“I just came to see if you needed a new decanter, gentlemen.” Her eyes fell on the directory. “Did you find what you were looking for, Mr. Dickens?”
Dickens shook his head. “Regretfully, I did not.”
Miss Mary glanced slyly at the open pages. “Lawyers, eh? Well, if you are in need of lawyers, there are plenty to choose from there. Personally, I always prefer to steer clear of them. My late husband said-”
“We were looking for a lawyer who does not seem to be listed there,” interrupted Dickens, who had no desire to hear the wisdom of Miss Mary’s late husband.
Collins nodded sympathetically. “Perhaps you can call in at the offices of Kelly’s. They might have a listing for Wraybrook in their next year’s edition.”
Miss Mary started and stared at him. “Wraybrook, you say, sir? You don’t mean Mr. Eugene Wraybrook?”
Dickens frowned suspiciously at her. “Do you know a lawyer named Wraybrook?”
“He’s a young gent, sir. A solicitor right enough. But he’s only been in the country six months. They say he’s from India. Not that he’s Indian, sir. Oh, no, English, same as you and me. Pleasant enough young man. He has rooms at the top end of Narrow Street here, and one of them is his office. Not that he gets much work, I’m told. Decent enough and polite and pays his bills promptlike.”
“Would you recognize Mr. Wraybrook?”
“I would, six.”
“And young Fred?”
“Fred, sir? I don’t think so. Fred works in the evenings, and Mr. Wraybrook only comes here for lunch now and again.”
“Did you take a good look at the body on the slipway?” asked Dickens curiously.
Miss Mary shook her head. “Not I, sir. Can’t stand the sight of corpses and… Why do you ask, sir?” She frowned, and then her eyes widened suddenly. “You don’t mean that… that…?”
Dickens rose quickly. “Do you know where this Wraybrook has his rooms? What number in Narrow Street?”
“I only know it’s the top end, sir. But-”
“Would you give us about fifteen minutes, Miss Mary, and then go out and tell the policeman who is loitering outside with the corpse where we have gone?”
Dickens hurried from the tavern with Collins hard on his heels.
At the darkened top of Narrow Street they came to a cluster of tall tenement buildings crowding over the cramped lane and shutting out all natural light. A few gas lamps gave an eerie glow, and beneath these were some street urchins playing five stones. For a threepenny piece, one of them indicated the tenement in which he knew the solicitor resided. The rooms were on the second floor. There was a single gas burner on every landing, and so it was easy to find a dark door on which was affixed a small handwritten card bearing the name E. Wraybrook, Bachelor of Law.
Dickens tried the door, but it was locked.
Collins watched with some surprise as Dickens reached up and felt along the ridge at the top of the door and grunted in dissatisfaction when his search revealed nothing. He stood looking thoughtfully.
“What is it?”
“Sometimes people leave a key in such a place,” Dickens said absently. “I expect Sergeant Cuff to be here soon, and I do not want to force the door. Ah…”
He suddenly dropped to one knee and pushed experimentally at a small piece of planking near the door, part of the skirting board. It seemed loose, and a small section gave way, revealing the cavity beyond. Dickens felt inside with his gloved hand and came up smiling. There was a key in his hand.
“Strange how people’s habits follow a set course.”
A moment later they entered the rooms beyond. There was a strange odor, which caused Collins to sniff and wrinkle his features in bewilderment.
“Opium? The smell of dope?”
“No, Charley,” replied his father-in-law. “Its the smell of incense, popular in the East. I think it is sandalwood. Find the gas burner, and let us have some light.”
The first room was plainly furnished and was, apparently, an office for prospective clients of the solicitor. On the desk there was a rolled sheaf of papers. Legal documents. Dickens absently took from his pocket the red ribbon, rolled the paper, and slipped the ribbon over it. He shot a glance of satisfied amusement at Collins. He then removed the ribbon, put it back in his pocket, and examined the documents. It was not helpful.
“A litigation over the ownership of a property,” he explained. “And a cover note from an agent offering a fee of a guinea for resolving the matter.”
He returned the document to the desk and glanced around.
“By the look of this place, it is hardly used and indicates that our Mr. Wraybrook had few clients.”
A door led into the living quarters. There was an oil lamp on a side table. It was a sturdy brass-based lamp, slightly ornate, and a very incongruous ornamented glass surround from which dangled a series of globular crystal pieces held on tiny brass chains.
“Light that lamp, Charley,” instructed Dickens. “I can’t see a gas burner in this room.”
Collins removed the glass and turned up the wick on the burner, lighting it before resetting the glass. The crystals jangled a little as he picked it up.
Beyond the door was a bed sitting room. Collins preceded Dickens into the room. Again the furnishings were sparse. It seemed that the late Mr. Wraybrook did not lead a luxurious life. There was little that was hidden from their gaze. A tin traveling trunk at the bottom of the bed showing that its owner was a man recently traveled. The wardrobe, when opened, displayed only one change of clothes and some shirts. The dressing table drawers were empty apart from some socks and undergarments.
“Gene! I thought that… Oh!”
A voice had spoken from the doorway behind them. They swung round. There was a young woman standing there. She was not well dressed and was not out of place among the residents of Narrow Street.
She stared at them, slightly frightened. “What are you doing here?” she demanded, silently strident. “Where’s Gene… Where’s Mr. Wraybrook?”
Dickens assumed a stern and commanding attitude. “We will ask the questions, young lady. Who are you?”
The girl seemed to recognize the voice of authority. “Polis ain’t cher?”
“Name?” demanded Dickens officiously.
“Beth Hexton. I lives ‘ere.”
The East End accent did not seem to fit with the delicate features of the girl. Collins could see that whatever her education, she was very attractive, a kind of ethereal beauty that his artist’s eye could see in the kind of paintings that Millais and Rossetti and Hunt indulged in. She would not be out of place as a model for an artist of the High Renaissance.
“Here? In these rooms?” he queried.
“Naw!” The word was a verbal scowl. “In this ‘ouse. Me dad’s Gaffer Hexton,” she added, as if that might mean something.
“Ah, Gaffer Hexton.” Dickens smiled, “And he might be-?”
“Owns two wagerbuts on the river. Thought all you peelers ‘ad ‘eard o’ me dad.”
A wagerbut was a slight sculling craft often used for races along the Thames.
“A dredger?” Dickens said softly.
“Ain’t we all got a livin’ t’ make?” replied the girl defensively.
“How well do you know Mr. Wraybrook?” he demanded.
Her cheeks suddenly flushed. “ ‘E’s a friend, a real gen’leman.”
“A friend, eh?”
“Yeah. What’s ‘e done? Where yer taken ‘im?”
There was a movement in the other room, and they swung round. They had a glimpse of a stocky, dark-haired man making a hurried exit through the door.
Dickens frowned. “Who was that?” he asked.
“ Tm? That’s Bert ‘egeton.” The girl spoke scornfully.
“And he is?”
“ ‘E’s the local schoolteacher. Fancies ‘imself. Thinks I fancy ‘im. I don’t think!” she added with sardonic humor. “ ‘E’s out of ‘umor since Gene… since Mr. Wraybrook asked me to step out wiv ‘im.”
Dickens glanced at Collins with raised eyebrows. Although Dickens was certainly no social prude, it seemed a little incongruous that a solicitor would “step out” with a dredger’s daughter. But then, she was an attractive girl, and if a local schoolteacher was seeking her favors, why not a solicitor?