Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack glanced at Bill and silently shook his head. He might be a cynic, but he just didn’t believe her.

  ‘I think you did hear from him again though, didn’t you, Mrs Shilton?’ said Bill.

  She gave him a quick, frightened glance and shook her head. ‘No. That’s not true.’

  ‘Really, Mrs Shilton?’ asked Jack persuasively. ‘Surely you’ve seen him recently?’

  ‘No!’ She sat upright in her chair, obviously summoning up courage. ‘How dare you suggest such a thing?’ She gathered herself together. ‘I would remind you that this is my house and you are here by my invitation,’ she said, her voice trembling. ‘I am not accustomed to having my word doubted.’ She reached out her hand to the bell. ‘I think it is about time you left.’

  Bill hesitated for a long moment, then getting up, bowed slightly. ‘Very well, Mrs Shilton,’ he said with as much good grace as he could muster. ‘As you say, this is your house and I’m sure neither of us have any desire to upset you.’

  Jack stood up. There was nothing else for it. He caught Jenny’s apologetic expression and smiled. ‘There’s something I’d like to know though, before we push off.’ He looked at the brooch on the table. ‘It’s such a little case. You said the box it came in, the box the delivery man carried upstairs, was large.’

  ‘It was. I thought at first it must be a chair or a small table, although I hadn’t ordered anything of the sort.’

  ‘So whoever sent the brooch went to a lot of trouble putting it in a much bigger box. Why?’

  Jenny blinked at him. ‘I don’t know. I was so bowled over by the brooch and the note, I didn’t think of that. I just snatched up the case and came here, to show it to Aunty. It’s all very peculiar, I must say.’ She frowned. ‘It seems pointless.’

  ‘Unless the delivery man had a particular reason for wanting to see where you lived,’ said Jack. ‘A personal reason, perhaps?’

  Jenny looked bewildered. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘Maybe the delivery man wanted to see your room.’

  Jenny stared at him, then realisation struck her. ‘Of course! It’s obvious! If my father had just wanted to give me my mother’s brooch, he could have posted it. This way he could bring it himself.’ She turned to her aunt. ‘The man – the delivery man – he must have been my father! He didn’t just send the brooch, he was the delivery man who brought it.’ She drew her breath in. ‘He would want to see where I lived, wouldn’t he? No one else would want to.’

  ‘Jennifer,’ said her aunt with desperate warning.

  Jennifer turned an anxious face to her. ‘Don’t you see? It has to be him.’

  Mrs Shilton blanched. Much as she clearly disliked the idea, that was obviously the conclusion she had come to as well. ‘There is,’ she said repressively, ‘no need to speculate on the matter.’

  Jenny’s eyes widened. ‘He knows where I live.’ She looked at Bill anxiously. ‘That’s a bit scary.’

  Bill instinctively started forward, then stopped. ‘Miss Langton,’ he said seriously, ‘you will be careful, won’t you? Please, can I ask you not to answer any unexpected invitations? At least not without telling either myself or Major Haldean?’

  Mrs Shilton gave a squeal of outrage. ‘Mr Rackham, what are you implying? If this man, this delivery man, is my brother, which I do not for one moment believe, he would never harm Jennifer. The idea is utterly ridiculous.’

  Jenny Langton obviously didn’t think it was ridiculous. She had gone rather white. ‘I’ll be careful, Mr Rackham.’ She shot a glance at Mrs Shilton and added quietly, ‘I can’t forget what I saw in the garden.’

  ‘Enough!’ said Mrs Shilton imperiously. ‘Gentlemen, please leave.’

  ‘Just one more thing,’ said Jack, as Edith came into the room in answer to the bell. ‘You might care to check your belongings when you get back to your room, Jenny. You might find something’s missing.’

  Jenny stared at him. ‘All right. I will. But he couldn’t have taken anything, not with the landlady there.’

  ‘That’s enough,’ said Mrs Shilton stiffly. ‘These gentlemen are leaving, Edith. Please show them out.’

  ‘Well,’ said Bill, as they walked away down Cannon Hill Lane towards the car, ‘talk about being sent away with a flea in your ear. I hope to God that Miss Langton does take my advice.’

  ‘Don’t worry, Bill. The poor girl was really rattled, despite having Mrs Shilton tell her how wonderful her father is.’

