilow’s single chamber resided in the front of the house, two stories above the ground floor. My knee ached by the time we reached it, and I braced myself on my walking stick.
The room’s one window looked out over the square to the aging jewel box of the church, the trees around it aglow with fall leaves, a welcome contrast to the bricks and stones of the city.
The view was the finest part of the room. The rest was spartan in the extreme. One narrow bed was pushed against a wall, with a tall washbasin in the opposite corner. A table with one hard chair reposed on the other side of the room, piled with Mr. Warrilow’s baggage and a stack of papers.
The bed had been stripped of linens and pillows, revealing a hard mattress. That, coupled with the absence of rugs on the floor, made the room chill and barren.
Mrs. Beadle ushered us inside but remained in the hall. “Will anyone be around to collect his things?” she asked.
Thompson turned to her. “No one has come forward to claim him, it seems.”
Mrs. Beadle considered this. “Well, I suppose I’ll keep them a few more days, in case. After that, I’m selling the lot. I need the room, and the extra cash from his clothes and boots wouldn’t go amiss.”
“Would you mind if I looked through them?” I asked, moving to the table.
“Suit yourself. If no one wants the things, it’s none of my concern, is it?”
Brewster had made his way to the washbasin. It was a simple piece with three legs, a shelf on top, and a second shelf that rested about a foot from the floor. The top shelf had a round hole carved in the center to receive the porcelain wash basin, which was absent.
“Did you take the pitcher?” Brewster asked Mrs. Beadle.
She nodded. “Yesterday. After the coroner’s men carried away the body, I took the bedding and the pitcher and basin downstairs and washed everything. I have to ready this room for the next guest.”
“Pity,” Thompson said. “Had the pitcher been moved? Or damaged in any way?”
While Mrs. Beadle stared, confused, Brewster said, “It might have been used to kill the bloke.”
Mrs. Beadle started. “How could it have been? The pitcher and basin were in the washstand, dry as a bone.”