The Case of The Maxwell Murder (Bow Street Society Book 5), page 1
BOW STREET SOCIETY:
The Case of The Maxwell Murder
By
T.G. Campbell
All characters in this novel are fictional. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.
Cover & podcast illustration by Peter Spells
Bow Street Society Logo by Heather Curtis
Text & artwork copyright © -
2021 Tahnee Anne Georgina Campbell
Edited by Susan Soares
All Rights Reserved
Available on Kindle and other devices
ALSO BY THE AUTHOR
The Case of The Curious Client
The Case of The Lonesome Lushington
The Case of The Spectral Shot
The Case of The Toxic Tonic
The Case of The Shrinking Shopkeeper & Other Stories
The Case of The Peculiar Portrait & Other Stories
The Case of The Russian Rose & Other Stories
The Case of The Gentleman’s Gambit & Other Stories
The Case of The Devil’s Dare
in
Criminal Shorts
a
UK Crime Book Club anthology sold for the benefit of
The Red Kite Academy in Corby, Northamptonshire, UK.
TABLE OF CONTENTS
PROLOGUE
ONE
TWO
THREE
FOUR
FIVE
SIX
SEVEN
EIGHT
NINE
TEN
ELEVEN
TWELVE
THIRTEEN
FOURTEEN
FIFTEEN
SIXTEEN
SEVENTEEN
EIGHTEEN
NINETEEN
TWENTY
TWENTY-ONE
TWENTY-TWO
TWENTY-THREE
TWENTY-FOUR
TWENTY-FIVE
TWENTY-SIX
TWENTY-SEVEN
TWENTY-EIGHT
TWENTY-NINE
THIRTY
THIRTY-ONE
THIRTY-TWO
THIRTY-THREE
THIRTY-FOUR
THIRTY-FIVE
THIRTY-SIX
THIRTY-SEVEN
THIRTY-EIGHT
THIRTY-NINE
EPILOGUE
Notes from the Author
Bow Street Society Podcast
Gaslight Gazette
More Bow Street Society
Sources of Reference
PROLOGUE
Voices echoed down Bow Street as the last of the public gallery’s occupants left the magistrates’ court and congregated outside. The doorway’s yellow light flooded the pavement and framed the small crowd in the pitch blackness of the cold December night. The journalists of the group departed for their typewriters as the curious discussed the day’s trials, and a defendant’s wife and brother walked to the gates on the building’s side. When a Black Maria came out a few minutes later and passed them, the man and woman ran behind until it had gone around the corner. “Goodbye, Billy,” she whispered as she clutched the corner of her dirty shawl against her lips. As her companion led her away, the doors of the court slammed shut.
From the opposite direction came a two-wheeler hansom cab pulled by a mare. It slowed to a stop outside the police station neighbouring the court, and a slender built man in his early thirties alighted. He was five feet nine inches tall with a slim face and short, brown hair, moustache, and close-cut sideburns. His attire comprised of a green tweed suit, a dark-green waistcoat and tie, a cream shirt, and an open knee-length black woollen overcoat. A hand-knitted burgundy scarf was also tied around his neck and draped over his shoulders, whilst a brown bowler hat sat upon his head. In the weak light of the police station’s famous white lamps, he checked his pocket watch and discovered it was already six o’clock. He climbed the station’s steep stone steps and entered the building proper.
A long corridor that branched off to the right behind a waist-high oak-panelled counter laid beyond its double doors. A single door to one’s right had a painted wooden plaque announcing it as the ‘Reserve Room.’ The brick walls were painted white and illuminated by the weak gaslight of several globe-shaped lamps, whilst the floor was heavily scuffed dark-stained wood. A plain-clothed clerk carrying a pile of papers emerged from a door at the far end of the corridor, walked down it, turned to the right, and moved out of sight before the clatter of typewriters momentarily filled the air with crystal clarity.
