A Better Quality of Murder: (Inspector Ben Ross 3)

by Granger, Ann

  ‘It is, as far as I’m concerned,’ said Dunn. ‘But since you wish to take the fellow out of London I suppose I should take it higher and get authority first. It should not take long.’

  ‘We are certain, are we, Basset and Fawcett are the same man?’ I asked. ‘There’s no doubt? He’s a slippery fellow and we don’t want him wriggling off the hook. I expect Superintendent Dunn has told you that we had him in here for questioning in connection with a murder case we have on our hands. We were obliged to let him go.’

  Dunn looked disconcerted before saying testily: ‘We were unable to hold him for lack of direct evidence. We couldn’t get anything on him despite our best efforts and our belief that he may well be our man,’ he added with an apologetic look at the visitors. Turning to me, he went on, ‘But see here, Ross, these gentlemen do have something on him and a warrant to back it up! They can charge him; and if he’s sitting in a cell in Manchester, we need have no fear he’ll disappear. We’ll know for sure where to find him if we want him again.’

  ‘All the more reason,’ I insisted, ‘to be certain we are talking of the same man.’

  ‘He’s very good at disappearing, is our Mr Basset,’ growled Styles. ‘But I’ll show you this, Ross, as I showed Mr Dunn here.’

  He delved into his pocket and produced a small rectangular piece of card that he passed to me.

  It was a photograph and showed a small group of people, apparently in the garden of a large house. They were all dressed in their best, gathered into a ragged line, and smiling self-consciously at the camera lens, with the exception of the man at the end who looked as though he’d rather be elsewhere. As well he might. Being caught by the modern medium of the camera was not to his taste. I saw he had already acquired the diamond stickpin.

  ‘That is Fawcett, or Basset, as you call him, without a doubt,’ I said, handing back the photograph. ‘Who took this?’

  ‘Ah now,’ said Styles, tucking the photograph away in his pocket safely again. ‘Our Mr Basset – and your Mr Fawcett - has been successfully swindling his way around the country, a very plausible gentleman by all accounts. When he got to Manchester he must have thought he was on a winning streak. We have some wealthy citizens engaged in the manufacture and supply of both cotton and silk. Their mills are a wonder of modern production methods with every invention by way of machinery known to man. Our air is very suitable for spinning cotton. You may not know that.’

  Both Dunn and I shook our heads.

  ‘It’s damp,’ said O’Reilly gloomily. ‘Cotton threads break easily in a dry climate. No one could say Manchester has that.’

  Styles took back control of the conversation. ‘We call our biggest manufacturers the “cotton kings”. Somehow Basset got himself introduced to the wife of such a man and, once she had taken him up, and persuaded her husband what a fine fellow Basset was, well, he got to know all the others and their families. The ladies in particular liked him.’

  O’Reilly gave a broad grin but wiped it off his face before Styles spotted it.

  ‘We believe in philanthropic institutions in Manchester,’ declared Styles.

  I could have said that from what I’d heard of the harsh conditions in the mills, wonders of modernity though they might be, philanthropy was not the impression I’d gained. I just nodded.

  ‘So along comes Basset with some plan for saving the children of the poor, who might otherwise be hanging about in our streets at risk of drink and petty crime, and training them up to do an honest day’s work.’

  ‘In the mills,’ I could not help but say.

  Styles nodded. ‘Just so. Successful industry needs a trained workforce, Inspector. Naturally, people listened to him . . .’

  ‘And parted with their money!’ piped O’Reilly.

  Styles frowned at his underling. ‘But that photograph was his undoing, you might say. Some of the ladies concerned decided to hold a garden fête to raise funds. Quite a party, it was, anyone who is anyone was there. An account of it even appeared in a local newspaper. And someone had the idea to invite along a professional photographer to make a record of the event. You know how it is; everyone likes to have his picture taken, especially in fine company! This photographic image,’ Styles patted his pocket, ‘was the result, and very nice, too. Everyone in it was very pleased with it, except our Mr Basset or Fawcett. Now, as it happened, one of the ladies involved has a married sister living in Leeds. The sister came on a visit shortly after the event, and the lady was anxious to tell her about it. She showed the visitor a copy of the photograph, and what do you think?’

