‘IT’S a singler story, sir,’ said Inspector Wield, of the Detective
Police, who, in company with Sergeants Dornton and Mith, paid us another
twilight visit, one July evening; ‘and I’ve been thinking you might like
to know it.
‘It’s concerning the murder of the young woman, Eliza Grimwood, some
years ago, over in the Waterloo Road. She was commonly called The
Countess, because of her handsome appearance and her proud way of
carrying of herself; and when I saw the poor Countess (I had known her
well to speak to), lying dead, with her throat cut, on the floor of her
bedroom, you’ll believe me that a variety of reflections calculated to
make a man rather low in his spirits, came into my head.
‘That’s neither here nor there. I went to the house the morning after
the murder, and examined the body, and made a general observation of the
bedroom where it was. Turning down the pillow of the bed with my hand, I
found, underneath it, a pair of gloves. A pair of gentleman’s dress
gloves, very dirty; and inside the lining, the letters TR, and a cross.
‘Well, sir, I took them gloves away, and I showed ’em to the magistrate,
over at Union Hall, before whom the case was. He says, “Wield,” he says,
“there’s no doubt this is a discovery that may lead to something very
important; and what you have got to do, Wield, is, to find out the owner
of these gloves.”
‘I was of the same opinion, of course, and I went at it immediately. I
looked at the gloves pretty narrowly, and it was my opinion that they had
been cleaned. There was a smell of sulphur and rosin about ’em, you
know, which cleaned gloves usually have, more or less. I took ’em over
to a friend of mine at Kennington, who was in that line, and I put it to
him. “What do you say now? Have these gloves been cleaned?” “These
gloves have been cleaned,” says he. “Have you any idea who cleaned
them?” says I. “Not at all,” says he; “I’ve a very distinct idea who
didn’t clean ’em, and that’s myself. But I’ll tell you what, Wield,
there ain’t above eight or nine reg’lar glove-cleaners in London,”—there
were not, at that time, it seems—“and I think I can give you their
addresses, and you may find out, by that means, who did clean ’em.”
Accordingly, he gave me the directions, and I went here, and I went
there, and I looked up this man, and I looked up that man; but, though
they all agreed that the gloves had been cleaned, I couldn’t find the
man, woman, or child, that had cleaned that aforesaid pair of gloves.
‘What with this person not being at home, and that person being expected
home in the afternoon, and so forth, the inquiry took me three days. On
the evening of the third day, coming over Waterloo Bridge from the Surrey
side of the river, quite beat, and very much vexed and disappointed, I
thought I’d have a shilling’s worth of entertainment at the Lyceum
Theatre to freshen myself up. So I went into the Pit, at half-price, and
I sat myself down next to a very quiet, modest sort of young man. Seeing
I was a stranger (which I thought it just as well to appear to be) he
told me the names of the actors on the stage, and we got into
conversation. When the play was over, we came out together, and I said,
“We’ve been very companionable and agreeable, and perhaps you wouldn’t
object to a drain?” “Well, you’re very good,” says he; “I shouldn’t
object to a drain.” Accordingly, we went to a public-house, near the
Theatre, sat ourselves down in a quiet room up-stairs on the first floor,
and called for a pint of half-and-half, apiece, and a pipe.
‘Well, sir, we put our pipes aboard, and we drank our half-and-half, and
sat a-talking, very sociably, when the young man says, “You must excuse
me stopping very long,” he says, “because I’m forced to go home in good
time. I must be at work all night.” “At work all night?” says I. “You
ain’t a baker?” “No,” he says, laughing, “I ain’t a baker.” “I thought
not,” says I, “you haven’t the looks of a baker.” “No,” says he, “I’m a
glove-cleaner.”
‘I never was more astonished in my life, than when I heard them words
come out of his lips. “You’re a glove-cleaner, are you?” says I. “Yes,”
he says, “I am.” “Then, perhaps,” says I, taking the gloves out of my
pocket, “you can tell me who cleaned this pair of gloves? It’s a rum
story,” I says. “I was dining over at Lambeth, the other day, at a
free-and-easy—quite promiscuous—with a public company—when some
gentleman, he left these gloves behind him! Another gentleman and me,
you see, we laid a wager of a sovereign, that I wouldn’t find out who
they belonged to. I’ve spent as much as seven shillings already, in
trying to discover; but, if you could help me, I’d stand another seven
and welcome. You see there’s TR and a cross, inside.” “_I_ see,” he
says. “Bless you, _I_ know these gloves very well! I’ve seen dozens of
pairs belonging to the same party.” “No?” says I. “Yes,” says he.