Behind the counter was a middle-aged man in a Metropolitan Police sergeant’s uniform. He was approximately five feet eleven inches tall with a weathered complexion, an immense ginger beard, and pale-blue eyes. “I’ll be with you in a moment, sir,” he said as he finished writing. Upon seeing the man’s face, though, he slid his heels together, straightened his back, and said, “Forgive me, Chief Inspector.”
“Do not concern yourself, Sergeant,” Chief Inspector Richard Jones of Scotland Yard replied with a smile. “It’s encouraging to see an officer working so diligently.” He lifted the counter’s flap and went through. “Is Inspector Woolfe still here?”
“Yes, he’s in his office, sir. Should I telephone ahead?”
“He’ll see me,” Chief Inspector Jones replied as he strode down the corridor and entered the stairwell. Making his way to the first floor and along another corridor, he entered Inspector Woolfe’s office.
The forty-nine-year-old policeman sat facing an open sash window overlooking the Royal Opera House. His six-feet-four-inches-tall, broad frame, unkempt black hair, and bushy eyebrows had always made him stand out in a crowd. Yet, even in the familiar surroundings of the office, Inspector Woolfe’s unusual size and distinct appearance reminded Chief Inspector Jones of a giant in a doll’s house. His attire consisted of a dark-grey suit and waistcoat, a black tie with a loose knot, a white shirt, and some scuffed black leather shoes. In his large hands were a lit cigarette and a half-eaten sandwich.
Upon hearing Jones’ approach, Inspector Woolfe had anticipated the customary knock followed by his visitor waiting for permission to enter. When neither occurred and his visitor simply strode in, though, he swivelled his chair around and parted his lips to scold whichever insubordinate constable it happened to be. Yet, his voice caught in his throat and his eyebrows lifted as he recognised the face of his senior officer. “Chief Inspector Jones…”
He returned to his senses at once. Tossing his cigarette into the overflowing ashtray on the windowsill, he wrapped his sandwich in its paper and hurriedly cleared his desk. Everything was then piled into his desk’s top drawer and abandoned when he discovered the drawer was too full to close. Sweeping his dark-brown eyes over the desk’s surface once more, he plucked his fur coat from the chair opposite his own and went to hang it on the stand in the corner. “Please, sit down, sir.”
After passing his hat, coat, and scarf to him, Chief Inspector Jones sat in the now vacant chair. “Thank you.”
“I’m sorry for the mess, sir, but I didn’t know you were coming.” Inspector Woolfe returned to his chair by the window.
“This is an informal visit.” Chief Inspector Jones glanced at the papers protruding from the open drawer. “I shan’t keep you long. I’m here because I’m concerned about Inspector Conway. I haven’t seen him since the Walmsley Hotel murder trial or spoken to him in almost a month. I wondered if you had heard from him at all?”
“He’s still suspended from duty for allegedly sharing evidence, sir.”
Chief Inspector Jones’ expression tightened. “I’m aware of that. I’m also aware you and he are friends.”
Inspector Woolfe lowered his gaze, took a cigarette from the drawer, and lit it with a match from a box on the desk.
“I’m not here on behalf of A division, Caleb, but on behalf of myself. John Conway and I have known one another for many years,” Chief Inspector Jones continued in a low voice.
Inspector Woolfe shook out the match and discarded it into the ashtray. Leaning back in his chair, he rested his elbow upon the chair’s arm and leant toward the window. Lowering his gaze as he took several short pulls from his cigarette, he turned his head to exhale its smoke outside. “I haven’t heard from him.” He glanced at his cigarette’s end and tapped its ash into the ashtray. “And he hasn’t been at home when I’ve tried to visit.” He shifted his weight to the chair’s other arm and met Chief Inspector Jones’ gaze. “But I have my suspicions about where I might find him.” He took a prolonged pull from his cigarette and crushed it out in the ashtray from his current position.
“Have you investigated these suspicions?”
Inspector Woolfe leant forward and, resting his crossed forearms upon his desk, lowered his gaze. “No. I don’t know if he would want to talk to another copper.”
“But you’re still friends, aren’t you?”
