Find the Innocent

by Roy Vickers

  Bello:

  hidden talent rediscovered!

  Bello is a digital only imprint of Pan Macmillan, established to breathe life into previously published classic books.

  At Bello we believe in the timeless power of the imagination, of good story, narrative and entertainment and we want to use digital technology to ensure that many more readers can enjoy these books into the future.

  We publish in ebook and Print on Demand formats to bring these wonderful books to new audiences.

  About Bello:

  www.panmacmillan.com/imprints/bello

  About the author:

  www.panmacmillan.com/author/royvickers

  Contents

  Roy Vickers

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Roy Vickers

  Find the Innocent

  Roy Vickers

  Roy Vickers was the author of over 60 crime novels and 80 short stories, many written under the pseudonyms Sefton Kyle and David Durham. He was born in 1889 and educated at Charterhouse School, Brasenose College, Oxford, and enrolled as a student of the Middle Temple. He left the University before graduating in order to join the staff of a popular weekly. After two years of journalistic choring, which included a period of crime reporting, he became editor of the Novel Magazine, but eventually resigned this post so that he could develop his ideas as a freelance. His experience in the criminal courts gave him a view of the anatomy of crime which was the mainspring of his novels and short stories. Not primarily interested in the professional crook, he wrote of the normal citizen taken unawares by the latent forces of his own temperament. His attitude to the criminal is sympathetic but unsentimental.

  Vickers is best known for his ‘Department of Dead Ends’ stories which were originally published in Pearson’s Magazine from 1934. Partial collections were made in 1947, 1949, and 1978, earning him a reputation in both the UK and the US as an accomplished writer of ‘inverted mysteries’. He also edited several anthologies for the Crime Writers’ Association.

  Chapter One

  The Peasebarrow Road winds for twenty-five miles between the tiny airfield of Diddington and the overgrowing town of Renchester. An old coach road, following the course of the river, says the guide book and claims for it certain scenic merits which we need not dispute. To the east, it says correctly, a low ridge conceals the village which has developed along a modern arterial road, leaving the Peasebarrow Road with “only one, solitary human habitation”— meaning the lock-keeper’s house.

  Considered as a road it is one of the least useful, least interesting roads in the country.

  But the newspapers did not consider it as a road when they came to give it national—and even international—publicity. They used the Peasebarrow Road much as the Victorian melodramas used the narrow strip between the curtain and the footlights to parade the characters of the play. One by one the cast would pass in front of the curtain, walking as if in a state of trance, while the stage manager bawled out a reminder of who was who and what he was up to, occasionally adding an arch hint as to what was going to happen.

  The first relevant person to pass along the Peasebarrow Road was William Brengast, owner and active head of WillyBee Products Ltd. It was a little after six on a very hot evening in June. He was driving alone in his own Daimler. He had just slithered out of Spain, flying himself by easy stages in his own helicopter—but in circumstances that were in no way discreditable to himself. On the contrary, at some inconvenience, he was complying with a request, made at Ministerial level, to return to England as unobtrusively as possible. At Diddington he had been met by an undefined official who had cut the routine of landing from a foreign country. All this was no small sacrifice on the part of a man who disliked being unobtrusive.

  Before he had travelled a mile along the Peasebarrow Road, WillyBee—as Brengast himself was universally nicknamed—became aware that he was suffering from an attack of ill-temper as a result of his wife having failed to meet him. He stopped, got out of the car and took three deep breaths, wordlessly repeating an incantation prescribed by an eminent psychiatrist. Then he resumed his journey, at peace with himself.

  He had never been on the Peasebarrow Road before, but he knew about “the one solitary human habitation”, knew the persons who were inhabiting it for the summer. They were three young men of his staff who were on a working holiday—for WillyBee was opening yet another factory, this time at Renchester, and they were superintending the installation of scientific apparatus. More than routine managers, they were in control of the research section—indeed, they had originated several of the most profitable of the products of WillyBee Products.

  As they came into his thoughts he felt sudden unease about a letter which he had caused them to receive that morning. Not for what he had said but for the way he had said it. They had jointly asked for a royalty to be paid to them on the sale of the inventions they produced. For which he was already paying them a very fair salary. His refusal had been too brusque.

  The road ran through a wood, curved and brought him in sight of the lockhouse. He might stop for a few minutes’ geniality with the three men. Technically, his own geniality was of a very high order. It was an asset to his business, so he had cultivated it in his own fashion by briefing a leading actor to train him in the routine of projecting the outward and visible signs of sincere good fellowship.

  As the lockhouse loomed ever nearer he began to suspect that sincere good fellowship might be misunderstood. It might even get a laugh. You never know—with these men. A scientist ought to be cool and dignified. These three were as temperamental and jumpy as artists. They had no respect for his position and would jabber at him like ribald lawyers. Perhaps it would be better to let ’em stew in their own juice for a bit and teach each other manners. Manners make the man. Do they? Anyhow they make him easy to handle, which these men were not. He started thinking indulgently about his wife.

