Death of a Scoundrel

by Wendy Soliman

  ‘You think she tackled him on the subject, sir, always assuming she knew?’

  ‘I am sure she did. Mrs Kempton is not the type to exercise discretion, at least not in terms of the man she adored.’

  ‘She adored him and then had him killed?’ Salter looked perplexed. ‘Not sure about that. Anyway, if you’re convinced she knew about Alice, why didn’t you mention her?’

  ‘She would have denied it. I didn’t want to antagonise her too much because I want her to find out what hold her husband had over her father.’

  ‘Is it relevant?’ Salter asked dubiously.

  ‘We shan’t know until we find out what it was.’ Riley leaned back and closed his eyes. ‘If Mrs Kempton told Rod, what’s to say that he didn’t use it as additional blackmail material and approach Kempton direct with his demands?’

  ‘Ah, I see. Kempton called to see Rod on the night of his death, saying he was there to buy his silence.’

  ‘Possibly.’

  Their food arrived, which precluded further conversation. Less than appetising, Riley merely picked at his, whereas Salter cleared his plate, wiping up the gravy with crusty bread and then enviously eyeing Riley’s leftovers.

  ‘Help yourself,’ Riley said, pushing the plate towards his sergeant.

  Salter did so. They finished their ale, paid their dues and stepped outside again, pulling hats low and turning up collars. Salter hailed a cab and Riley gave the jarvey the address of Kempton’s business premises in Hatton Garden as he climbed into the conveyance.

  ‘It’s a rum affair, Jack. In spite of growing evidence to the contrary, I remain to be convinced that Kempton’s the guilty party. His wife wants us to believe that he is—’

  ‘Even though her reputation will suffer if the truth about her connection to Rod comes to light?’

  ‘She is a woman scorned. Never underestimate the vindictiveness of such creatures.’

  ‘Speaking from experience, sir?’

  Riley deal his sergeant a dour look. ‘Susan Kempton is wealthy enough to withstand a little gossip, and young enough to attract a husband she would prefer over Kempton.’ Their jarvey turned the air blue when a small private carriage cut in front of him, requiring him to swerve in order to avoid an accident. ‘There are plenty of what you would describe as my lot with pockets to let who would be willing to overlook her indiscretions in return for getting their hands on her blunt.’

  ‘In other words, they would raise her social standing, a situation she’s keen to bring about, and she would save a potential husband’s family from impecunious obscurity.’

  ‘Exactly.’

  The hansom drew to a halt outside of a small shopfront with the name C. Burton – Bullion and Rare Coin Dealer – picked out in neat gold lettering above the door. Closer inspection revealed that the gold had started to flake against a background that was in need of a new coat of paint. Not a façade to inspire confidence, Riley thought, as he paid the jarvey and walked through the door that Salter opened for him. A bell jingled above it and they found themselves in a small interior, lined with glass cabinets displaying various coins, presumably rare and valuable. The air smelt musty, it wasn’t much warmer than outside, and unsurprisingly there were no other customers.

  ‘How may I be of service, gentlemen?’

  The question was posed by a man in late middle-age, soberly attired, who appeared through a curtain that divided the shop from the rest of the premises.

  ‘We are here to see Mr Kempton,’ Salter said. ‘We are Scotland Yard detectives.’

  The assistant looked intrigued rather than alarmed. ‘I shall see if he is available, if you would be so kind as to wait here.’

  ‘He damned well better be available,’ Salter muttered as he rubbed his hands together and stamped feet that were probably as cold as Riley’s.

  The assistant returned, looking regretful. ‘Mr Kempton is about to go out to keep an appointment that he cannot postpone,’ he said. ‘Perhaps I can be of some assistance. Is this to do with the coins we purchased in good faith that—’

  ‘Tell Mr Kempton,’ Riley said, in no mood for procrastination, ‘that he can talk to us now, or we can send uniformed constables to bring him into Scotland Yard and conduct our interview there. The choice is entirely his.’