  Bill gave a snort of disgust. ‘Mrs Shilton knows a damn sight more than she should if you ask me. Jack, that delivery man has to have been Trevelyan, doesn’t he?’

  ‘It’s hard to think who else it could’ve been.’

  Bill shook his head in disbelief. ‘But Jack, Trevelyan’s been hidden for twenty years! What the devil’s he playing at? Why on earth has he turned up now?’

  ‘Because Jenny’s turned up,’ said Jack. ‘He’s bound to be curious about her.’

  Bill swore under his breath. ‘He’s taking a hell of a risk.’

  ‘Was he? Why should Jennifer Langton’s landlady think he was anything other than a helpful delivery man?’

  ‘Yes, dammit, you’re right. Speaking of the landlady, I’d better interview her before I’m much older.’

  ‘Are you going to see her now?’

  ‘I might as well. I want to get all the details she can remember while they’re still fresh in her mind. Do you want to come?’

  Jack hesitated. ‘I think I’d better go home. Drop in this evening and let me know how you got on.’

  ‘Thanks. I will.’ Bill gave an irritated sigh. ‘Not that I imagine she’ll be able to tell us much we don’t already know. I hate this business, Jack. If you’re right, and Trevelyan really is Jane Davenham’s new boyfriend, God only knows what’s happened to her. Nothing good, at a guess.’ He swallowed hard. ‘I hope Miss Langton remembers what she promised about being careful. But I say again, why’s he reappeared now? He’s kept his head down for years.’

  ‘It has to be because of Jenny Langton. After all, she’s only just found out who she really is. Despite what Mrs Shilton said, like you, I’m sure she’s in contact with him. She’d be certain to tell him all about it. It probably awoke all sorts of feelings in him. He could easily find out from her where Jennifer lived and when she would be at work.’

  ‘That’s not a nice thought. I wish we had proof, Jack,’ he added in exasperation. ‘I’ve guessed that Mrs Shilton is in touch with her brother, but I can’t prove it.’

  They reached the car. Bill paused with his hand on the door. ‘Why do you think Mrs Shilton knows where her brother is?’

  ‘For the same reasons as you do. I thought her reactions were very telling to this delivery man stunt for a start. He might have gone to Australia years ago but he’s back now and no mistake. She knows. I’ll tell you something else, too. When Betty, Jennifer Langton and I saw Mrs Shilton for the first time, although Mrs Shilton was very keen to tell us Trevelyan was innocent, she was dead against Jenny’s idea that we should investigate. She said she didn’t want to stir up the unwelcome publicity that she had suffered from years ago. That might be true, but I think it’s at least as likely that she wanted to keep her brother safely out of sight.’

  ‘That’s a dangerous game she’s playing. I’m going to recommend that we keep an eye on Mrs Shilton’s house.’

  Jack pulled a face. ‘It’s an obvious precaution, but it’d be risky for Trevelyan to turn up as himself. That girl Edith would be bound to gossip.’

  ‘He doesn’t seem to mind risk,’ grunted Bill. ‘To be honest, I’m doubtful it’ll come to anything, but it’s something I can do. I can’t question Mrs Shilton without proof, as much as I’d like to. There’s such a thing as Judges’ Rules, but if he does show up, we’ve got him.’

  TWELVE

  ‘That’s probably Bill,’ said Jack as the doorbell rang. ‘I told you I’d asked him to drop in.’

  ‘So you did, darling,’ s
aid Betty, putting down her coffee cup.

  The door opened and Kathleen, the maid, showed in not just Bill but Jenny Langton as well.

  ‘We met on the doorstep,’ explained Bill cheerfully. ‘My word, that coffee smells good.’

  ‘Can we have two more cups, please, Kathleen,’ said Betty. ‘It’s nice to see you, Jenny.’ She looked at her quizzically. ‘Is everything all right? You look a bit flustered.’

  ‘There’s nothing much wrong, but I wanted to talk to Jack. I hope you don’t mind me dropping in unannounced.’

  ‘Of course not. Come and sit down and you can talk to Jack as much as you like. He doesn’t charge for it,’ she added with a smile. ‘Is coffee all right or would you like something stronger?’

  ‘Coffee for me, please,’ said Jenny.

  Jack gestured to Bill to follow him to the sideboard. ‘I’m sure you can manage a whisky and splash as well as a coffee,’ he said, then added quietly, ‘you saw the landlady?’

  Bill nodded.

