Shroud of Darkness

by E. C. R. Lorac

  “What do the railway chaps say?”

  “They can’t be definite. The probability is that he fell out of a stopping train on the local line and was half stunned, then he was hit and thrown clear by an outgoing express on the main line—but the converse may as well be true. He was found by a linesman around nine o’clock: it was scarcely light then, one of those perishing dark mornings when nobody’s fool enough to look out of a railway window and they wouldn’t see anything if they did.”

  “Ticket in his pocket?”

  “Return half to Reading, punched at Paddington. And nine-pence in coppers and a lot of betting slips and some pawn tickets, plus an envelope with a threatening letter in it. Name of Bert Lewis. He had a room in Lazenby Place, off Harrow Road. Owes three weeks’ rent and no assets. He’d pawned his other clothes, his cigarette case, his watch and his best shoes. So there we are. When he last had a square meal is anybody’s guess—and they found a door unlatched on the slow train to Reading.”

  Macdonald listened to Reeves’s staccato statements, filling in all the implications for himself and considering the omissions. The two men knew one another so well that there was seldom any need for explanations between them.

  “I take it his face is too damaged to be identifiable?” said Macdonald.

  Reeves nodded. “His own mother might know him: I doubt if anybody else would. The surgeons are tidying up what’s left in the hope of making it easier, but his face was properly mucked up. He might be anybody—as his landlord said when asked to oblige.”

  Again they sat silent for a moment. “It’s a matter of tying it up, your lot and mine,” said Reeves at length. “It may be there’s two lots of trouble. There’s this chap in the mortuary, who’s almost certainly the chap who squirmed under the trolley. My own guess is that he’s connected with the Reading rowdies. He was broke, couldn’t pay the bookies, and came back to London on the lookout for anything he could grab, win, or scrounge. Realised there was a row going on as he came out of Paddington Station and squirmed under a trolley to listen. In that sense he connects up with Waterloo—sorry, young Greville—but may be only as a witness. Wouldn’t you say that if you play welsher to a tough lot of bookies, anything may happen to you—from getting quodded for forging cheques, to getting tipped out of a train on a dark morning?”

  Macdonald nodded. “Yes. I’d also say that if you happened to witness a murder and tried to cash in on your knowledge, there’s also a fair chance you might be tipped out of a train. What are the chances of getting any information about him?”

  “Pretty thin,” said Reeves. “Too many things have been happening: Barney O’Flynn under a lorry. Henry Brown coshed, and Bert Lewis on the permanent way. I’m pretty certain all three of them were at the Whistling Pig last night, but nobody’s going to remember anything about them without a little inducement.” Again he paused, and then asked: “Any chance that this young Greville did go crackers a bit, to the extent of getting mixed up in things that weren’t his usual line of country?”

  “It’s a possibility,” said Macdonald. “Salcombe ought to be able to help us there: if we give him time, he ought to be able to tell us quite a bit more—and there’s Dr. Garstang. He could tell us the probabilities about the workings of a troubled mind.”

  “Garstang,” murmured Reeves. “He studied in Vienna and practised in Berlin: quite an international reputation.”

  “What an industrious chap you are,” murmured Macdonald.

  “He’s in all the reference books,” said Reeves.

  “Well come on: what are you toying with now?” asked Macdonald.

  “I only wondered if there was a hundred-to-one chance that Greville had already consulted him,” said Reeves.

  Macdonald chuckled. “I’m prepared to consider it, but not tonight,” he said firmly. “I’ve got to come down and put the car away: shall I run you home?”

  “No, thanks. I’ll look in at C.O. and see if there’s anything else—and there’s always some chap on duty in a good car and nothing to do.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  SARAH DILLON lived on the St. John’s Wood side of Maida Vale, less than five minutes’ walk from Maida Vale tube station: she shared a ground-floor flat with Elizabeth Maine, a girl slightly senior to Sally, who had trained as a masseuse and worked in St. Monica’s Hospital. The house in which they had a flat was one of the old, stucco-covered mansions which had been “converted” into separate habitations. While there were some drawbacks in comparison with modem flats, the two girls had the advantage of one big, beautifully proportioned sitting room opening on to the garden, even if their bedrooms, kitchenette, and bathroom showed very plainly that they were sections of another big room and the passage which once ran between them. Both girls had some income of their own apart from the salaries they earned, and they lived very comfortably, the chores being done by a “daily,” the latter rather mutable characters, who came and went somewhat frequently.

