Read A Metropolitan Murder for Free Online Page A

Clara.
    â€˜Come on, when did you last see her down here? Tell us, how’s your ma, then?’
    â€˜Awful, Ally. But then she always were.’
    It is not a very funny joke, but they both allow themselves a smile. Cook’s face merely looks deep into a pan of porridge simmering on the range, which she removes from the hob. The new arrival, whose full name is Alice Meynell, walks over to Clara, and leans close to her.
    â€˜Have you heard?’ she says, whispering.
    â€˜What’s that?’ interrupts Cook. ‘Speak up!’
    â€˜There’s only been a murder,’ the girl continues, still whispering, ‘on the Underground Railway. There was a girl strangled, right in the railway carriage, right before everyone’s eyes. Throttled till she was dead.’
    â€˜Really?’ says Clara, still busy with her skirts. She seems less interested by this information than Alice Meynell might have reasonably expected.
    â€˜What’s the matter with you, anyhow?’ asks the girl.
    â€˜Sorry, I was thinking of something else. Something my ma told me.’
    â€˜Well, what was this, then? Tell all.’
    â€˜Said she’d seen my sister. And I didn’t even think she was in London.’
    Cook thumps her fist on the kitchen table.
    â€˜There’ll be murder here if you don’t do some work, girl. That goes for both of you.’
    Alice pulls a face at her, and continues talking. ‘You’ve never said much about her, your sister.’
    â€˜No. I just wish I knew where she was.’

C HAPTER SEVEN

    â€˜B EG YOUR PARDON , sir? What’s that? A shilling? A shilling for the Remarkable Compound? No, sir. Not a shilling, though it would be a regular bargain even at that price. Come closer, sir, lend me your nose, as the Bard of Avon would have it. “Ear”, you say? No, I can do precious little with that! Come a little closer, and let the scent of the Remarkable Compound elevate
    your nostrils! Don’t be fearful now! How does it smell? Sweet? Of course it does. That, sir, is the smell of Vi-tality.’
    It is mid-morning and a crowd of two dozen or more persons move a little closer into the corner of Clare Market, a maze of little streets that trail off from Lincoln’s Inn Fields towards the Strand. The object of everyone’s attention is a man standing upon a wooden crate, waving in the air an unstoppered bulbous bottle made of dark green glass. He is of middling height and, though he wears a dark suit of cheap fustian, it conceals a striking green silk waistcoat, and the hint of a gold chain, which may or may not be affixed to a pocket-watch. His features, moreover, are quite handsome, and his fair hair sleek with macassar oil. He looks, in common parlance, something of a ‘cheap swell’. A good proportion of those watching him are women.
    His voice booms through the marketplace.
    â€˜You, ma’am! Yes, you! Won’t you take a sip, gratis? Really? Is that so? No, ma’am, rest assured, I would not hazard to bother, befuddle, nor bamboozle a lady such as you! As my old father said to me, “You can bring an horse to the trough, but you can’t make him drink.” Really? No, ma’am, I did not compare you to an equine, you misunderstands me. I has a great deal of respect for horses . . .’
    The crowd laugh and the man smiles; he is no more than twenty-eight years of age, but he has the booming voice and assurance of someone much older. He puts his hand out, asking them for silence.
    â€˜We may have a jolly time of it, my friends, but I might ask of you to stop and think. How many of you is suffering from a sickness? How many of you would likely benefit from the remedy of the Remarkable Compound? How many, aye, more’s the point, has been on bended knee to the blasted relieving officer, and taken his blessed chit to the doctor, but has found no relief? Aye, a good number, ain’t it? Of course, I cannot