A Particular Eye for Villainy: (Inspector Ben Ross 4)

by Granger, Ann

  This was a chance throw of the dice by me. It might be possible to make such a charge stick, but without Mas in our hands, it would be difficult.

  ‘I do not know who was the man in the cemetery—’ she began.

  I interrupted her. ‘Please, madame,’ I said gently. ‘You were kind enough just now to say I was not a fool, so, I beg you, don’t start now to treat me like one. Equally, I believe you to be an intelligent woman. You must know you can’t rely on Mas. We shall catch him, without question. He is fleeing like a hunted fox at the moment. But we shall run him to earth. The French police are now on the lookout for him also. If he returns there, they will arrest him. He will seek to save himself. I know the type. His own skin is all that matters to him. He knows no loyalties.’

  She said nothing but watched me warily. A tiny flicker of hope sprang up in me that she could be persuaded to bargain. She would do what she said she had always done, anything necessary, and that would include abandoning Mas, but only if I proceeded cautiously.

  ‘Madame,’ I began again, ‘let us begin again differently. Let me tell you the history of what has happened, as it seems to me. You will then tell me if I am right. Is that in order?’

  ‘I cannot prevent you,’ she said coldly.

  ‘Thomas Tapley is an Englishman who has lived many years in France, kept by personal reasons from returning to his own country. He is growing older and beginning to regret his lack of a permanent base. You are the owner of a lodging house on the outskirts of Paris. One day, into the lodging house walks Tapley.

  ‘He appears down at heel, but he is a gentleman, you identify him as that. He begins to lodge with you. It soon becomes apparent to you, because you have a sharp eye, that this “poor” Englishman in his shabby coat is not so penniless after all. He pays his rent regularly with no delay. Money is coming from somewhere. He doesn’t, perhaps, realise how well you speak and read English. One day, while he is out, you go into his room and manage to gain access to his personal papers. He is in correspondence with a bank in England, with a firm of solicitors. There is mention of property . . .’

  She had made no attempt to interrupt me and was watching me keenly. I am on the right track! I thought.

  ‘You tell your good friend, Hector Mas, about him. Mas can smell a mark. He is very interested. I don’t know whose idea it was that you should persuade Tapley to marry you, in order to gain himself a comfortable home in his old age. Perhaps it was yours, because in the past, at least once, you have lived in the care of a protector. You are no longer young enough, forgive my bluntness, to seek out a protector of that sort. But perhaps the situation is now reversed. You can present yourself as a kind of protector to Tapley, a wife who will care for him and is in the position to offer him a comfortable home. At any rate, the marriage takes place.

  ‘At first all is well, but then Tapley falls ill. You take care of him devotedly. But when he recovers, instead of being grateful, he is suspicious. Perhaps Mas has been hanging around and Tapley has recognised Mas for what he is. Perhaps Mas is asking you why you tried so hard to help your husband recover, when, had you let him die, you could have written to England with the news and claimed any estate. You are both of you quite sure, by now, that there is money. During his illness, you have probably either read some mail directed to him, or again rummaged through his papers.

  ‘But Tapley has realised it. He begins to fear a plot against him, that his very life is at risk. Should he “fall ill” again, no doctor would think it odd, after the serious illness he’s already had. Perhaps Mas has said as much to you, madame. One day, when you are out of the house, and Mas out of the way, Tapley packs his box and flees. So desperate is he, that he feels nowhere in France safe, and returns to England. When he arrived in Harrogate and spoke to his solicitor there, he deposited some personal papers, stressing the need for them to be kept secure, and spoke of “an incident”. He appeared a frightened man. Am I more or less right so far, madame?’

  ‘You are taking facts I have told you, and interpreting them in a different way, Inspector,’ Victorine replied. ‘You have said nothing new, except to speculate about what Hector Mas may have said. As to that, you would have to ask Hector himself.’

  ‘You failed to find your husband in France and decided he must have come to England, you also told me that,’ I continued. ‘You knew if you did find him he would not return with you to France. I believe you and Mas planned to locate him and murder him.’

  Victorine jumped to her feet, eyes blazing with rage. ‘This is an insult and stupid, as well! Why should I plan to kill my dear husband for some money which might not exist?’

  ‘Sit down, madame. You are both of you sure now that money does exist. You have been to Harrogate and seen The Old Hall. You have been to Bryanston Square where Mr Jonathan Tapley lives, and seen his fine house. You have made enquiry about Mr Jonathan, and learned he is a wealthy man. This is a family of well-to-do, well-regarded people. You have also learned something alarming. Mr Jonathan Tapley is a lawyer. You will have to tread carefully. You cannot simply knock at his front door and ask if he knows the whereabouts of your husband.