  ‘Actually, don’t bother to tell him,’ Salter added, striding towards the back of the shop. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’

  ‘Hey, look here, you cannot…’

  But Salter could and did. Riley followed him into a large back room where two men pretended to be diligently working. But it was obvious that they were more interested in the arrival of Scotland Yard detectives intent upon interviewing their employer. One of them, an older man, probably the person who had spoken with Stout, grinned and pointed to a staircase in the corner. Shrugging, Riley and Salter made for it and found themselves in a small sitting room immediately above the shop. Mercifully, it was far warmer than downstairs, since a fire had been lit. A man, presumably Kempton, stood and scowled at them. He was in shirtsleeves and didn’t look to be on the point of keeping any appointments.

  ‘What is the meaning of this intrusion?’ he demanded.

  Riley took close stock of Kempton’s appearance, which was far from impressive. A small man in all senses of the word, he had thin shoulders, thin hair and even thinner features. Riley could understand why his wife was dissatisfied with her lot. Even so, he found it hard to imagine such a weak-looking man possessing the strength to whack Rod Woodrow hard enough to render him unconscious, much less strangle him. Then again, stranger things had been known to happen. Small men, in Riley’s experience, often felt they had a point to prove.

  ‘I am Inspector Rochester. This is Sergeant Salter. You are Giles Kempton?’

  ‘I am, but I fail to see what business you could possibly have with me. As you have been told, I am about to keep an urgent appointment and you are making me late for it.’

  ‘You’ll be later still if you don’t stop mucking us about,’ Salter growled.

  ‘Shall we sit down?’ It was not a question on Riley’s part, as evidenced by the fact that he took the chair across from the one that Kempton had just vacated, directly in front of the fire. Salter, as always, propped a shoulder against a convenient wall, ready for whatever the interview would bring. And to intimidate from a standing position, which Riley anticipated would be necessary, since Kempton’s attitude oozed antagonism. With no other choice available to him, Kempton resumed his seat.

  ‘How can I help you?’ he asked grudgingly.

  ‘The father of your wife’s daughter was recently murdered,’ Riley replied, ‘but, of course, you are already aware of that fact.’

  ‘I did read something to that effect in the newspapers, but you will not be surprised to learn that I have shed no tears over his passing. The man was a bounder who took shameful advantage of an innocent girl. We had never met, but if we had I should not have hesitated to give him a long overdue thrashing.’

  ‘Perhaps you did,’ Riley replied.

  ‘Me?’ He widened his eyes in a convincing display of astonishment. ‘You think I killed the rogue.’ He chuckled. ‘I shall take that as a compliment.’

  ‘And I might take your words as a confession.’

  ‘There is a world of difference, Inspector, between wishing a person dead and actually killing them.’

  ‘And yet he was a permanent thorn in your side. It must have rankled to be aware that your wife loved and trusted the man enough to give herself to him when they were not married.’

  ‘Yes, I’ll grant you, I wasn’t happy about that. What man would be? But I never blamed Susan. He was the one who took advantage of her.’

  ‘And you are reminded of the fact every time you look at the child you pretend is your own,’ Salter added. ‘I wouldn’t be too happy about that myself.’

  ‘Well then, Sergeant, it’s probably as well that my nature is more understanding that yours seems to be.’

  Salter
shrugged himself from the wall and walked over to Kempton. ‘Or could it be,’ he suggested, leaning a hand on the back of Kempton’s chair and squatting down so their faces were only a few inches apart, ‘that you were forced to accept the situation if you were to stand any chance whatsoever of marrying the women you adored? It was the only way she would ever take you, and well you knew it.’

  ‘None of this is the child’s fault,’ Kempton replied, glowering at Salter’s hand, which he did not remove from the back of the chair. ‘I can see that you are unwilling to accept my word for it—’

  ‘If we accepted everything we’re told at face value, the gaols would be empty,’ Riley said. ‘We know you had plenty of reasons to resent Rod Woodrow, and at least you have had the grace to admit it.’

  ‘I don’t see what else he could have done,’ Salter said, sniffing, ‘given the circumstances. I dare say he made his wife aware of the fact too, in lots of subtle little ways. And a few not so subtle ones.’

  ‘Quite so. Thank you for the reminder, Sergeant. Where did your wife acquire the bruises she currently sports?’

