“Do you open them, or—” the inspector began.
“Oh, no,” said Edward hastily. “It’s not… seemly.”
“Um. Very prudent,” said the policeman indifferently, and handed a card to Edward. “Will you be good enough to tell Mister Carfax that Inspector Uriah Ames is desirous of speaking with him at his earliest convenience?”
Edward took the card, holding it gingerly. “May I tell him what this is about?” he asked, curiosity and dread warring within him.
Inspector Ames coughed diplomatically. “A body was found washed up on the Isle of Dogs. It has no identification, no clothing. It is likely the deceased was the victim of foul play. The dead woman has not been claimed or anyone of her description reported missing.” He watched Edward closely. “We are asking all businesses along the docks, for it is likely that she was thrown into the water somewhere in this area, and we are hoping that someone noticed something.” He paused, his pencil poised over his well-thumbed notebook. “Have you noticed any suspicious activities in this area in the last week or so?”
Edward shook his head. “I have been in the office, or on the floor, making an inventory for Mister Carfax. I take my tea inside.” He shrugged apologetically. “I wish I could tell you something more.”
“Provide me with your direction, and I suppose that will do for now,” said Inspector Ames.
“Edward Hitchin, Beeks House, White Horse Road, Stepney,” he said promptly, knowing that the address was far from impressive.
“Lived there long, have you?” Inspector Ames asked as he wrote.
“M’Mum and I have been there for ten years and more.” He did his best not to sound defensive.
“Your Mum still there, is she?” Inspector Ames asked.
“Yes; she’s not in good health.” It was a convenient mendacity, for the melancholy which held her in its grip seemed as crippling as any misfortune or disease.
“Sorry to hear that,” said Inspector Ames with the habitual sympathy of one used to bad news. “Stays in, does she?”
“Most of the time. I tend to her needs,” Edward informed Inspector Ames, at once proud and wary.
“And you work here for long hours,” said Inspector Ames.
“I am well-paid for my time,” Edward insisted. “Mister Carfax is a generous employer.”
“Worked for him long, have you?” Inspector Ames seemed disinterested in the answer, but Edward knew enough about the police not to be deceived by this ploy.
“Not long, no. Mister Carfax is a foreigner but recently arrived in London. He keeps a house somewhere in the country, but he has a place in London, probably in the toffy part of town— Mayfair, or Berkeley Square or some such. He’s rich enough, and he has the manner.” He felt that volunteering this information would show his willingness to cooperate with the police inquiries. “He comes here three or four times a week to tend to business and to instruct me in my duties.” “Then you expect to see him shortly,” said Inspector Ames.
“Tomorrow, about four or five,” said Edward promptly.
“Then you will give him my card and pass along my message, and I shall expect a call from Mister Carfax before the end of the week.” This affable request, Edward knew, was an order. He nodded.
“I’ll attend to it, first thing he arrives,” Edward said, and tried to contain his fidgets.
“That’s good of you,” said Inspector Ames as he put his pencil and notebook away, and with an uneasy glance at the stacked coffins and caskets said, “I’ll let myself out.”
By the time Carfax arrived the next afternoon, Edward had become distressed about what the Inspector had told him; dead women, murdered women, brought back memories of the Ripper, and with it, other, more personal recollections, as well as the uncomfortable awareness that the Ripper had never been brought to justice. So Edward was nervous when he passed on Inspector Ames’s card and request. “The police are nothing to fash with, Mister Carfax,” he added when he finished explaining the situation. “When there are dead bodies involved, the police are… are persistent.”
“Ah, yes. English police. We hear many things about them in my native land,” said Mister Carfax, examining the inspector’s card. “What does he want of me, this Inspector Ames? You say there is a body—what has that to do with me?”
“There’s an investigation into the woman’s death. The police are gathering information about the circumstances,” said Edward, wondering how Mister Carfax would doubt that: foreigners were unaccountable.
“What has that to do with me?” Mister Carfax repeated with supreme indifference. “1 know nothing of this woman. Why should the police need to know that?”
“They want you to go along to the station and tell them what you can. You may know nothing, but they will want to hear of it from you.” Edward tried not to sound too apprehensive, but he suspected he failed.
“But I have nothing to tell them. Dead women do not interest me.” His accent grew stronger, as if his emotions had loosened his control over the English tongue. “It is most unseemly, to have to answer to the police, a man of my position.”
Although Edward was not sure what that position might be, he said, “They just need to have you tell them you were not on the docks when the woman was killed—that’s all.”
Carfax looked indignant as he pulled himself up to his full, and considerable, height. “It is for the police to wait upon me. Send this Ames word that I will receive him the day after tomorrow in the early evening.” He looked toward the newest arrivals. “How many in this load?”
“Twenty-three of the fancy, eleven of the plain,” said Edward, grateful to have this opportunity to show his efficiency. “The ones with brass fittings are in the row at the center.”
“Just so,” Carfax approved. “Did you open any of them?”
Edward shook his head. “You said I should not.”
“So I did,” Carfax mused, then went on more briskly, “You have done well, Hitchin. I will pay you a bonus for your work.” He strode toward the stairs. “Oh. I suppose you should know I will take nine of them, for delivery. Tomorrow a drayer will come to fetch them.”
“You have a customer, then?” Edward said, relieved to hear it.
Carfax smiled. “In a manner of speaking.” He paused. “I will tell you which are to be taken, so you will not load the wrong ones.”
“Very good, sir,” said Edward, secretly glad to know some of the stock would be leaving the warehouse.
As he climbed up the stairs, Carfax said, “This is going very well. By winter I should be established.”
“There’s always a market for coffins,” said Edward, deliberately echoing Carfax’s sentiments as he followed him up the stairs.
“When did Carfax say he would arrive?” Inspector Ames asked, glancing at his pocketwatch for the third time. It was twenty minutes past the hour Carfax had said he would be at his warehouse for their meeting. The afternoon was closing toward evening already; fall was beginning.
“He said four, but he was coming in from the country, and he may have been delayed on the road.” Edward felt acute embarrassment at this predicament. “You may have to be patient. He was determined to meet with you, or so he said when he left day before yesterday.”
“Well, I will wait a while longer,” Inspector Ames said with a ponderous sigh. “He’s the last one I have to interview from this area.”