“Then you know who cleaned ’em?” says I. “Rather so,” says he. “My
father cleaned ’em.”
‘“Where does your father live?” says I. “Just round the corner,” says
the young man, “near Exeter Street, here. He’ll tell you who they belong
to, directly.” “Would you come round with me now?” says I. “Certainly,”
says he, “but you needn’t tell my father that you found me at the play,
you know, because he mightn’t like it.” “All right!” We went round to
the place, and there we found an old man in a white apron, with two or
three daughters, all rubbing and cleaning away at lots of gloves, in a
front parlour. “Oh, Father!” says the young man, “here’s a person been
and made a bet about the ownership of a pair of gloves, and I’ve told him
you can settle it.” “Good evening, sir,” says I to the old gentleman.
“Here’s the gloves your son speaks of. Letters TR, you see, and a
cross.” “Oh yes,” he says, “I know these gloves very well; I’ve cleaned
dozens of pairs of ’em. They belong to Mr. Trinkle, the great
upholsterer in Cheapside.” “Did you get ’em from Mr. Trinkle, direct,”
says I, “if you’ll excuse my asking the question?” “No,” says he; “Mr.
Trinkle always sends ’em to Mr. Phibbs’s, the haberdasher’s, opposite his
shop, and the haberdasher sends ’em to me.” “Perhaps you wouldn’t object
to a drain?” says I. “Not in the least!” says he. So I took the old
gentleman out, and had a little more talk with him and his son, over a
glass, and we parted excellent friends.
‘This was late on a Saturday night. First thing on the Monday morning, I
went to the haberdasher’s shop, opposite Mr. Trinkle’s, the great
upholsterer’s in Cheapside. “Mr. Phibbs in the way?” “My name is
Phibbs.” “Oh! I believe you sent this pair of gloves to be cleaned?”
“Yes, I did, for young Mr. Trinkle over the way. There he is in the
shop!” “Oh! that’s him in the shop, is it? Him in the green coat?”
“The same individual.” “Well, Mr. Phibbs, this is an unpleasant affair;
but the fact is, I am Inspector Wield of the Detective Police, and I
found these gloves under the pillow of the young woman that was murdered
the other day, over in the Waterloo Road!” “Good Heaven!” says he.
“He’s a most respectable young man, and if his father was to hear of it,
it would be the ruin of him!” “I’m very sorry for it,” says I, “but I
must take him into custody.” “Good Heaven!” says Mr. Phibbs, again; “can
nothing be done?” “Nothing,” says I. “Will you allow me to call him
over here,” says he, “that his father may not see it done?” “I don’t
object to that,” says I; “but unfortunately, Mr. Phibbs, I can’t allow of
any communication between you. If any was attempted, I should have to
interfere directly. Perhaps you’ll beckon him over here?” Mr. Phibbs
went to the door and beckoned, and the young fellow came across the
street directly; a smart, brisk young fellow.
‘“Good morning, sir,” says I. “Good morning, sir,” says he. “Would you
allow me to inquire, sir,” says I, “if you ever had any acquaintance with
a party of the name of Grimwood?” “Grimwood! Grimwood!” says he. “No!”
“You know the Waterloo Road?” “Oh! of course I know the Waterloo Road!”
“Happen to have heard of a young woman being murdered there?” “Yes, I
read it in the paper, and very sorry I was to read it.” “Here’s a pair
of gloves belonging to you, that I found under her pillow the morning
afterwards!”
‘He was in a dreadful state, sir; a dreadful state I “Mr. Wield,” he
says, “upon my solemn oath I never was there. I never so much as saw
her, to my knowledge, in my life!” “I am very sorry,” says I. “To tell
you the truth; I don’t think you are the murderer, but I must take you to
Union Hall in a cab. However, I think it’s a case of that sort, that, at
present, at all events, the magistrate will hear it in private.”
‘A private examination took place, and then it came out that this young
man was acquainted with a cousin of the unfortunate Eliza Grimwood, and
that, calling to see this cousin a day or two before the murder, he left
these gloves upon the table. Who should come in, shortly afterwards, but
Eliza Grimwood! “Whose gloves are these?” she says, taking ’em up.
“Those are Mr. Trinkle’s gloves,” says her cousin. “Oh!” says she, “they
are very dirty, and of no use to him, I am sure. I shall take ’em away
for my girl to clean the stoves with.” And she put ’em in her pocket.
The girl had used ’em to clean the stoves, and, I have no doubt, had left
’em lying on the bedroom mantelpiece, or on the drawers, or somewhere;
and her mistress, looking round to see that the room was tidy, had caught
’em up and put ’em under the pillow where I found ’em.
That’s the story, sir.’