A Metropolitan Murder Read Free Page B

walking, fast as he is able. It is not long before he turns off the street, into the roads that lead through to the Regent’s Circus. Here and there, in a handful of the houses, a light still burns in the parlour or bedroom, a hint of warmth behind firmly closed shutters or curtains. But the night air is cold as ice, and, as he walks, he notices the waning moon that hangs in the sky. Time and again, it vanishes behind the rooftops then reappears; but something in its cold grey pallor reminds him of the girl’s face, lying upon the floor of the train, and its light seems horribly unwelcome.

    â€˜Has someone gone for the peelers?’
    A nod.
    â€˜He won’t get far.’

    A black cab, smart and polished, hurtles along Portland Place towards the park at top speed, the sound of thehorse’s hooves beating a swift clipping rhythm. Henry Cotton waits for it to pass. Only once it has gone by does he spy the police constable standing opposite. The policeman is preoccupied in talking to a girl, a demi-mondaine in a garish emerald dress, who loiters at his side. She touches the constable’s cheek coquettishly, and holds on to his arm as if they were stepping out together. None the less, the constable is sensible enough to the world around him to spare Henry Cotton a quick glance, leaving Cotton no option but to proceed across the road.
    â€˜Evening, sir,’ says the constable, examining him with a more leisurely gaze.
    â€˜Good evening, officer.’
    â€˜You need any assistance, sir?’ he replies, looking down at Henry Cotton’s mud-spattered trousers, and raising an enquiring eyebrow.
    â€˜Only a change of clothes when I get home. I slipped crossing the road. Foolish of me.’
    The policeman smiles. ‘Well, you be careful, sir. Never worth hurrying to your death, is it?’
    â€˜Yes, well, indeed. Good night to you.’
    The constable nods, satisfied with the progress of his enquiries. He has already returned to his conversation with the woman, even as Henry Cotton turns to take leave of him.
    In five minutes more, walking at a good pace, Cotton stands at the door of his lodgings, a terrace in Castle Street. He surveys the road on both sides, making sure there is no-one watching. Once he is satisfied, he scrapes his boots, turns his key in the lock to let himself in, then quietly ascends the stairs.
    The room itself is a small one, situated on the top floor, furnished in the Spartan style that suits many London landlords, if not their tenants. Cotton sits himself down upon the bed. The only light is fromthe flaring of the gas in the street below, which emits a residual luminescence that filters through the sash window. Even so, he can still make out that there is mud on the rug, which he will have to clean away; on the stairs outside too, no doubt. Instinctively, he reaches to remove his hat, and he realises he is not wearing it.
    His memory stabs at him, his stomach turning, at the thought of the dead girl.
    He left his hat upon the train.
    Along with his notebook.

C HAPTER FOUR

    B Y DAY, THE station at Baker Street is warmed by the constant human traffic that streams through the concourse, down to the platforms, and back up again. If the weather is dismal, and the clever arrangement of skylights set into the vaulted roof of the station affords no daylight, then the gas will be turned on, and the traveller may be cheered by the bright glowing globes that hang like baubles above his head. There is even some warmth to be had, on frost-bitten mornings, from the furnace of a train at a standstill, or in the steam that belches out as the train departs, and condenses in rivulets on the damp brickwork. By night, however, Baker Street becomes less temperate; there is often no gas in the pipes, even if it were wanted, and the few men who work on the track carry oil-lamps, and wear the thickest of winter coats. To the station’s night-watchman who, on occasion, sees them in the