A Metropolitan Murder Read Online Free PDF Page B

that we . . . I have not seen her for a year or more.’
    â€˜Well, I am sure your domestic affairs are very pressing, Miss White, but I must get on myself. Send my regards to Dr. Harris, if you please.’ She looks at Clara pointedly, pushing her spectacles up her nose.
    â€˜I will,’ replies Clara. ‘I am sorry to disturb you.’
    Clara curtsies, and retreats back into the hall, where she finds the same nurse standing there who spoke to her outside her mother’s room.
    â€˜Don’t mind her,’ the woman whispers, relishing the sharing of a confidence, ‘she’s upset about Sally.’
    â€˜Sally?’
    â€˜You know, Miss, the girl what was sharing with your mother.’
    â€˜The red-haired girl? I never saw that much of her. When did she die? Was it sudden? It ain’t catching, is it?’
    â€˜Oh Lord, bless you, she’s not dead. She just didn’t come back last night, skipped the curfew. She’s as likely laid up in some gin-shop in the Dials as anything, if I know Sally Bowker.’
    â€˜My mother thinks she’s dead.’
    â€˜Really? Lor! Whatever gave her that idea?’

C HAPTER SIX

    I T IS NEARLY half-past the hour when Clara White takes leave of the Holborn Refuge for Penitent Women, and makes her way past frost-bitten Lincoln’s Inn Fields. She skirts the square, and then walks along the refuse-laden alley that links it with High Holborn. It is not, however, a simple matter to cross this great thoroughfare. The only persons who brave the traffic, and seem to move about with casual impunity, are a gang of street Arabs – half a dozen ragged boys and girls who dart with apparent ease between passing carriages. She stands and watches them for a moment, as one child performs cartwheels, in the hope that a penny may be discarded in her direction, an ambition that appears destined to remain unrealised. Then, a bus pulls up sharply by the side of the road, obstructing her view. The horses snort in exhaustion, and twenty men or more alight, streaming past her on both sides. They are the typical suburban clerks, in neat suits, some in silk hats, and several spring down from the top deck in merely two or three steps, like trained acrobats. They do not even catch their breath. Instead they turn around, this way and that, like human spinning-tops, finding their bearings, then plunge straight into the crowd. There is no ‘good morning’ or ‘how d’ye do’ to be heard; no chanceacquaintance can hope to interrupt their progress. Indeed, Clara herself cannot hope to stand still for long, and so falls in with the foot-traffic, jostled along until she comes to the corner of Gray’s Inn Lane. There she finally manages to cross at the junction, dodging the mud as best she can, until she stands before a small, old-fashioned shop, Pickering & Co. Druggists and Chemists &c.
    The shop window looks particularly ancient, comprised of two dozen or more small panes of green-tinged bullion glass. It contains, moreover, shelves bearing translucent bottles of green and blue hues, guaranteed to attract the attention of passers-by, a particular favourite of local children. Indeed, a couple of street boys linger by the door, but Clara quietly brushes past their entreaties and goes inside. Within she finds an old gentleman, the aforementioned Pickering, sitting behind the counter. He stands up and nods in a business-like manner as Clara enters.
    â€˜Morning, Miss. Nice to see you again.’
    â€˜Good morning.’
    â€˜And to what do we owe the honour, Miss?’
    â€˜The usual mixture for Mrs. Harris, if you please, and also,’ she continues, struggling to recall the name, ‘do you have a bottle of Balley’s Mixture?’
    â€˜Balley’s Quietener?’
    â€˜Yes, that is the one.’
    â€˜Why, yes, Miss,’ he says, surprised, ‘I do. Now, the mixture for Mrs. Harris, I’ve some prepared; but,