CHAPTER VII
[THE OTHER WHITE ROOM]
Coleridge Lane, Hampstead, was named after the great poet, who had once resided in the neighbourhood. If he lived in this special locality, he could not have found it congenial to his Muse, for the crooked, winding, sloping passage could hardly be called a lane, much less a road. Also, it was damp by reason of the ancient trees that nearly met overhead. On either side were small cottages standing amidst weedy gardens, the survivals of a far-off age, when a wide view and careful drainage were not considered as necessary to any human habitation. An air of melancholy hung over the place, and only because the rents were low did the cottages contain tenants.
Before the gate of one of these cottages stood Inspector Derrick one summer's morning. He was in private clothes, and looked, as usual, smart and alert. With a sharp look on his stern face he stared at the damp, discoloured walls of the cottage, which matched with a moss-grown thatched roof. Yet, in spite of the apparent decay of the house, there was evidence that the occupier had some idea of tidiness and comfort. The garden was well weeded, and filled with homely cottage flowers now in full bloom. A green-painted fence divided the garden from the lane, and there was a narrow gate which bore the name "Fairy Lodge." The windows were draped with lace curtains tied with smart pink ribbons. The brass door-knocker was well polished, and the step thoroughly whitewashed. Apparently the landlord would not, and the tenant could not, renovate the cottage, but much had been done to render it a little less melancholy than the neighbouring houses.
Derrick stood enjoying the cool breeze and sunshine on that bright morning, and wondering if the person he had appointed to meet him there would come. It was already five minutes past the hour of eleven, so the person was late. But even while the inspector looked at his watch, the individual appeared. He was an old man, thin and weather-worn, dressed in shabby clothes, and looking as though he had not enough to eat. He appeared to be almost as shabby as the neighbourhood, and hobbled towards Derrick coughing, and limping with the aid of a stout stick. As soon as he came within eyeshot--for his sight did not seem to be good--he halted mistrustfully. Derrick, guessing that he was the man who was to meet him, advanced. "You are Mr. Webb?" said he briskly.
"I might be," returned the old fellow cautiously, "if you are Mr. Derrick I wrote to at a certain place."
"I am Inspector Derrick, and I come in answer to your letter about Mrs. Brand and the White Room."
"Will there be any reward for my setting the police on the track?" asked Webb cunningly.
"Well, I can hardly say. Mr. Fane, in whose house this woman was murdered, promised to recompense me should I discover anything likely to lead to the detection of the assassin. I dare say he will give me a hundred pounds."
"Halves," said the old man, coughing, "or I don't let you in."