  ‘He was recognised,’ I said impatiently.

  ‘He was, that. Straight off. The sister cries out, “Why, that’s Mr Denton who charmed folk here out of a small fortune to build a hospital for consumptive factory children; and then disappeared with the money when questions began to be asked as to when the first bricks were to be laid!”

  ‘The lady was horrified and told her husband and he came directly to us. We set out to arrest him immediately. But Basset (or Denton or Fawcett, as you will) had got wind of it somehow and the bird had flown. He had done a moonlight flit, left his lodgings without a word and his rent not paid. I dare say once that photograph was taken he knew the game would soon be up. The good citizens got none of their money back.You can guess how anxious they are to see him again!’ Styles added grimly.

  ‘So, he is known as Denton, too,’ I mused.

  ‘He’s got half a dozen names,’ O’Reilly told me. ‘We tried to the best of our ability to track him down. Our enquiries of other police forces soon informed us of his previous activities but not his present whereabouts, not hide nor hair of him . . .’

  ‘As I say,’ broke in Dunn who had been fidgeting during this long recital, ‘it should not take long to make the arrangements for you to take the man back north with you. I suggest you take yourselves off to one of the excellent chophouses hereabouts and come back when you have eaten.’

  This idea seemed to find favour and our visitors departed.

  ‘He’s a suspect in a murder inquiry,’ I said energetically to Dunn when we were alone. ‘There may be some objection to his being spirited off by our colleagues to face the lesser charges of fraud, and so far away. And what about the police in Leeds and all these other places? They’ll want him too.’

  ‘That’s why I’m taking it higher,’ declared Dunn, his jaw set obstinately. ‘They have evidence and witnesses willing to identify him and tell their story. You were unable to get anything from him when you interviewed him. You have been worried he will leave London. So let Manchester hold on to him. I’ll go and see the commissioner and get his approval. He won’t mind being disturbed on a Saturday for this.’

  So, apparently the fact that we had wasted our time bringing in Fawcett was not Dunn’s fault: it was mine.

  ‘Well,’ I said, ‘at least I know where to find him. It’s Saturday and this afternoon our preacher will be penning tomorrow’s sermon at his lodgings in Clapham. That is,’ I couldn’t help adding, ‘if he was telling me the truth about that. As he lied about everything else, we shall just have to hope, shan’t we?’

  Dunn gave me a somewhat hunted look.

  Chapter Fifteen

  Inspector Benjamin Ross

  I HAVE to confess I was a very worried man as I set off for Clapham that afternoon in the company of our two northern visitors. If Fawcett wasn’t at his lodgings I would both look a fool in the eyes of Styles and O’Reilly and be blamed for losing the quarry by Dunn. Fawcett would be alerted by his landlady that we’d been at the house asking for him and would pack his bags and leave on the instant. The superintendent would rightly point out that I would have made Scotland Yard look a set of bumbling incompetents. All this might come to pass because I was far from sure we’d find Fawcett at home.

  My two companions, on the other hand, appeared in high spirits. Perhaps this was because they had eaten well at the chophouse or just because they had every confidence in me an
d didn’t doubt for a minute we’d find the man where he was supposed to be. Or just the prospect of taking Fawcett home in triumph appealed to them. They probably looked forward to getting a vote of thanks from the city fathers – and those cotton kings whose families had been so comprehensively hoodwinked. I just prayed we were not all on a fool’s errand.

  ‘Well, well, Mr Ross!’ said Styles jovially as we made our way to Waterloo Station in a hired growler (the urgency of our mission having got Dunn’s agreement to the expense). ‘So your Superintendent Dunn thinks our man may be a murderer as well as a clever confidence trickster. Is that your opinion too?’

