A Metropolitan Murder Read Free Page A

her like the warmth of a fire on a cold day; it cossets her, drags her limbs down into the bed, and closes her eyes.
    â€˜There,’ says Jenny, ‘that’s better, my dear, ain’t it? The Missus said your gal upset you, coming here like that. That right, is it?’
    Agnes nods, exhausted, falling asleep once more, though her throat is still awfully sore.

C HAPTER THREE

    â€˜M URDER !’
    Outside Baker Street railway station, a young man named Henry Cotton runs as fast as he has ever run. It is fortunate for him that he is young and fit. He darts with impunity between the cabs that stand in the gas-lit rank outside Baker Street, and then out across the Marylebone Road. He does not pay any heed to the passing traffic, and looks neither left nor right in his headlong progress. Likewise, he does not turn back, not even for an instant, to listen to the distant shouts that echo inside the station. He merely dashes onwards, his coat flapping around him, as if driven by some primitive instinct for survival, faltering only when he slips in the viscous mud that lines the road. His arms flail wildly in the air, but he does not fall; instead, he rushes onwards, breathless and frantic, into the shadows.
    Of course, his flight does not go unnoticed, but his figure soon disappears from the view of those in pursuit. Moreover, if no-one is quite certain of the direction that he takes, it is not surprising; he himself has no inkling of the name of the road down which he turns, nor why he then chooses another turning, and then another again. In fact, he barely possesses any true impression of the world about him for severalminutes until a terrible shortness of breath finally brings him to a halt.
    When he has finally gathered his senses he finds himself to be in a well-kept mews, a sloping cobbled side street where the horses and carriages of neighbouring properties are safely stabled under lock and key. He leans forward against a wall, his lungs bursting, and braces himself against the overpowering dizziness that suddenly sweeps over him. It is impossible to say quite how long he stands there, stock-still, listening to the pounding of his heart.
    A horse snorts loudly in one of the stables, no doubt woken from its sleep. Henry Cotton starts at the sound and stumbles on, along the length of the mews, half tripping, here and there, on the uneven stones. He comes to the opposite entrance of the secluded passage, which opens out on to another thoroughfare. A single jet of gas from a nearbly street-lamp illuminates the scene, and the light shows up the thick mud that clings to his trousers.
    He takes a breath, then sets off briskly along the way. After a few yards realises he has turned on to Marylebone High Street.

    â€˜Murder?’
    â€˜Aye – look at that, won’t you?’
    â€˜Lor! And he ran clear off?’
    â€˜Like a regular devil.’

    Henry Cotton keeps up his pace, walking with a determined gait. There is a chill wind, and he pulls the collar of his great-coat tight around his neck, keeping his head down, staring at the pavement.
    He finds that Marylebone High Street, a bustlingplace by day, possesses none of its diurnal vigour during the hours of darkness. Even the gas-lights seem gloomy, and Cotton passes a mere handful of pedestrians, representatives of the ragged and homeless tribe that wander the streets in the small hours. Their very presence seems almost oppressive. A squat dark-haired fellow, leaning against a wall, an Irishman by his appearance, eyes him with suspicion as he goes past. Two others, hunched in conversation, beetle past, crossing to the other side of the street; he wonders, for a moment, whether they do so in order to avoid him. None of them ventures to ask him for money; he is too dishevelled for that. He tries to brush some of the muck from his trouser legs, but the effort only smears the filth about and dirties his hands.
    Turning up his collar once more, he keeps