I had been to Charing Cross on a past inquiry case. It was a part of London where entire streets of dilapidated tenement buildings, some near three hundred years old, were being torn down to make away for new housing as part of the government’s efforts to address poverty and homelessness.
According to the information Alex Sinclair had provided, the address where Ellie Sutton had lived was at the edge of Charing Cross, a part of the area where factory workers, tradesmen, and others with skills that earned a steady wage, lived with their families in some of the less rundown tenements.
I had the driver let me off at the street just over from Craven Street where Ellie Sutton had lived, the hound falling into step beside me.
There was a street light at the corner, the rest of the street dark and filled with shadows, except for the occasional glow of light from a ground floor window of one of the tenements.
I had no idea what I might find at the flat where Ellie Sutton had lived. Nevertheless, I had learned from Brodie there was always something, some small detail that might be important, that was often overlooked. I was hoping there was something that might tell me something important about her and the night she died.
The police had already searched the premises after her body was discovered by the woman who collected the rents. I could only hope there was some detail they missed.
I approached the tenement directly behind the one on Craven Street. It had a narrow alley alongside it, most often used by dustmen who collected rubbish. I certainly looked the part.
In this part of London, rubbish was often left to rot piled at the kerb or in a bin at the back of a house, where it drew rats. It had obviously been some time since the refuse had been picked up here by the look of the piled garbage and those who scavenged among it.
I started down that alley toward the tenement at Craven Street where Ellie Sutton had lived. As I approached the front of the building the sound of voices quite near stopped me. I hid in the shadows and listened. It appeared that the tenement was being guarded by officers from the MET.
“It’s been two days now, and not a sign of ‘im,”one of the constables commented.
“The orders came straight from the Chief Inspector,”came the reply at the street in front of the tenement.
“He wants one of us here day and night. He knows the man and he’s certain he’ll come back.”
“Fine enough for him to say. He’s not the one workin’ double shifts and standin’ out here freezin’ his bollocks off.”
Abberline! No stone unturned.
But their complaints told me far more. As of yet, the police had no idea where Brodie was.
I heard that familiar rumble from the hound beside me. I managed to grab the ruff of fur about his neck and whispered one of the few commands he understood, or chose to understand, before he charged off.
It wouldn’t do to have him attack one of the constables and possibly expose the fact that I was there.
“Did ye hear somethin’?”One of the constables commented.
“Probably some animal rummaging about in the garbage,”his companion responded. There was another comment, and a curse at the cold.
“Best get on with our rounds. Wouldn’t want Abberline to think we were not doing our job.”
I listened as they moved down the street until the sound of their bootsteps faded. Satisfied that they were gone for now, I quickly went to the entrance of the tenement.
From previous experience, I knew there were usually six flats to a floor in these old tenement buildings, with someone who collected the rents occupying a ground floor flat, where they could watch the comings and goings of the tenants.
Rupert was presently nose-deep into a rubbish pile at the kerb, the police constables forgotten for now. I told him tostay.It would be difficult to explain his presence if he were to follow me inside.
There was a light in the window beside the main entrance of the tenement. My guess was that was where the landlady lived, and then a light that flickered overhead from the second-floor landing. I hid in the shadows at the main entrance and listened to the sounds of the building.
There were footsteps overhead then the slam of a door along with bits of conversation behind the door of that ground floor flat. The door suddenly opened, and a bag of trash was dumped into the hallway.
“I told ya, I can’t rent out 2-C until the bloody peelers is through with their investigation,”a woman explained.
“As it is,I’ll be lucky to find anyone t’ take it, with what happened there. All that blood that needs to be cleaned up. There is already word about the murder on the street. No family will want to rent the place.”The door slammed shut once more.
Flat 2-C. It appeared that I now knew which flat Ellie Sutton had lived in.
The next part was going to be a bit more difficult—getting inside. I had considered that as well before setting out, and I had come prepared.
I waited and listened as the sounds in the building settled once more. When no one else appeared I quickly made my way to the stairs. At the second-floor landing, I moved down the hall to flat 2-C.