  Three mornings after Sally had returned from Devonshire, Elizabeth came in to her breakfast (which consisted of orange juice), saying: “I’m afraid our Mittel-europa treasure isn’t all that, Sally. I’m pretty certain she rummaged through my belongings yesterday.”

  “Oh dear,” said Sally, “and she seemed so nice. I admit that I did wonder why such a pleasant and competent creature wanted to take on a humdrum job like ours—but she did have good references.”

  “They all do. It saves employers so much trouble to give a nice reference.”

  “What have you lost? Nylons?” asked Sally.

  “Oh no. I don’t think I’ve lost anything so far as I can tell: but I don’t like feeling that somebody snoops. Have you noticed anything, Sal?”

  “Well . . . it seems ridiculous, but since you’ve mentioned it I’ll go and look.”

  Sally jumped up and Elizabeth put in some time on her fingernails. She didn’t use colour on her nails—she considered it inappropriate for a masseuse—but she kept her hands exquisitely and took a lot of trouble with them. In appearance Elizabeth (known as Libby by her familiars) was a good foil to Sally: slender, dark, with a pointed, oval face, Italianate in colouring and the slight aquilinity of profile, Libby was beautiful in the eyes of those who admired a touch of the classic, but less pleasing to connoisseurs of the buxom. Also she was intelligent, but her analytical mind had been described as malicious by those who disliked her. You either liked Elizabeth or disliked her: Sally liked her, and found her a reliable and companionable housemate.

  “Well?” asked Elizabeth, when Sally came running back.

  “You’re perfectly right, Libby. Someone has been taking liberties. It seems so dotty: what do you think has gone from my room?”

  “At a guess—some face powder, not too much, likewise some Elizabeth Arden face cream, carefully spooned out, and a couple of cigarettes: moderation in all things for our Rosa.”

  “You’re quite wrong. It’s books. Three Penguins—all ‘bloods.’ ”

  “Well, that’s the latest; is she studying crime?”

  “I don’t quite like it,” said Sally slowly. “One of them was that boy’s—the boy in the train. It was on the table by my bed. When I went to bed last night I was dog-tired and I didn’t read, but I know that book was by my bed when I went out yesterday morning.”

  Elizabeth looked at her quizzically. “Sentiment, Sally—or something quite different?”

  “Quite different,” replied Sally. “I didn’t think of it at the time, but I suppose I ought to have told the Scotland Yard man I’d got that Penguin. You see, he—the boy, I mean—had scribbled in the back of it: odd names and bits of words, as though he were experimenting with sounds, or trying to remember. There wasn’t anything that made sense, at least not to me.” Elizabeth worked away carefully with her nail file. “It’s a bit queer,” she said. “Perhaps it wasn’t Rosa.”

  Sally put down her coffee cup and grimaced. “Oh, don’t let’s get dramatising it,” she protested.

  “
I don’t think I’m given to dramatics,” said Elizabeth, “but there’s something odd about the whole setup, isn’t there? When you told me a chief inspector from Scotland Yard had been asking questions, it did occur to me that it’s the Criminal Investigation Department which was getting busy, not the usual London bobbies who trot round about traffic accidents.”

  “I didn’t think about that—he seemed such a normal likeable person I suppose I took him for granted—and there was the fog,” said Sally.

  “I know,” said Elizabeth evenly, “but I think it mightn’t be a bad idea to ring up your chief inspector and tell him about the book. If it’s only Rosa it might do her a lot of good to be talked to by Scotland Yard. Besides, it’ll straighten things up so far as you’re concerned. I suppose you ought to have told him about that book.”

  “I should have if I’d remembered,” said Sally indignantly. “Well, you’ve remembered now. Oh Lord—it’s time I was pushing off. Are you feeling jittered about this, Sal? Would you rather I waited until you’ve said your piece over the phone?”

