Page 68 of Murder on the Brighton Express
“He also covered the express shift because the regular conductor was ill. West couldn’t orchestrate that.”
“Not the first one, that’s true. But hedidorchestrate the other shifts, including the one during which Ruth died. I don’t believe in coincidences, Harry.”
The George Inn was the sort of place where generations of local men had gathered after long shifts in neighboring factories. Its black and white Tudor facade was a little crooked, and the wooden bar inside bore scratches that no one had bothered to polish away. Harry had to duck to enter and keep his hat in his hand. Even so, the low ceiling beams were mere inches from the top of his head.
We couldn’t see Jack West. Harry asked the landlord where we could find him, but he wouldn’t answer. He slammed a tankard of ale down in front of a patron, all the while glaring at Harry.
Once the landlord’s back was turned, the patron signaled to Harry that he’d talk in exchange for money. Harry settled some coins on the bar. The patron gave us an address for Jack West. He laughed as he pocketed his earnings.
Harry had been about to walk off, but stopped. “Is something amusing?”
The man chuckled into his tankard. “West cleared off this morning. You won’t find him. He’s long gone.”
If Harry doubted West’s guilt before, he didn’t anymore. We left the inn and headed for the address the man had given us. Perhaps a neighbor could tell us more about him, including where he may have gone. I wasn’t hopeful, however. The residents in places like Lambeth didn’t trust strangers. We had to rely on bribery, but without a client to pay our fee, we were reluctant to spend more.
Harry came up with a solution once he saw that West’s lodgings were located in a quiet court in a building where no one locked their doors, probably because they had nothing worth stealing. “I’ll sneak in. You keep watch outside.”
I didn’t want to wait outside, and I knew just what to say to make Harry change his mind without making it seem like I was refusing to cooperate. “You think it’s safe for me out here?”
He looked around. The houses were old and tired, with peeling paint and broken windows. A rat darted out from beneath a pile of broken crates, splintered pieces of wood, and books that must be there for the residents to use to fuel their stoves. My stomach tied into a small knot at the sight of the books, some with their spines bent, and others missing their covers altogether. While the court was currently empty, if a resident returned and saw me unaccompanied, they might think me fair game. I wore a nice day dress that marked me as someone worth robbing.
“We’ll go in together,” Harry conceded.
He pushed open the door while I looked up at the windows of the buildings surrounding us on three sides. Nobody watched on.
We slipped inside. Women’s voices came from the depths of the building. A baby cried and another took up the same tune in response. The noise covered the sound of the creaking steps as we climbed the stairs.
If the patron in The George was telling the truth, West had rented the first room off the landing on the second floor. The door was unlocked. Harry checked inside before ushering me through.
The man at the pub hadn’t lied about Jack West leaving. The room was empty, except for a stained mattress on a rickety bed, a dirty washbasin on a stand, and a dented kettle sitting on a portable gas stove. The acrid smell of smoke filled the small room, and perhaps explained why the wall near the bed was stained brown. A chipped bowl on the windowsill overflowed with cigarette butts. It was the only evidence that someone had lived there until recently.
Or so I thought.
Harry spotted something on the floor under the bed. He reached under and drew out a photograph. It must have fallen out of a pocket and been left behind. The photograph was taken at the beach, and all six men in it wore trousers and shirts with their sleeves and trouser legs rolled up. Their feet were bare, as if they’d just dipped their toes into the water. All the men, aged in their early twenties, scowled at the photographer.
Harry pointed to the man standing in the middle. “West.”
Closer inspection proved him right. It was Jack West, without his beard. The photograph must have been taken years ago. I didn’t recognize any of the other men, but something struck me about their forearms.
“They all have the same markings on their skin,” I said, pointing to West’s forearm. “Is it a rash? Scars?”
“A tattoo. Five dots arranged in a cross, one dot for each point and one in the center.”
“You seem quite familiar with it. You’ve seen it before?”
“I have,” he said, sounding ominous. “There was an infamous criminal gang from the East End where every member got a tattoo like this on their forearm. I was young then, but I knew to steer clear of them.”
“What happened to them?”
“I think they disbanded. Some members probably died, others went to prison. That’s most likely what happened to West. The conductor told us he suspected West hadn’t worked on the railways for years. What if the reason for that was because he’d been in jail?”
“And just came out,” I murmured.
Harry tucked the photograph into his pocket. “I don’t see how this relates to the murder of Ruth. Even if she somehow learned about his past, she wouldn’t care. It’s hardly newsworthy. Neither she nor Mrs. Scoop would bother writing about the criminal past of a railway employee.”
I looked past him to the windowsill and the bowl filled with the used ends of cigarettes. “You’re right. Ruth wouldn’t care. But shewouldbe interested in his associate whodidhave a reputation to lose.”
“You know who it is, don’t you?”