“Yeah, and I know he’s innocent, but I’m still a copper.” He met Chief Inspector Jones’ gaze. “Do you believe he’s innocent, sir?”
“You know I cannot discuss such matters.”
“I just thought, as this is an informal visit, you might—”
“Absolutely not.” Chief Inspector Jones stood and went to the window. Looking up Bow Street, his thoughts turned to Miss Rebecca Trent. “Our surveillance of the Bow Street Society ceased the moment Inspector Conway was suspended.” He stilled a moment as he recalled Inspector Conway’s angry departure from his office. Forcing the memory from his mind, he folded his arms across his chest, turned, and went back to his chair at a slower pace. Whilst doing so, he was careful to maintain a formal tone as he said, “It’s important for the Yard to be kept informed of the group’s activities, especially since the press appear to lend their sympathy and support to them.” He held the back of his chair. “What have you discovered from your enquiries?”
“Conway told me not to investigate them as per your orders, sir.”
“He did, but as you’ve just said, you’re still a copper. Furthermore, the Bow Street Society’s headquarters are on your doorstep. I find it hard to believe you wouldn’t investigate their activities, even on an informal basis.”
Inspector Woolfe leaned back in his chair and glanced at the bottom drawer in his desk. Knowing that drinking on duty in front of his senior officer would get him in as much trouble as Inspector Conway, though, he instead tapped his foot on the floor and kept his eyes downcast.
“I’m prepared to turn a blind eye to your disobedience of my orders, Caleb, if your efforts have borne fruit.”
Inspector Woolfe rested his elbow upon his chair’s arm and lowered his head to his hand to rub the end of his nose. Lifting his head, he traced the outline of his mouth with his thumb and forefinger before rubbing his jaw and considering his options. Finally, he allowed his hand to drop, considered his options further, and sighed. Bending forward to reach beneath his desk, he removed a loose floorboard and retrieved a file from the dust-covered cavity beneath. Glancing at Chief Inspector Jones, he replaced the board, tossed the file onto the desk, and straightened. “I know your word is good, sir,” he said quietly as he pulled his chair closer and opened the file.
“Miss Rebecca Trent, the clerk of the Bow Street Society, is originally from Tonbridge in Kent,” Inspector Woolfe began. “She lived with her aunt, Mrs Dorothea Trent, who is old friends with Mr Samuel Snyder, a Society member and the group’s driver.
“Miss Trent came to London in 1894 and stayed with the Snyders on Vere Street until she became an understudy for Miss Leila Marlowe at the Paddington Palladium theatre. The theatre is owned by Mr Percy Locke, a magician. He joined the Bow Street Society as a member shortly after Miss Trent took up the position of clerk. When she was an understudy, she lived at the actors’ lodgings two streets away from the theatre. According to an actress I spoke to there, Miss Trent never performed and was a poor actress besides.
“Miss Trent returned to the Snyders’ home on Vere Street in November 1895 after she answered an advertisement in the newspaper for a clerk’s position—the position of the Bow Street Society’s clerk, as it turned out. She then rented an office above Derby’s Stationers shop on Endell Street for the Bow Street Society and switched treading the boards for treading on our toes.”
Chief Inspector Jones smirked, but Inspector Woolfe’s gaze was on the page.
“Mr Calvin, a solicitor who Miss Trent had found in the Post Office Directory, vouched for her character and reputation to Mr Derby. Mr Calvin had agreed to represent her because he was impressed by her ‘determination and unwavering self-assurance.’ Mr Derby never had any cause to regret leasing the office to Miss Trent as her activities and business were as respectable as Mr Calvin had promised.”
“Did Mr Derby recall any of Miss Trent’s visitors?” Chief Inspector Jones recalled the shop’s window had overlooked the pavement leading to the office stairs. He had only visited once, and it was dark at the time. He doubted the shop had even been open, but it was nevertheless wise to ask the question.
“Miss Trent’s aunt had come into his shop to ask where the office was. She also told him she was visiting London. He also mentioned Mr Locke but…” Inspector Woolfe consulted several of the file’s pages, “No, no one else.”
