The Custom House Murders (Captain Lacey Mysteries #15) - Ashley Gardner Page 0,22

to the Tower, which once belonged to monasteries, long ago, and are now known collectively as the Tower Liberty. The Constable of the Tower is in charge of policing the area, and his coroner holds their inquests. Mr. Clay assists, as he’s a skilled surgeon—he also assists the Whitechapel coroner. After the recent expansion of the docklands there’s been a bit more crime, and the Constable of the Tower welcomes help, especially from the Runners of Whitechapel and Bow Street.”

It sounded like a complicated arrangement, but many of the parish divisions in London were left over from centuries of conquest, regime changes, fire and rebuilding, and the natural expansion of the metropolis.

Wellclose Square contained more than private abodes, I saw as we strolled it—several theatres graced the long sides of the square, along with a gin hall or two, but those looked quiet and subdued in the daylight.

Thompson took us to a house in the middle of the square’s north side. This house was taller than Mr. Clay’s, with a mansard roof and large dormer windows, which reminded me of the house in which I’d lodged in Paris during the Peace of Amiens.

This residence had once been grand, but the grandeur was fading. Paint flaked from the stuccoed walls and the black front door, and bare wood showed through the green paint on the shutters. An old bird’s nest peeked from the sill on a higher floor, and bird droppings decorated the arches over the windows.

Before Thompson could tap on the door, it was wrenched open, and a thin, harried woman with a lined face, her mobcap askew, stared out at us.

“Pardon us for disturbing you, madam,” Thompson said formally. “I am Mr. Thompson of the River Police—”

“Are ye another here about Mr. Warrilow?” the woman snapped. “He’s dead, and I’m sorry for it, but tramping into my house day after day won’t bring him back.”

“But it may help us find his killer,” Thompson said smoothly.

“I thought that tow-headed officer did it.” The woman’s rabbity brown gaze darted to me then Brewster. “Who are they then?”

I made her a bow. “Captain Gabriel Lacey, at your service, madam. Why do you say the officer did it? You mean Major Eden?”

She regarded me as though I were a simpleton. “Saw the papers saying he were wanted for the crime.”

“Yes, but he has been able to convince the magistrate he was not here to commit the murder. You are Mrs. Beadle, correct? You yourself saw him at nine-thirty the evening Mr. Warrilow was killed. You told Major Eden that Mr. Warrilow was already abed.”

“So I did.” Mrs. Beadle came out onto the stoop, folding her arms. “Your major came at the time you said. He stood in the hall at the foot of the stairs while I went up to tell Mr. Warrilow he had a visitor. Mr. Warrilow called through his door that he was abed and wouldn’t get up, and he said this exactly—not for the likes of a self-important army officer who doesn’t understand what’s what.”

“You conveyed this message to Major Eden?”

Mrs. Beadle’s thin smile creased her face and showed me she once had been pretty. “Not in those words, sir. I told him Mr. Warrilow had retired and was seeing no one.”

“Did Major Eden ask you about a book?” I ventured. “He’d come to retrieve it from Mr. Warrilow.”

The smile faded, and the blank stare returned. “I don’t know about no book, sir. The major—he had very nice manners—bowed to me, told me not to distress myself, and off he went.”

“You never saw him again?”

“Never. When the constables came tramping all over yesterday I told them about the major, but they only nodded as if it were of no import. I was surprised, I confess, when I saw the printed bill for his arrest when I went out to market this morning. As I say, I never saw the major again, but I suppose he could have come back to the house later that night, after I went to bed.”

Thompson took up the questions. “Do you lock the doors every night?”

“’Course I do. But a few of my lodgers who’ve been here for years have their own keys. They might have let in Major Eden, as he was so nice-spoken, or they might have forgotten to lock the door behind them when they came in. I run a good house, but one never knows these days. I suppose a ruffian of some sort broke into Mr. Warrilow’s room and