  He knew she must have received his letter, sent to their London flat. She was twenty years younger than himself, vital and unusually good-looking. He concluded only that she had missed her train. No morbid fancies disturbed him. To doubt his wife would be to doubt himself. Youth calls to youth—daresay!—but there were always two sides to that sort of thing. Veronica was a good woman. And a good woman knows that it’s wicked to take risks with a rich husband.

  In Renchester his name was known but not his face. At the Red Lion Hotel he obtruded a little, by refusing to sign the register. In the manager’s office he produced papers and identified himself. The manager—intelligent fellow!—made the correct response.

  “Mr. William Brengast—of WillyBee Products! The town owes you something, sir, for the new factory. Just what we wanted to put us properly on the map!”

  “And you’re wondering why I won’t sign your register! I’ve just returned from Madrid. Tomorrow a new factory was to have been opened by the Minister of the Interior. There has been a palace revolution and Franco has put the Minister in clink. Our people don’t want a British company to be mixed up with it, so the Embassy asked me to slip out quietly and lie low until the morning papers are out tomorrow. After breakfast, you can cut out the cloak-and-dagger and I’ll sign the register.”

  After breakfast!

  “My wife will be here presently. She was to have met me but she’s evidently missed her train.”


  Veronica had not missed the train: she had taken a later one. She would be nearly two hours late—but as yet she did not know it. She was sharing a compartment with another expensive looking woman, older and comparatively plain but having an air of authority which Veronica admired. She had been very wintry when Veronica had ventured a pleasantry. Never mind! Veronica’s revenge might come at any moment, for the authoritative woman had provided herself with a copy of The Prattler—the glossy for wealthy people and people who love and admire wealthy people. Its household hints are applicable only to stately homes and its gardening notes assume the reader to own a landscape.

  In the current issue was a full page photograph, in colour, of Veronica.

  There was no particular reason for the photograph. The background truth was that wealthy people are no more photogenic than those of the lower income brackets. As the wealthy are few, the law of averages gives them a low total of beautiful women. Hence, The Prattler and its imitators could not afford to ignore Veronica. On her merits she could have competed with the professional beauties had there been any need for her to do so. Her photograph brightened up the social section and as there was nothing to say about her except that she was Mrs. William Brengast they would say it, thereby indirectly advertising WillyBee Products.

  Apart from her rich colouring, Veronica was pose-proof. No one could go wrong with the bone structure that would set artists doodling—the nose with the ghost of a tilt and the mouth that was very nearly too large. A slight camera consciousness caused her fastidious self-esteem to come out as something else—something of wider appeal than the fastidious self-esteem.

  At long last, the authoritative woman picked up the glossy and turned the pages. Veronica shifted a little, getting as near as possible to the pose of the photograph—but she would keep the half smile until the other woman looked up.

  The inner door was opened.

  “We’re slowing for Diddington, madam,” said the guard. “It’s a halt only—stop by request.” He took her overnight dressing case, skilfully bustled her into the corridor and got the train restarted within five seconds of depositing her on the wooden structure that served as a station.

  As the train moved off, giving her a full view of the village and the airfield, Veronica recognised the helicopter and feared the worst. In the forlorn hope of proving that it was not her fault she read her husband’s letter over again.

  Dearest Veronica, (WillyBee was inclined to formality by post).

  I shall arrive at Diddington airfield at 6 tomorrow (Tuesday). Please meet me. Don’t give your name and don’t ask for me—just wait. Come by train. I’ve arranged for the Daimler to be there. We’ll drive to Renchester—it’s only 25 miles. Keep this under your hair as I wish to pay a surprise visit to the new factory. I shall go round after dinner but it won’t take more than an hour, and then we can have a nice long evening together. I hope you have missed me as much as I have missed you. Your loving husband, WillyBee.

  No hope! She had mistaken the “6” for “8”. She wouldn’t admit as much to WillyBee—because it would make him think she ought to wear glasses, which he would hate.

  Everything seemed to be going wrong, this time. The frequency of his business trips contributed to her contentment, though she had hitherto made no illicit use of his absences. Ever since he had bought himself a helicopter he seemed to dodge about for the fun of it. She had no conception of the scope and magnitude of WillyBee Products.

  “WillyBee will wait dinner for me. I must get a taxi at once!” A silly thing to say in Diddington, even to herself.

  In the village there was one sizeable garage. The garage hand, who was filling the tank of a Morris, informed her that the one car was not expected back before midnight.

  In his driving mirror the owner of the Morris had seen the colouring as well as the outline.

  “I’m on my way to Renchester,” he shouted and scrambled out. “May I give you a lift?”

  Veronica thanked him magnificently and allowed him to help her into the Morris. A double turn and they entered the Peasebarrow Road.

  As they drove on she tried to attend to his chatter, but soon her responses were mechanical, while her thoughts were bent on framing an explanation her husband would be likely to accept.

