‘He might have hidden something,’ murmured Harry.

‘Don’t think so. We even looked up the chimney.’

‘Did you raise the floorboards?’

‘Captain, we had our man. And look at the floorboards. Not obviously haven’t any of them been raised in years but neither have they been cleaned in years. I hate the smell in these lice-infested tenements. It sticks to my clothes. Let’s go.’

‘A few minutes.’

‘Then I’ll wait downstairs in the motor with your man. Don’t be long.’

Harry stood, gazing about him. The roar of the traffic on the Mile End Road reverberated through the little room: the clop of horses’ hooves, the growl of brewers’ drays, the rumble of omnibuses and the curses of drivers.

He looked thoughtfully at the coal scuttle. Odd to see a scuttle full of coal in such an impoverished room. But Jeffrey had found enough money to go to France and follow them to Scotland. Perhaps he had pawned some of the jewels he had stolen from his sister.

The landlord appeared in the doorway. ‘Finished?’

‘No,’ said Harry crossly. ‘Go away. No, wait a minute. I’m surprised you have supplied a full scuttle of coal.’

‘That was Mr Biles’s. I meant to take it away but the new tenant, he says to leave it, and since no one else wanted to rent a room where a murderer had been living, I had to promise to let him have the coal.’

‘Good. Go away and don’t come back until I call you.’

Harry waited until he heard the landlord’s feet descending the staircase and then he began to lift the coal out piece by piece and lay it on the floor. At the bottom of the coal scuttle was a tin box.

Harry went to the window and threw it up and called down to Kerridge. ‘You’d better get up here quickly.’

When Kerridge arrived, Harry said, ‘I’ve found this box. It was under the coal. I want you as witness when I open it.’ He wiped the coal dust from his hands with a handkerchief, lifted the box out and took it to the table.

‘It’s locked,’ he said. He took out a lock pick and worked away until the lid sprang open.

On top lay a sapphire necklace and a ruby necklace. ‘Those are the items that were missing from his sister’s jewel box,’ said Kerridge. Harry lifted them out. Underneath were photographs of Jeffrey and his sister, two East End children. There was a photograph of a grocer’s shop with a stern-looking man standing in front of it. ‘That must be the father,’ said Harry. ‘Is he dead?’

‘Yes, died some time ago.’

‘And what’s this?’

Harry took out a folded piece of paper. He gently unfolded it. In a large round hand was written, ‘This is the Last Will and Testament of Elizabeth Biles, 19 Sordey Street, Whitechapel. I leave everything I have to my dear brother, Jeffrey.’ It was signed and dated and witnessed. The date showed that Dolores had probably written it just before she fled to France.