  “Heavens, no. I’ll do what you suggest, because I suppose I ought to, but I’ll bet it’s Rosa. You get on. I know I’m a country cousin, but I’m not really lacking.”

  Sally sat down and dialled Whitehall 1212 feeling a bit foolish. When she asked for Chief Inspector Macdonald she was asked in turn for her own name and address and then told to hold on, all in the most normal way in the world. A few seconds later another voice spoke to her—not Macdonald’s voice, but a kindly, homely, sensible voice which seemed to Sally to be that of an elderly man. “The chief inspector isn’t here at the moment, Miss Dillon. Would you care to leave a message?”

  “Oh . . . well, I saw Mr. Macdonald yesterday. It was about the boy who was in an accident at Paddington.”

  “Yes, yes,” said the fatherly-sounding man at the other end. “I know your name, and that your evidence was very helpful. Now I hope you’re not worried about anything.”

  “I am,” said Sally; “it’s mainly because I forgot to tell Mr. Macdonald something I ought to have told him. When I was in the train, that boy—Richard—lent me a book and said I could keep it. It was only a Penguin, so I did. And he’d scribbled some odd notes at the end.”

  “That’s excellent,” said the encouraging voice.

  “But it isn’t,” said Sally. “The book’s gone. Somebody’s taken it. We think it might be our daily woman. The girl who lives with me noticed somebody had been rummaging in her bedroom, and when I went to look in my room I found that three Penguins had disappeared. I expect it sounds pretty silly to you, but I thought I ought to let you know.”

  “Quite right. Very sensible of you,” came the approving answer. “Where are you speaking from, Miss Dillon? Are you at home?”

  “Yes, I am, but it’s time I went out to my job.”

  “Now don’t bother about your job for the moment. I think I can get hold of the chief inspector in a few minutes. He’ll want to hear about this. Will you promise to stay at home for another ten minutes? We’ll ring you again before the ten minutes is up.”

  “Well—if you say so,” said Sally.

  “Thank you very much, Miss Dillon.”

  Sally wandered back into her bedroom. It was a slip of a room and the tall window was cut in half by the partition which divided Sally’s room from Elizabeth’s. She looked again to make sure that the Penguins hadn’t got pushed behind anything, or fallen under the bed: Flowers for the fudge and Verdict of Twelve had been in the book trough on the mantelpiece, but they weren’t there now: The Franchise Affair had been on the table beside her bed, where she had put it when she unpacked her things that foggy night—Monday night. It was still there on Tuesday night because she had finished reading it and noticed the scribbles on the flyleaf at the end. It hadn’t occurred to her that they might have had any significance: she had been sleepy and had only thought how illegible the writing was. Last night—Wednesday—she and Libby had both gone out, and they had been talking till nearly midnight and Sally had gone to sleep without reading at all. She couldn’t remember if the book had been there or not the previous night. She opened the flap of her small writing bureau and studied the contents of the pigeonholes; it was quite tidy—Sally was a very tidy girl—but somehow it didn’t look quite right. The pattern seemed wrong, but before she could make up her mind what it was which looked unfamiliar, the telephone rang and she hurried into the sitting room to answer it.

  The voice was Macdonald’s this time: Sally recognised it at once with its Scots intonation, which was really no more than a particular distinctness of consonants.

  “Good morning, Miss Dillon. Thank you for letting us know about that book. I’ll come round and see you if I may; I can reach you in about a quarter of an hour.”

  “The only thing is that I ought to be on my way to Dr. Garstang’s. I’m late starting already. He likes getting his letters out of the way before patients arrive.”

  “I think the letters could wait for once,” said Macdonald. “I’ll have a message sent through to him that it’s my fault you’re delayed, so don’t worry. I’ll be with you quite shortly.”

  “All right,” said Sally, and then added in a rush: “I shall be so glad to see you. I still hope it’s only Rosa, but I don’t like it very much.”

  “Now don’t start worrying. We’ll see to it,” said Macdonald.