  As he spoke, he fixed me with a sharp look that belied his casual tone.

  ‘As it happens,’ I replied, ‘no, it is not. Fawcett certainly had a role to play in the murder of Allegra Benedict. If I am right, his name was used to lure the unfortunate woman to her death in the park that Saturday. Whether he knew about it, that’s another matter. In any case, until he decides to confess to an involvement with the murdered woman, I can get no further. I don’t think he tied the cord round her neck and strangled her. On the other hand, if he didn’t do it, who did? That is much the superintendent’s argument. I should very much like to question Fawcett again before you take him back to Manchester.’

  ‘I’m sure that should be possible,’ rumbled Styles. ‘Although I doubt you’ll get the truth out of the fellow. He is a clever and compulsive liar. If you ask me, he’s one of those deceivers who enter so fully into whatever role they’ve adopted, they believe they really are whatever they claim to be. Like an actor, you know, on the stage. Here in London our man’s been playing the role of a preacher against drunkenness, so Superintendent Dunn told us, and has proved a pretty effective one. It’s a great pity, perhaps, that he never turned his abilities into something legitimate.’

  Or a blessing. I remembered Lizzie’s opinion that Fawcett could persuade anyone to do almost anything.

  It was a very short distance from Waterloo to Clapham by the train. As we rocked along, my mind turned again to Isabella Marchwood who had met her death somewhere along this stretch of line. We had made no more progress with that investigation. Burns had not come up with anything, despite exhaustive enquiries at all the relevant stations along the way from Egham to Waterloo.

  ‘Why not?’ I muttered and my two companions glanced at me and then at each other. I must endeavour to keep my thoughts in my head. But why had Burns’s hardworking team of Railway Police constables not found a single person who had noticed anything odd on that morning Isabella Marchwood died? I found myself thinking of the beadle at the Burlington Arcade, Harry Barnes. He had not been able to give us any specific information but by that very fact had suggested to me the story told by Miss Marchwood was not quite the truth. Had the Railway Police not found a single traveller or staff member who had noticed anyone behaving suspiciously because the person who killed Isabella travelled up and down this line all the time? The face was familiar. The killer boarded and descended from the train regularly. He crossed the platforms and passed through the booking halls with the confidence of habit. Was I, after all, looking at Sebastian Benedict?

  Benedict had been Dunn’s first choice of murderer although even the superintendent had abandoned that theory in favour of Fawcett as villain. But would Fawcett really have ventured to take the risks involved in boarding the train and strangling his victim in broad daylight? Of course, Isabella would have welcomed him into the compartment with her. She would have had no fear and no reason to expect attack. The foul deed would have been easy to carry out.

  ‘Tell me,’ I said to Styles; since he’d asked my opinion I was entitled to ask his. ‘Your acquaintance with Fawcett predates mine. Would you say he was capable of murder?’

  ‘Not of planning it,’ Styles opined after some thought. ‘I don’t mean because he hasn’t the ability to plan just about anything. He’s as artful as a cartload of monkeys. Despite that, I don’t see him sitting down and making the decision, “Well, I will commit a murder and this is how I’ll go about it . . .” It’s not his way. He’s a fellow who depends on his charm and oratory to get him out of scrapes. But you know as well as I do, Ross, that not all murders are carefully planned. Almost any rogue, finding himself in an unexpected corner and panicking, might kill. What if our trickster felt himself threatened?’

  ‘I am not sure whether you agree with the superintendent or with me,’ I told him moodily.

  O’Reilly piped up. ‘Whatever he tells you, if you do question him again, be prepared to take it with a good pinch of salt, sir. He’s got a very active imagination, has Jeremiah Bassett – or Joshua Fawcett, as you know him.’

