Cribb was decent enough to congratulate Thackeray on finding out that Razor Bill was a Russian called Vladimir. He said the interpreter had made no headway at all. “He tried all of his nine languages. The only response he got was when Bill spat on his shoes.”
“But we have got the right man, sarge?”
“I’m sure we’ve got the right man.”
“Is he mad?”
“No, I’ve come to the conclusion that he’s clever. He was caught in the act, so he’s got no way of talking himself out of it. By saying nothing, he opens a chink of doubt. But we know something he doesn’t.”
“What’s that?”
“He doesn’t know we know he’s a Russian called Vladimir.”
“Speaking of a chink of doubt, sarge, there was something the reverend said that made me uneasy.” Thackeray explained about Eli Mountjoy’s suggestion that someone else might have carried out one of the murders.
Cribb was intrigued. “Did he have a reason for this theory?”
“No.”
“It’s a strange thing to suggest.”
“He did say something about the women being too scared to walk the streets while Bill was at large. He said they’d all come back to Pimlico now.”
“He’s right about that. I think I’d better meet your clergyman. What’s his address?”
Thackeray had to admit he hadn’t enquired.
“No matter,” Cribb said. “He’s a local. We’ll find him.”
The same evening they called at the Terminus Wash-house in Lupus Street and met Mrs Lettice Mountjoy. She was sitting inside the entrance with a pile of folded towels on a table beside her. There was also a large urn of soup simmering over a paraffin burner. She was about forty-five, slim, with a lined face. She was wearing a white pinafore over a black dress.
“Is this where the sins are washed clean?” Cribb asked.
“Ladies only, I’m afraid,” Mrs Mountjoy said.
“Gentlemen sinners need not apply?”
“It’s the rules,” she said without a smile. “The mission hires the bath from ten o’clock until two. We aren’t permitted mixed use.”
“I understand,” Cribb said. “You are Mrs Lettice Mountjoy? We’re police, wanting a word with your husband.”
“Oh, dear.”
He held up his hand. “It’s all right. He’s been helping us over these murders. He’s a public-spirited man, your husband.”
“He’s more than that,” she said with animation. “He’s a saviour.”
“And are they saved for good, or do they go back on the streets after the bath and the soup?”
She looked upset by the suggestion. “It’s permanent in almost every case. He’s very persuasive.”
“And let’s not underestimate your part in the process. Has he brought any in tonight?”
“Not yet, but he will.”
“We’ll wait, then. He’s on the streets every night, is he?”
“Except Sundays.”
“So in the past three weeks, when these horrible murders were happening, he’s carried on as usual, out every night saving souls?”
“There were three days last week, Monday to Wednesday, when he was unable to do it. He was suffering from a bad cough.”
“So he spent those nights at home inhaling friar’s balsam?”
“He was at home, yes.”
Tuesday was the night the fourth victim, Mary Smith, had been killed in Buckingham Palace Road.
There was not long to wait. Out of the mist came a hansom cab, and from it stepped the Reverend Mountjoy looking so worthy of his calling that a halo wouldn’t have been out of place. He helped down a young woman heavily rouged and in a fur jacket. His wife greeted her charitably and handed her a bar of carbolic soap and a clean towel and took her into the bath-house.
Cribb introduced himself. “I want to clarify something you said to Constable Thackeray here.”
“By all means.”
“You suggested someone other than Razor Bill might have carried out the fourth murder.”
“I floated the possibility, no more,” Mountjoy said. “It seemed to me that if some person were disposed to kill one of these unfortunate women, they might adopt the same modus operandi as the murderer in the expectation that Razor Bill would be blamed for the crime.”
“It’s an ingenious idea,” Cribb said. “Do you have any reason for believing it happened?”
He hesitated. “Nothing tangible.”
“As a religious man, you’d owe it to the One Above to tell me everything, wouldn’t you?”
Now the Reverend Mountjoy coloured deeply. “It’s no more than a theory, sergeant. I’m a pastor, not a policeman.”
“Did you know any of these unfortunate women who were killed?”
“Only one. The latest.”
Thackeray said, “Strike a light!”
“Don’t misunderstand me. I didn’t know her as, em—”
“In the Old Testament sense?” Cribb said.
“Gracious, no. I knew her at arm’s length, as a sinner I tried to save. Some, unhappily, will not be persuaded whatever I say. Some, a few, give promise of redemption and then back-slide.”
“They take the bath and the clean towel without meaning to reform?”
“Who can say what they truly intend?”
“Was the fourth victim, Mary Smith, a back-slider?”
“Regrettably, yes.”
“That must be a savage blow.”
“A kick in the teeth,” Thackeray added.
“But I wouldn’t have wished her to suffer, if that’s what you’re thinking.”
“Far from it, sir. To change the subject, I was wondering if my constable and I might be permitted a look inside the bath-house.”
“Absolutely not,” Mountjoy said in a shocked tone. “That young woman will be in a state of nature by now.”
“I wouldn’t trouble yourself about that,” Cribb said. “In her profession she’s used to being seen by all and sundry.”
“It would be improper.”
Cribb smiled. “It’s our immortal souls you’re concerned about, isn’t it?”
He spread his hands. “You are God’s creatures, too. If you must see inside — and I can’t understand why it’s necessary — you can come back at two after midnight, when we leave the premises.”
“As you wish.”
They watched Eli Mountjoy climb into the waiting cab for another rescue mission.
“We can just walk in,” Thackeray said.
“No, we’ll play his game,” Cribb said. “Let’s find somewhere to eat. I don’t like the smell of this soup.”
They returned at two, when the streets were more quiet. The Reverend Mountjoy was waiting while his wife washed the soup bowls.
“How many did you save tonight?” Cribb asked.
“Three, if the Lord pleases.”
“Good going. Can we look inside now?”
“Certainly. There’s no one in there.”
Cribb insisted that the couple came in with them, so Mountjoy led the way and turned up the gas for a proper view of the interior. The air was still steamy, and wasn’t the sweetest to inhale. To the left was a row of wash basins, each with a simple mirror over it. Opposite were the bathrooms. Cribb glanced inside the one that had been used for the mission and immediately turned away. The wash basins interested him more.
“It brings it all back,” he said. “When I started out in the police, I lived in a section-house without running water. Used a wash-house like this as a daily practice. Penny a wash and shave, twopence for a second-class bath, which was a once-a-week treat.”
“Have you seen enough?” Mountjoy asked, impatient with the reminiscing.
“Not quite. I’m picturing this place in the morning, full of working men standing at the basins shaving. Do you own a razor, sir? No, you wouldn’t, with such a fine beaver as yours. For a clean-shaven man like me, a razor is an everyday object. I keep mine beside the kitchen sink at home. But in those days I’d leave it in the wash-house after my shave, tucking it out of sight above the basin. There were ventilation windows over the mirrors just like these.” He reached up and ran his hand along the ledge under the window. “Dusty.”