  2

  It was less than a quarter of an hour before the chief inspector rang the bell and Sally had made her bed, tidied her room, and put the breakfast things away. (Sally liked porridge and an egg to start the day on: she had no patience with orange juice only for breakfast.) Macdonald came and sat down in the sitting room, gave Sally a cigarette, and listened to her story.

  “Can you remember at all what was written in that book?” he asked, but she shook her head.

  “I don’t think I can. It wasn’t words—not a sentence or anything: more likely a name. You know when you can’t remember a name how you get an idea that it begins with a particular letter—though you’re often wrong about the letter—and you fumble in your mind, trying to sort sounds out. It looked as though he’d been trying to do that on paper.”

  “Yes. That’s very descriptive,” said Macdonald. “Now Dr. Garstang said you were a visualiser. I am too, to some extent, so I know just what he means. Will you take a piece of paper sometime and try scribbling on it to see if you can reproduce the shapes you saw?”

  “Yes. I’ll try—but I don’t think it registered, not consciously, anyhow.” She paused, and then asked: “Is it important?”

  “I don’t know: I’ve no means of telling, but I should have liked to have the opportunity of judging,” said Macdonald.

  “Have you found out who he is?” asked Sally.

  “Yes,” replied Macdonald. “I’m quite willing to tell you about him. provided you’ll promise not to repeat what I say: I mean not repeat it to anybody, however trustworthy you know them to be, because if you repeat a thing once it becomes very easy to repeat it again.”

  ‘Til promise: I won’t even tell Libby,” said Sally.

  “Very well. His name is Richard Greville and his home is up on the moor towards Princetown. It was what you told me that enabled us to trace him so easily. The farm where he lives is so remote that they don’t get a daily paper and their radio is an old battery set which often runs down. Greville had recently finished his National Service and was intending to go on to Reading University to study agriculture. He had been at a good grammar school and is an intelligent lad, I gather.”

  “That all fits,” said Sally, “but it doesn’t explain why he seemed so queer.”

  “As a small boy he lost his memory, probably due to experience of the Plymouth blitz,” said Macdonald, “and his people think his memory was coming back, not as a whole, but in odd bits, and it worried him. I haven’t time to tell you the whole story, but that’s enough to explain why you found him so troubled. But there’s one thing I think
you’ve got to be told. He wasn’t hurt by accident. He was deliberately attacked.”

  “Libby said it must be that—because the C.I.D. were on to it.”

  “Well, she was right. Now, about this book. Will you let me look round your flat on my own account?”

  “Yes. Of course.” Sally jumped up. “I’ll just show you which is my room.” She glanced at the clock. “It’s half-past nine. Rosa ought to be here. She’s supposed to work from quarter-past nine to quarter-past eleven—so perhaps it was Rosa.”

  She showed Macdonald the different doors: “My room, Libby’s room, kitchen-dining room, bathroom. That one’s a cupboard where we lock up anything we want to lock up, though we’ve neither of us got anything valuable. Now I’ll leave you to it. I shall be in the sitting room if you want me.”

  It took Macdonald a very few minutes to discover that if he had wanted to “effect an entrance” into this flat from the garden he could have done so quite easily. The catches on the windows would have given him no trouble. He looked round Sally’s neat little bedroom, examined some of her books, and found that they had all got her name written in them. The writing bureau was unfastened: she evidently didn’t keep many letters, but there was an address book, a small file of receipted bills and a few unpaid ones, neatly clipped together, in addition to writing paper, envelopes, and postcards. It was all very tidy, everything in its proper place—and consequently very easy to search. Elizabeth Maine’s room was also tidy: it was a severe room, no photographs in evidence, only one picture (a reproduction of a Dürer engraving). Elizabeth was definitely a selective person, mused Macdonald: her clothes were few but good: her shoes neatly treed, her stockings and nylon underwear in immaculate little piles. There was a bookcase holding some books pertaining to her work and a few novels—Jane Austen, Thomas Hardy, Charles Morgan, and Joseph Conrad.

  Macdonald again studied all the window catches carefully, but could find no sign of a forced entry, though one of the latches on a sash window was so loose that a thin knife could have been slipped between the sashes to force the catch back without leaving a mark.