  ‘What? You have been to see my wife? Without my permission? How dare you!’

  ‘The bruises?’ Riley reiterated.

  ‘She fell.’

  Salter stood up and put a foot against Kempton’s chair. He pushed it over and Kempton, taken by surprise, went sprawling. “Oh, what, like that?” Kempton’s diminutive stature meant the it was easy for Salter to reach down and pull him to his feet with one hand and slam him against the wall of the shabby little room. Salter moved forward and put his mouth an inch or so from Kempton’s face. ‘I’ve got a wife myself, Mr Kempton. Call me an old fool but I’m rather fond of her. And if there’s one thing I can’t abide in this world it’s a man who hits women. I’ve seen more than enough women who’ve met with the business end of their husband’s fists not to recognise the signs when I see them. You pinned her down by her wrists, didn’t you, when she refused to keep her side of the bargain? And then you gave her a slap for good measure.’

  ‘Bargain?’ His eyes darted between the two detectives. ‘What bargain?’

  Salter picked up the chair Kempton had been sitting in. He set it upright and pushed Kempton down into it with almost enough force to almost tip him over again. At a discreet gesture from Riley, he returned to his position against the wall. Riley allowed a few seconds to pass and then continued in a more reasoned tone.

  ‘You’ve made basic errors with the business your wife’s father built up from scratch, and you need capital to bail it out of trouble,’ Riley said. ‘Your wife agreed to supply that capital, provided that you did her a favour and rid the world of Rod Woodrow.’

  He looked terrified. ‘She told you that?’ He collected himself, stood and paced the room. ‘No, she could not have since there’s not one iota of truth in it. Besides, she would not, not after I have been so lenient, so understanding—’

  ‘You don’t seem to have much faith in your wife’s opinion of you,’ Riley remarked. ‘And as for leniency, I saw the bruises as clearly as my sergeant did.’

  ‘Personally, sir, I wouldn’t blame her for making mischief,’ Salter remarked. ‘Not after she’d received a thumping from a bully and a tyrant.’

  ‘There is that.’ Riley straightened his shoulders. ‘So we can either take her word for it, in which case you will hang, or you can tell us the truth. Where were you three nights’ ago between midnight and two in the morning.’

  ‘And don’t bother to say that you were at home in your bed, since we know it ain’t true.’ Riley shot his sergeant a brief look, aware that they didn’t know any such thing.

  ‘Then you have been misinformed.’ Kempton looked smugly satisfied, a look that Riley knew Salter would be itching to wipe from his face. ‘My wife and I have separate rooms, but our servants can confirm that I retired at my usual time and did not leave the house again.’

  ‘You keep a night porter?’ Riley asked.

  ‘No, that would be an unnecessary expense.’

  Salter scowled. ‘Then how can anyone confirm whether or not you left the house once everyone else was in bed?’

  ‘It would have been necessary for me to unbolt the front door and leave the premises unsecured…’

  ‘You don’t have a key to your own house?’ Salter asked before Riley could.

  ‘Of course, but a simple lock is no deterrent to modern-day criminals. I’m sure you are aware of that, given your line of work.’

  ‘Even so,’ Riley said in a reasonable tone, ‘the fact remains that you could easily have slipped from the house without anyone being aware. And a man answering your description was seen loitering outside Woodrow’s rooms.’

  ‘It wasn’t me,’ he said quickly. ‘I’ve never been to Half Moon Street.’

  ‘Oh, that’s interesting, Mr Kempton,’ Riley smiled, tapping a forefinger absently against his chin. ‘Remind me, Sergeant, at which point in this conversation did I say that Woodrow lived in Half Moon Street?’

  Salter’s grin was broad, but contained no humour whatsoever. ‘I don’t believe you mentioned his address at any point in it, sir.’

  ‘I must have read it in the newspaper,’ Kempton said, looking far less sure of himself.

  ‘It would help me to believe your honourable intentions,’ Riley said, ‘if I could be made to understand why Burton let you take control of his business when everyone I have spoken to says the same thing about you.’

  ‘What thing?’

  ‘Well, frankly, that you are inept.’

  ‘I resent that!’

