The Dark Palace--Murder and mystery in London, 1914 Read Free Page A

rule it out. Young men such as them … not them, no … quite explicitly not them. But young men such as them might see her open door as …’
    â€˜As what?’
    He could not say an invitation ; that would seem to put Miss Ibbott at fault. ‘A provocation,’ he settled for.
    Miss Dillard let out a little shriek. It was an unfortunate word to choose.
    â€˜You must understand,’ protested Quinn. ‘I know of nothing specific against them. Nothing at all, in fact. But you cannot blame me for taking precautions.’
    At that moment, the controversial door opened and Miss Ibbott herself peered out. From what he saw of her shoulders, Quinn conjectured that she was in a state of deshabille .
    â€˜What do you want? What’s going on? Did you shut my door?’
    â€˜Ah, good morning to you, Miss Ibbott. Yes, indeed, as I was explaining to Miss Dillard, I did indeed shut your door. A mere precaution, you understand. For your own safety. One can never be too careful. Did you, in fact, realize that it was open, I wonder?’
    â€˜Betsy must have left it like that when she fetched me my hot water.’
    â€˜Ah, there you are! Mystery solved! Betsy left it open. Careless girl. But good-natured. A careless but good-natured girl, I think we can all agree on that. Or perhaps not, as regards carelessness, at least. Not careless, no. Too harsh. Just overworked perhaps? No, that won’t do, implying as it does criticism of your good mother, the irreproachable Mrs Ibbott. I will not hear the word overworked used in this house. Worked to just the right, proper and above all proportionate extent of her capabilities and … and duties. As your maid. As maid to us all. An onerous but worthy calling, no doubt. So, what are we to make of the door being left ajar? A simple mistake, it turns out, which I, in my foolish, fond – one might even say innocent … In my solicitude, at any rate … closed. On your behalf. For you. But no harm done, I’m glad to say.’
    Miss Ibbott offered no comment on Quinn’s outburst, unless shutting the door in his face is to be considered a comment.
    He could not look at Miss Dillard. He wondered if the consolation of her pewter-grey eyes was denied him forever now, their startling beauty an unreliable memory he struggled to conjure.

FOUR
    T he lights in the carriage flickered in time with the clatter and sway of the Tube train, the darkness reasserting its presence.
    Quinn had entered its realm voluntarily, lowering himself into it in a shuddering cage. Today he was shunning the daylight. Dipping his face away from its intrusive glare. Something to do with the awkward episode on the landing, no doubt. He had wanted the ground to open up and swallow him. Taking the Tube was a practicable alternative.
    Under normal circumstances, Quinn rarely took the Tube. But at least on the Tube he didn’t have to meet anyone’s eye. Most of his fellow travellers hid themselves away behind their newspapers. If they did not, they stared fixedly at a chosen point. A spot on the carriage wall. An arbitrary word in an advertisement. A cigarette stub caught between the wooden slats of the floor. Occasionally they might look away to catch the eye of one of the pale ghosts riding the darkness outside, mournful, perplexed, perpetually excluded. In that moment they understood: how incomprehensible we are to our own reflections. To ourselves.
    Quinn could not say when he had first been aware of the man looking at him. But his sense was that the whole reason the man was there was to look at him. There was a purpose to his staring. Being a policeman, Quinn might have said it was premeditated .
    The fellow must have followed him on to the platform and into the train carriage. That meant that he must have been waiting outside the lodging house for Quinn to leave that morning.
    Yes, he had registered something out of the corner of his eye, or at least in hindsight