  Her host was a hard-boiled commercial traveller who had reduced his relations with women to the formula: “If there’s nothing doing, there’s no harm done.”

  It was Veronica’s fault for not giving him proper attention. His preliminary patter, progressive in form, was fair warning for the most inexperienced. When his left hand strayed from the steering, her right had removed the ignition key. She got out, restored his key and turned her back until he had driven off.

  The fastidious self-esteem had grounded her, with dressing-case, miles from anywhere. She was not distressed because she was confident that someone would come to her aid. Someone always did. In half an hour the confidence had vanished. She calculated—inaccurately—that there would be only an hour more of daylight. She would have to walk until she came to a house. Not just any house—a house with a telephone. She had not read the guide book, so did not know about the one, solitary human habitation.

  Her shoes were not designed for walking on the Peasebarrow Road—nor was her nature. She was one of those in whom an abundance of money, so far from corrupting, stimulates the good qualities. With grace and some honesty, she practised most of the picturesque virtues. Taking her on her merits as a rich man’s wife, she was as efficient as anybody in her husband’s business. The daughter of a provincial art master with three children, she came from a home that was chronically hard up, but her dream life had been passed exclusively among the wealthy classes. She entered upon her marriage as an exile recalled.

  In a very short time, the devices of shabby gentility became an indistinct memory. She was not extravagant, as might have been expected. Indeed, she was barely money conscious, taking no pleasure in the ritual of buying. Being rich by temperament, she was able to ignore money.

  She trudged on, with growing petulance at WillyBee’s behaviour. It was inconsiderate of him to come home suddenly in this furtive way. Keep it under her hair! She would have to catch an early train tomorrow back to their London flat to welcome Jill, his niece, who was coming to stay for a week of her holiday. From Edinburgh. Travelling by sleeper and arriving soon after breakfast. WillyBee never thought of things like that … She liked Jill in spite of the fact that she was one of those clever girls who earn a high salary.

  Veronica had never imagined the countryside from the angle of a tramp—as something from which you could escape only by walking. She hated it. It was vast and monotonous. A meaningless little river reflected the beginning of sunset, dazzling her. Her hat—a minute summer straw trimmed with roses—was no protection. So she had to walk with her head turned sideways.

  She came to rising ground with trees on both sides of the road (“the woods” of the guide book) which shut out the sunlight and brought the first feeling of fear. She had never spent a night in the open. Her dressing case, she discovered with surprise, was frightfully heavy.

  A double turn brought her into the valley, where the road ran close beside the river. In the distance she could see a house—unless it was an illusion. The house appeared to have been built in the middle of the river—as indeed it had been. A smudgy column of smoke on the far side—then the echo of the tug’s siren—helped her to guess that here was a lock and the lock-keeper’s house.

  Peasebarrow Lock—the lockhouse temporarily tenanted by three young men in a state of rebellion, who might have been placated by WillyBee if he had thought it worthwhile to stop.

  Lyle Canvey, metallurgy, Arthur Stranack, mechanics, Rupert Eddis, chemistry, detested one another. This deep dislike was temperamental, admitted by each to be unjustified. They had not even the excuse of jealousy—each was proud of the others’ achievements.

  Their success as a unit of three had inflamed the dislike. Their t
alents happened to blend while their personal tastes remained in conflict. They were aware of this oddity. When circumstance forced them to live under the same roof for a few weeks they were alert to the danger of a serious quarrel. So they would snarl and snap, then retreat into an incredible heartiness—itself an added exasperation.

  A temporary concord had been set up by the letter which had come by the late afternoon post—which was also the early morning post, as there was only one delivery—the letter which WillyBee himself had regretted.

  “It took us four hours to cook up our letter,” said Canvey. He was a slender, wiry man, with thick sandy eyebrows. “It takes WillyBee four lines to say ‘Nerts’ to us and our inventions.”

  “‘For your inventive talents, which are not in dispute, you receive a salary,’” quoted Eddis.

  “And some bilge about the resources of the company being at our disposal. Let’s push his face in!” said Stranack, who had to live up to a somewhat tough-guy appearance, tempered by dark, intelligent eyes. “When does he get back from Madrid?”

  “The Times says he’s having lunch with the Caudillo tomorrow—I cut it out,” answered Canvey. “So he may start for home any time after that. Give him a couple of days. How does that help us?”

  “The team would appear to have over-rated itself,” said Eddis. “WillyBee doesn’t care if he loses us.”

  In the silence that followed all three flashed up the same idea. If the team amounted to so little, why should they burden themselves with its distasteful companionship?

  “He can’t lose us for four years,” said Canvey. “Do what our chairman tells you and read your contract.”

  “Get your grandmother to read it and she’ll tell you we’re paid for routine, not for creative work.”

  “What about the ‘special’ we’re doing now. I mean the cooker, not the twin-jack. If that does another half million—”