was rare to see an entire house for let.
One house stood apart from its fellows. Still dingy white under a shroud of soot, it looked particularly dilapidated. The area railings needed cleaning and a lick of paint wouldnât come amiss. There were weeds between the cracks of the steps leading down to the kitchens and cobwebs and dust grimed the windows. Empty, obviously, and for some considerable time; but it wasnât for sale or to let. It seemed simply forgotten. Why? Why, in the midst of a housing shortage, with houses and flats being desperately sought after, with premium payments on top of the rent being demanded and paid, would anyone let a whole valuable house stand untenanted and unused?
He walked along the street, turned the corner, and found the backs. High walls with gates. Lines of washing beyond. A smell of cooked cabbage â why was it always cabbage? â and, like bookends, two high and haughty cats sitting on opposing ends of stone-topped walls.
He counted down the number of gates to the empty house, but it wasnât necessary. It stood out in unpainted neglect. He put his hand on the latch finding, as he expected, that it was bolted. The backs were deserted. An overpowering desire swept over him to see inside. Catching hold of the top of the gate, he put his foot on the handle, pulled himself over and dropped to the yard below. Cracked, green-slimed flags and emptiness met his eyes. With a quick glance round, he cautiously approached the house.
A ground-floor window was open, with darkness beyond. A bluebottle settled on the window before indolently crawling over the sill. His senses tingled. There was a faint and foul smell. Drains? It wasnât drains.
Thereâs nothing here, he told himself. Not here. Not with the roar of the Tottenham Court Road traffic at his back. Not in the very heart of London. It couldnât be here.
With shrinking reluctance, he walked to the window and looked into the room. There was nothing in the room but the oddest, moving, black shadow in the middle of the floor. And then he realized there was no light to cast a shadow; and the pool of darkness was composed of innumerable, languid flies.
THREE
F rederick Roude, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., stood in the open doorway. Wiping his hands on a cloth that smelt of disinfectant, he nodded to the sergeant before standing aside to admit Jack and Bill. The capricious May sunshine illuminated a hall, which showed elegant lines and fine proportions under a thick layer of grime. A fat bluebottle crawled into the patch of light.
The doctor followed Jackâs fascinated gaze. âBloody flies,â he said tersely. He jerked his thumb towards the room at the end of the hall. âWell, heâs in there, but itâs not a pleasant sight. Heâs been dead for fifteen to sixteen weeks at a guess but Iâll know more when we get him to the mortuary. The vanâs waiting to take him away as soon as youâve finished. The cause of death appears to be stabbing, but Iâll have to confirm that later. Whatâs that? Any means of identification?â He frowned. âNot on the body itself. The features have all given way, as you would expect after this length of time, which means his face isnât identifiable and there arenât any fingerprints. He was stripped naked, for some reason, but thereâs some of his things on the mantelpiece. I havenât touched those, of course. If youâve got anyone in mind, I suppose we can compare their dental records, if any. Thatâs the only way you can say for certain who he was now. Iâll leave you to it, gentlemen.â
With a certain unwillingness, Jack walked past the two policemen on duty in the hall and pushed open the door of the room. An angry buzzing met his ears. There was a stomach-churning smell composed partly of dust, damp and disinfectant but chiefly, and sickeningly, of decay. Itâs only a dead man, he told himself firmly.
One house stood apart from its fellows. Still dingy white under a shroud of soot, it looked particularly dilapidated. The area railings needed cleaning and a lick of paint wouldnât come amiss. There were weeds between the cracks of the steps leading down to the kitchens and cobwebs and dust grimed the windows. Empty, obviously, and for some considerable time; but it wasnât for sale or to let. It seemed simply forgotten. Why? Why, in the midst of a housing shortage, with houses and flats being desperately sought after, with premium payments on top of the rent being demanded and paid, would anyone let a whole valuable house stand untenanted and unused?
He walked along the street, turned the corner, and found the backs. High walls with gates. Lines of washing beyond. A smell of cooked cabbage â why was it always cabbage? â and, like bookends, two high and haughty cats sitting on opposing ends of stone-topped walls.
He counted down the number of gates to the empty house, but it wasnât necessary. It stood out in unpainted neglect. He put his hand on the latch finding, as he expected, that it was bolted. The backs were deserted. An overpowering desire swept over him to see inside. Catching hold of the top of the gate, he put his foot on the handle, pulled himself over and dropped to the yard below. Cracked, green-slimed flags and emptiness met his eyes. With a quick glance round, he cautiously approached the house.
A ground-floor window was open, with darkness beyond. A bluebottle settled on the window before indolently crawling over the sill. His senses tingled. There was a faint and foul smell. Drains? It wasnât drains.
Thereâs nothing here, he told himself. Not here. Not with the roar of the Tottenham Court Road traffic at his back. Not in the very heart of London. It couldnât be here.
With shrinking reluctance, he walked to the window and looked into the room. There was nothing in the room but the oddest, moving, black shadow in the middle of the floor. And then he realized there was no light to cast a shadow; and the pool of darkness was composed of innumerable, languid flies.
THREE
F rederick Roude, M.R.C.S., L.R.C.P., stood in the open doorway. Wiping his hands on a cloth that smelt of disinfectant, he nodded to the sergeant before standing aside to admit Jack and Bill. The capricious May sunshine illuminated a hall, which showed elegant lines and fine proportions under a thick layer of grime. A fat bluebottle crawled into the patch of light.
The doctor followed Jackâs fascinated gaze. âBloody flies,â he said tersely. He jerked his thumb towards the room at the end of the hall. âWell, heâs in there, but itâs not a pleasant sight. Heâs been dead for fifteen to sixteen weeks at a guess but Iâll know more when we get him to the mortuary. The vanâs waiting to take him away as soon as youâve finished. The cause of death appears to be stabbing, but Iâll have to confirm that later. Whatâs that? Any means of identification?â He frowned. âNot on the body itself. The features have all given way, as you would expect after this length of time, which means his face isnât identifiable and there arenât any fingerprints. He was stripped naked, for some reason, but thereâs some of his things on the mantelpiece. I havenât touched those, of course. If youâve got anyone in mind, I suppose we can compare their dental records, if any. Thatâs the only way you can say for certain who he was now. Iâll leave you to it, gentlemen.â
With a certain unwillingness, Jack walked past the two policemen on duty in the hall and pushed open the door of the room. An angry buzzing met his ears. There was a stomach-churning smell composed partly of dust, damp and disinfectant but chiefly, and sickeningly, of decay. Itâs only a dead man, he told himself firmly.
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