  ‘Then you will have to resent a great many people, Mr Kempton, because it’s a fairly common assumption among those I’ve spoken to. And I have to say the facts support that theory. You have made a bit of a mess of things and you are in financial difficulties. That you cannot deny.’

  ‘I made an honest mistake,’ Kempton said, lifting his angular chin in an attempt at dignity, leaving Riley with the impression that he had a bad smell under his nose. ‘These things happen. I will recover.’

  ‘Not without help from your wife, which I suspect will not be forthcoming,’ Riley replied. ‘And she would not help you without proof that you killed Woodrow.’

  ‘Perhaps he supplied that proof, sir, and she then reneged on her side of the bargain, which would account for them bruises. That would be enough to make anyone lose their temper. I mean, committing murder, no less. Risking the noose and getting nothing in return.’

  ‘If, as you suggest, my wife still had feelings for Woodrow, why do you imagine she would want him dead?’ Kempton asked, his smug expression back in place.

  ‘Perhaps you should ask her that.’ Riley stood, aware that they would get nothing more from Kempton unless or until they uncovered proof of his culpability. ‘I shall be speaking with her again and if I notice any fresh bruises on her person then you will be held accountable for your actions.’ He swept up his hat from the table where he had left it. ‘Good day.’ He paused. ‘For now.’

  Immediately outside Kempton’s door, Riley paused and spoke to Salter in an undertone that he was sure would penetrate the flimsy door.

  ‘We have to find the letters that we know Mrs Kempton wrote to Woodrow,’ he said, gesturing to Salter to play along. ‘They have to be somewhere in Woodrow’s rooms.’

  ‘We’ve searched high and low,’ Salter said, grinning with real humour this time.

  ‘Then we must have missed them. If we can find them, I’m pretty sure they’ll solve this case once and for all.’

  They walked down the stairs, shoulder to shoulder. Salter grinned at Riley. ‘Very clever,’ he said. ‘You think he’ll take himself to Half Moon Street and search for them himself.’

  ‘I do. He probably didn’t know about the letters and won’t want them falling into the wrong hands. It’s vital that he gets hold of them.’

  ‘Even so, you should’ve let me at him,’ Salter complained as they took another hansom back to Scot
land Yard. ‘He knew more than he was telling us.’

  ‘I thought I did let you at him,’ Riley replied. ‘Your tactics have been called into use most effectively during the course of this case so far. But yes, he does indeed know more, and is aware that we know it too. He feels threatened, and that will hopefully make him incautious. Have Carter and Soames watch him and nab him in the act if he breaks into Rod’s rooms. If he does not, I want to know everything he does over the next few days.’

  ‘It will be my pleasure, sir,’ Salter replied with a grunt of satisfaction. ‘Like I told him, I cannot abide men who hit women.’

  ‘Then you are I are in accord.’

  ‘Do you think he did it, sir? I want to think that he did but, somehow, I can’t see Woodrow letting him into his rooms late at night, even if Woodrow was trying to blackmail him. And even if he did, Woodrow would have been on his guard. I doubt they would have sat down together and had a nice companionable drink.’

  ‘You have hit upon the one aspect of the affair that troubles me, Jack.’ Riley glanced at the passing buildings as the Hansom made fast progress through streets that for once were not logjammed. ‘Frankly, Kempton looks as though a strong gust of wind would blow him from his feet. I cannot see him having the strength to carry out a crime that required…well, brute strength. There again, anger is supposed to lend the most unlikely of people superhuman strength. But why remove those glasses?’

  ‘One or both of them must have been used to knock Woodrow out, sir, given that the maid swears all six of ’em were intact the previous day.’ Salter ruminated for a moment or two. ‘Odd, that.’

  ‘Odd indeed, Jack, and I cannot help thinking that those missing glasses are the key to everything.’

  They arrived at the Yard and made a dash for the cover of the back entrance through the persistent rain.

  ‘The superintendent’s been asking for you,’ Barton told Riley.

  ‘Thank you. Anything else I should know?’

  ‘A whole load of things, I dare say,’ Barton replied, ‘but it ain’t for me to enlighten you.’