The Welfare of the Dead Read Free Page B

believe these clothes positively trap the fog. Would you mind awfully?’
    â€˜Why, not at all.’
    â€˜The tea will not be a moment – do begin without me.’
    Annabel denies that she would ever dream of doing such a thing; more exhausting smiles and pleasantries are exchanged, until she is left alone in the room. She sits still for a moment or two, and then gets up, idly running her hands upon the keys of the piano, taking care not to depress them. Looking at the pictures uponthe wall, a number of prints of famous personages and painted rural scenes, she passes by the writing desk in the corner. The post is still lying there, and she recognises the small manila envelope that so perturbed her cousin.
    It is perhaps indicative of a certain strain of Annabel Krout’s character that she cannot resist snatching it up and opening it. The contents, however, surprise her considerably, both in their brevity and sentiment:
    YOUR HUSBAND IS A FRAUD
    It is so distracting, that she visibly jumps when the door opens behind her.
    Fortunately, it is only the maid-servant, with a tray of tea and buttered toast.

C HAPTER TWO

    A SOLITARY HANSOM CAB travels at speed along the Victoria Embankment. Of the two men inside, one is engaged in giving a rather voluble monologue, attempting to gain the attention of the other.
    â€˜And so, the man’s in bed somewhere, laid up, sir, you see? And the doctor, he says, “I think you might drop a line, and have your wife come up.” Because his wife’s somewhere else, at home, I suppose. And the gent in bed, he says, “Oh, Doctor, you’re always for such extreme measures!” Prime, isn’t it, sir?’
    The look upon the face of Inspector Decimus Webb, as he listens to his sergeant’s verbal re-creation of his favourite cartoon from the week’s
Punch
, says otherwise.
    â€˜I mean to say, you do get it, don’t you, sir?’
    Webb nods his rather jowly face, solemnly and slowly, in a manner that he hopes is calculated to prevent another word being spoken upon the matter. He takes his pipe from his coat pocket, and begins to fill it with tobacco. He has enough time to light it, before the silence is broken once more.
    â€˜And there was this other—’ continues Sergeant Bartleby.
    â€˜Tell me,’ says Webb, judiciously interrupting, as he begins to fill the cab with a pungent cloud of Latakia,‘what precisely the message said.’
    â€˜The message, sir?’
    â€˜The telegram. The reason we are progressing so precipitously towards Ludgate Hill.’
    â€˜I have it here, sir,’ replies the sergeant, a little abashed. He reaches into his pocket.
    â€˜Just read it to me, if you please,’ says Webb.
    â€˜â€œKnight’s Hotel, Knight’s Court, Godliman Street. Murder. Please come. I seek your advice. Hanson, City of London Police.” Not much one can make of that, is there, sir? Must be a bad business, mind, to call us. The City boys like to keep things to themselves.’
    â€˜Indeed. They are fortunate we keep late hours at Scotland Yard. You know this Hanson fellow, Sergeant?’
    â€˜No, sir.’
    â€˜You know the hotel, by any chance, Sergeant?’
    â€˜Can’t say as I do, sir.’
    â€˜Well, then it is a curious request. Let us reflect upon it.’
    â€˜Sir, there isn’t exactly much to—’
    â€˜In silence, Sergeant. I think best in silence.’
    Sergeant Bartleby opens his mouth to speak, but one glance at Webb is sufficient for him to close it again. Webb, in turn, takes another satisfying draw of smoke. If he thinks upon anything, it is that his tobacco-pouch is rather empty and that he must soon pay a visit to his tobacconist.
    Webb’s reverie is interrupted after a few minutes, as the cab turns off the great sweep of the Victoria Embankment, up New Bridge Street, then a sharp right into the narrow lanes that nestle in the shadow of St.