  ‘Is it okay to talk? With Jenny here?’

  ‘Yes, there’s nothing much we didn’t already know.’

  Kathleen brought in the two extra cups and Betty poured the coffee. ‘What is it, Jenny?’ she asked. ‘Has anything happened?’

  Jenny shook her head. ‘Not really, but it was something Jack said this afternoon. You know about the delivery man, Betty?’

  ‘Yes, Jack told me.’

  ‘Well, it was quite a shock when Jack pointed out that the delivery man more or less had to be my father.’ She looked at Jack ruefully. ‘Aunty Gwyn thought so too. She hadn’t worked it out until you said so. She thinks, though, that it was actually very sweet of him, to want to see where I lived and to give me my mother’s brooch.’

  ‘Do you think it’s sweet of him?’ asked Betty.

  Jenny hesitated. ‘Not really. I’m glad to have the brooch but I wish he hadn’t done it. I don’t like it. I hate this feeling of being followed. It’s … it’s unsettling.’

  ‘I’ll say so,’ said Bill with feeling.

  ‘I wouldn’t mind so much if he had posted the brooch to me,’ she continued, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’d have liked that, but the thought of him being in my room … Anyway,’ she said, sitting up straight. ‘I remembered what you said, Jack, to have a look and see if anything was missing. I couldn’t see anything at first, but you were absolutely right. I had a framed photo of Martin, Eric and me in the garden at home. It’s gone. It was on my bookcase but it’s gone. It has to be him who’s taken it. No one else would want it.’

  ‘But how could he have taken it?’ asked Betty. ‘Surely your landlady didn’t leave him alone in your room? He could’ve looted the place.’

  ‘I asked her that,’ said Jenny. ‘Apparently the doorbell rang and she had to go and answer it.’

  ‘That was very convenient,’ said Jack slowly. He looked at Bill. ‘Do you know about this?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Yes, I do. And guess what, there was no one at the door.’

  ‘She just imagined a ring at the doorbell, you mean?’

  ‘Apparently the delivery man imagined it. It took a bit of doing to get the story out of her, as she thought it was completely unimportant. It was the delivery man who said he’d heard a ring at the door and she went to check it. She didn’t think anything much of it, because by the time she’d got to the front door and opened it, the delivery man was coming down the stairs.’

  ‘That doesn’t seem to get us very far,’ said Jack. ‘Can she describe him?’

  ‘She said he seemed very cheerful and obliging, but with very dark skin and hair. She wondered if he was foreign, at first, but he spoke like a cockney. He had a beard, apparently.’

  ‘I bet he did,’ said Jack.

  Jenny looked puzzled. ‘He was wearing a false beard,’ translated Betty. ‘That’s what you mean, isn’t it, Jack?’

  Jack nodded. ‘It doesn’t add up to much, does it, Bill? Dark skin, dark hair – both out of a bottle, I bet – and a beard which could be bought at any tuppenny ha’penny joke shop.’

  ‘Add a cockney accent – assumed, I suppose – brown overalls and a black cap, and there you have it. It’s not much but it’s a good disguise. I had a look at the box, but it’s just an ordinary packing case. I’ve got the box but I don’t think it can tell us anything. Miss Langton’s name and address was typed on a pasted slip, but that was all.’

  ‘How was the parcel carried?’ asked Jack. ‘Was it brought in a van or on a bicycle or what?’

  ‘There was a van,’ said Bill. ‘That’s the only thing that might amount to a possible lead, if you can call it that. We’ve checked the local hire companies and no one hired out a van to any but a regular customer. We haven’t had any reports of a van stolen or missing, so it looks as if he might own it. The landlady saw the van but didn’t notice if there was any name written on it.’

  Jenny shuddered. ‘I don’t like it. I know what Aunt Gwyn says, but I hate the thought he’s been in my room.’

  She pulled deeply on her cigarette. ‘Jack, there’s something I want to ask you. I read in the newspaper about this poor woman, this Mrs Rotherwell, who’s disappeared. Is she the same Mrs Rotherwell who wrote to Aunt Gwyn? The Mrs Rotherwell you met?’

  Jack exchanged glances with Bill and nodded reluctantly. ‘Yes, she is. As a matter of fact, both Bill and I met her.’

  ‘And she’s disappeared?’ said Jenny sharply. She looked at the two men with sudden apprehension. ‘You met her because you were trying to help me. Did she have anything to do with my father?’