“Aside from Mr Locke and Mr Snyder, have you discovered anything else about the Society’s members?”
“Mr Gregory Elliott, a solicitor, is a friend of Mr Calvin’s. He told Mr Elliott about the Society and encouraged him to join. When he met Miss Trent, he was also impressed by her, or so I heard, and joined the group soon after.” Inspector Woolfe turned the page. “Miss Polly Hicks, a barmaid at one of those bars in the underground railway stations, was friends with Miss Trent when she was an understudy. The actress at the lodgings said they’d been inseparable. Rumour has it Miss Hicks is involved with Dr Weeks.”
“What of Dr Weeks and his involvement with the Bow Street Society? You did say you would inform me of any new developments in that area.”
Inspector Woolfe frowned as he realised that he’d forgotten the conversation. “As far as I know, there haven’t been any.”
“You have discovered a fair amount,” Chief Inspector Jones remarked as the key question in his mind caused his heart to beat faster. His mind attempted to calm his nervousness through logic, but he knew the feeling wouldn’t pass until he heard the same answer from Inspector Woolfe’s lips. “You mentioned Miss Trent had answered an advertisement in the newspaper… do you know who placed it?”
Inspector Woolfe’s frown deepened. “No.”
Chief Inspector Jones pursed his lips to keep the relief from his face as he felt his heart return to its usual steady rhythm. After a moment, he enquired, “Do you know which newspaper it was?”
Inspector Woolfe shook his head. “I tried talking to the aunt, but she pointed a revolver at me and refused to let me in.”
Chief Inspector Jones took the opportunity of the amusing story to permit himself a smile. “How unfortunate.”
Inspector Woolfe narrowed his eyes. “I don’t think Miss Trent’s employer is in Tonbridge, though. I think he’s probably a middle-class gentleman and philanthropist living here in London.”
Chief Inspector Jones unfolded his arms and settled into his chair. “It is certainly possible.” Taking a match from the box, he lit his pipe and enjoyed several puffs from it. “Have you discovered anything further?”
“No.” Inspector Woolfe closed the file.
“Well, if you do uncover anything new, be sure to inform me of it immediately. The same applies to the matter of Dr Weeks.”
“Yes, sir. I’ll let you know if I hear from Inspector Conway, too.”
“Thank you.” Chief Inspector Jones gave an appreciative smile.
* * *
Dr Lynette Locke closed the door behind her last patient of the day just as the hall clock struck six. Sliding the bolt into place, she briefly closed her eyes and softly exhaled. Her medical practise occupied the left half of her home’s ground floor with an office-come-examination room at the front and a patient waiting room at the rear. The latter’s furniture was covered, its curtains drawn, and its door locked on account of a temporary reduction in appointments, however.
Considered ‘middle-aged’ by some at thirty years old, Dr Locke was unusually tall at six feet. Her fair complexion was marred by puffiness beneath her dark blue-green eyes, whilst the sculpted mass of dark-blond wavy hair atop her crown was made unkempt by a few wayward strands. The natural curve of her slender waist was accentuated by the corset beneath her long-sleeved, high-necked bustle dress. Mostly dark purple in colour, the dress had a black panel in the shape of an inverted triangle adorning its top half. Two columns of faux black buttons lined the panel’s centre to lead one’s eye to a matching leather belt.
She returned to her office and ran her fingertips over the brass frontage of her medicine cabinet’s lock. Unable to feel any scratches caused by a pick, she allowed the tension in her shoulders to ease as she opened the cabinet using her key. She retrieved a small, flat bottle of green glass from the back and held it against the light of the wall-mounted gas lamp. A shallow nick had been cut into the bottle’s left-hand corner where its smooth front met its ridged side. Made by Dr Locke using a scalpel, the nick’s location corresponded to the level of the bottle’s contents. Satisfied the two still matched, she returned the bottle and locked the cabinet. Next, she completed her usual routine of filing her patient’s record, covering her typewriter, and extinguishing both the lamps and fire before leaving the room and locking the door.