  I was very much afraid he was right. But was he our killer? That is not the way a fraudster works! I told myself again. I think so. Styles thinks so, even though he was hedging his bets in his answer. But are both he and I wrong? A man desperate enough, as Styles had just said . . .

  ‘You’re not a Londoner, Mr Ross, I fancy?’ observed Styles suddenly, breaking into my thoughts.

  ‘No,’ I told him, ‘I come from Derbyshire.’

  ‘Indeed? What brought you down here?’ Both he and O’Reilly stared at me puzzled.

  ‘I hoped to make my fortune,’ I told them wryly.

  ‘As a policeman?’ put in O’Reilly and whistled.

  ‘I have not done badly,’ I said crossly, ‘for a boy who began work down the pit!’

  ‘As it happens, I have an aunt who lives in Derbyshire, in Ashby-de-la-Zouch,’ rumbled Styles. ‘When she was a young woman she had a most unfortunate accident resulting in her having to wear a wooden leg.’

  I steeled myself to listen to the history of Styles’s aunt and her missing limb. Fortunately we arrived before he could properly launch himself into it.

  We found the house where our man lodged without difficulty and stood outside, staring up at its bay windows, wondering whether he was sitting at the upstairs one, observing us and getting ready to flee.

  ‘Is there a back entrance?’ asked Styles, suddenly less cheerful. ‘O’Reilly, you had better go and find out. If he spots us, he’ll run for it.’

  ‘There may be an alley running along the rear of the gardens,’ I said, thinking of my own house. ‘To give a back entrance to the houses.’

  O’Reilly obediently trotted off to secure any escape route from the rear of the building. Styles and I approached the front door. He checked the presence of his warrant in his overcoat pocket and I raised my hand to the polished brass knocker. It was in the shape of a horseshoe. Perhaps it would bring us luck.

  At first it did not appear so. The door was opened by a plump respectable-looking female in an apron. The appearance of this garment suggested we had interrupted her while she was mixing cakes.

  We asked if we might speak to Mr Fawcett.

  ‘Oh dear, is there more trouble with someone he’s saved?’ asked the landlady. ‘Poor Mr Fawcett was away from home all Thursday night after two officers came to see him here. He told me when he got back home that he had been required to give character witness to one of the poor wretches he had persuaded to mend his ways, but who had fallen back into his drunken habits and turned to crime. Mr Fawcett had done all he could to help the poor fellow.’

  I exchanged glances with Styles who raised his bushy eyebrows. Like me he was no doubt thinking that Fawcett’s ingenuity had not failed him. He had been taken from his lodgings by police officers, spent all night in police custody, and still managed to persuade this trusting woman it had been in a good cause.

  ‘Don’t be alarmed, madam,’ I said, ‘we only wish to discuss something with him. So if you could just tell him we are here and would like to speak with him?’

  ‘Lawks, gents!’ said the landlady comfortably. ‘In the normal way of things of course you could . . .’

  My heart began to sink. Styles muttered something into his beard.

  ‘Is he not at home?’ I croaked.

  ‘No, sir
.’

  ‘I understood,’ I said desperately, ‘that he was to be found at home on a Saturday, writing his sermon for tomorrow.’ How lame it sounded! How could I have believed such nonsense?

  ‘Why, sir, usually he is, but today he has just stepped out.’

  ‘Stepped out where?’ burst out Styles.

  ‘He has gone to take tea with a lady who is a member of his congregation,’ she told us. ‘She lives in Clapham and sometimes has meetings at her home. There’s one today.’

  ‘Mrs Scott!’ I cried. Turning to Styles, I hurried on, ‘The house is called Wisteria Lodge and I know where it is to be found, my wife has called there.’

  I thanked the bewildered landlady, cutting short her praises of her excellent lodger and his tireless efforts on behalf of poor lost souls, while Styles retrieved O’Reilly from the alley where he had been lurking in ambush. We set off at a brisk pace for Wisteria Lodge. Both my companions were by now as tense and apprehensive as I was. The three of us fairly ran there.