  Jack hesitated before answering. He had warned Betty about saying too much to Jenny Langton. The connection with Michael Trevelyan had not been made in the press and he didn’t want to give away anything the police would rather keep to themselves.

  ‘It’s all right, Jack,’ said Bill. ‘I think Miss Langton should know the whole story.’ He looked at Jenny. ‘I’m going to tell you everything we know. It’s not just Mrs Rotherwell, there’s a Mrs Davenham as well. Especially after this incident with the brooch, I think it’s too dangerous for you not to know. I want you to be on your guard.’

  ‘But that’s horrible!’ said Jenny, who had listened in mounting horror to Bill’s account. ‘Both of those women had people who cared about them. Mrs Rotherwell had a family. Her son and his wife are expecting a baby. They sound really nice people.’ She gulped. ‘I only hope they’re both found soon.’

  ‘So do I,’ agreed Bill fervently. ‘We’re doing as much as we can. We’ve had a big response from the missing persons appeal concerning Mrs Rotherwell in the newspapers. You never know. One of those reports might turn up trumps yet.’

  It was two days later. Mr Harold Royston-Jones, of 5, Summer’s Court off Wigmore Street, contentedly enjoying his evening pipe and whisky, skimmed through the Evening Standard. He glanced at the picture of Mrs Amelia Rotherwell, tutted sympathetically, and, with a contented sigh, turned to the racing results.

  It had been his wife’s idea to rent a pied-à-terre in London. It was actually, to his way of thinking, Westminster, but it could, with only a small stretch of his wife’s imagination, count as Mayfair.

  A splash of water fell on the report from Alexandra Park. He stared at it, puzzled. Water? What the dickens …? Another larger splash fell.

  Pipe in mouth, he glanced up, then, with a cry of alarm, pushed his chair over and staggered backwards, out from under the bulging ceiling.

  ‘Evelyn!’ he bellowed.

  His wife appeared at the sitting-room door, then gazed in horror as, with a deafening noise, the entire ceiling collapsed in a ferocious deluge of water, wood and plaster.

  Then came a creaking and grinding as more planks splintered, collapsed and fell. Time seemed to slow down as part of a bath crunched through the ceiling and hung crazily through the plaster.

  With a stifled yelp, Evelyn Royston-Jones put her hand to her mouth.

  A sodden grey mass flung out its arms and
fell from the bath onto the debris below.

  And then she saw the face and screamed.

  ‘I think,’ said Bill over the telephone, ‘that we’ve found Mrs Rotherwell. ‘It’s 5, Summer’s Court, off Wigmore Street.’

  Jack hardly liked to ask, but he did so anyway. ‘Is she dead?’

  ‘Very.’

  Bill met Jack at the door to Summer’s Court. ‘It was actually the tenants of the flat below that gave the alarm,’ he explained, as they walked up the stairs. ‘That’s a Mr and Mrs Royston-Jones. He was reading the paper, poor bloke, when the ceiling collapsed in a flood above him.’

  ‘A flood?’

  ‘Yep. Water everywhere, to say nothing of wood, plaster, you name it. The mess is incredible and it stinks to high heaven. What also came through the ceiling was the bath – and in the bath there was the body.’

  Jack winced. ‘Was she drowned?’

  ‘That’s something only the post-mortem can discover, but she’d certainly been in the bath for days, poor woman.’

  ‘Was she dressed?’

  Bill nodded. ‘Yes. Fully dressed.’

  No one would get into a bath fully clothed, thought Jack. That made it murder.

  They reached the door of number 5. ‘Prepare yourself,’ warned Bill. ‘It’s nasty.’

  It was.

  The first thing that struck him was the smell, a stink of wet plaster and rotten wood. Hand to his mouth, he eased himself into the crowded room.

  Among the policemen and the attendants from the morgue, Jack recognised Dr Roude, the police surgeon, arms crossed, bag at his side, waiting for the photographer to finish.

  Jack looked at the body sprawled on the rubble with a sinking heart. He’d seen men drowned in shell holes in the war, but this was the first time he’d ever seen a drowned woman. The sight turned his stomach. The swollen, bloated flesh was beyond recognition, but the grey coat was Mrs Rotherwell’s, sure enough.

  The photographer crouched on the floor and the flash gun blazed. ‘I think that’s all we need, sir,’ he said, getting to his feet and looking at Bill.