  ‘So you decide to use a detective, Horatio Jenkins. You give Jenkins a photograph of your husband and Jenkins locates him. You pay Jenkins off but he declines, using some excuse, to return the photograph. In so doing, he has signed his death warrant. Mas goes to where Thomas Tapley is lodging. In the absence of the maidservant he enters the house by the kitchen door, goes up the back stairs, finds your husband reading and strikes him down. He looks round the room quickly but there are no signs of any correspondence with the solicitor in Harrogate, or anything else that Tapley might have written down to indicate he was living in fear of his life, should his wife find him. No diary, for example, and no “letter to be opened in the event of my death”. He goes into the next room, Tapley’s bedroom. He does not want to linger, with a recently slain corpse stretched upon the carpet next door, but a solution presents itself. Lying on a bedside cabinet is a door key. Mas pockets it, intending to return later to search again. He leaves.’

  ‘You are wrong!’ Victorine screamed at me, losing her composure at last. ‘Hector did not go there! He did not kill my husband!’ She made an effort to pull herself together. ‘The wretched Jenkins did not give us my husband’s address. He only asked for more money!’

  ‘Who else would want your husband dead? Who else would enter a private house belonging to a respectable Quaker widow, creep upstairs and kill her harmless, apparently penniless, lodger?’

  ‘Hector did not kill him,’ she repeated obstinately. ‘Nor, in case you are thinking it, did I!’

  ‘What of Jenkins, the detective you employed? Someone killed that unfortunate fellow. Someone searched his room thoroughly. Was that Mas? Was he looking for the photograph? It was not there. But we have discovered its whereabouts and we have it in our possession!’

  That surprised her so much, she blurted, ‘Where was it?’

  ‘Jenkins had given it to someone to keep for him. Come, madame, the circumstantial case against you and Mas is very strong. You are certainly going to be charged regarding the attempted kidnap of Flora Tapley. The time has come to help yourself, because, without Mas, you will face the charges of conspiracy to murder and conspiracy to kidnap alone. You told me, madame, that you have always done what was necessary to survive. Do it now.’

  She drew a deep breath. ‘Very well, I will tell you what happened. If you do not believe me . . .’ She shrugged. ‘I cannot help it. Hector did not go to that house and did not kill my husband. He did go to Jenkins and demand the return to the photograph. Jenkins refused. Hector threatened him with a knife, foolishly. Jenkins tried to seize it, there was a struggle and Jenkins was stabbed. The man’s death was an accident. It was not Hector’s intention to kill him. Hector did search the room, but could not find my photograph. Now you say you have it. I repeat, I did not conspire with Hector Mas to kidnap Miss Tapley. I do not know the identity o
f the man in the cemetery and neither, Inspector, do you! There is nothing, Mr Ross, no evidence that allows you to charge me with any crime!’

  ‘But I shall have evidence,’ I told her confidently, ‘when I have Mas, because he will talk. He will confess everything to save his skin. He will blame you. He’ll say it was all your idea, your plan to come to England, that you persuaded him, paid him, tricked him, anything. You have just confessed to me that you’ve concealed knowledge of a crime, the stabbing of Jenkins. You say Hector Mas was responsible. If you know where Mas is to be found, and refuse to tell us, then you are guilty of concealing the whereabouts of a wanted man, as well as knowledge of the crime. Before you refuse to tell us, please consider, madame, whether Mas will show the loyalty to you that you are showing him? He is a miserable petty crook and trickster. For him there is no honour, even among thieves.’

  She heaved a deep sigh, rolled up her eyes, and shrugged. My heart rose. She was going to talk! Not reveal everything, perhaps, but at least tell us about Mas.

  ‘Very well, he is in Wapping.’ She spoke more quietly and looked away from me, as if ashamed to betray a man she must know to be a worthless wretch. ‘He has been lodging at an inn called the Silver Anchor. He is using another name, Pierre Laurent. I don’t know if he’s still there. He may be trying to get passage overseas, working as a deckhand, on one of the ships docked there. When he was young, he sailed on trading vessels all around the Mediterranean. Perhaps he’s already left this country for ever. If he has, I cannot help you any further. I have said all I have to say.’ She pressed her lips together.

  ‘You have been wise, madame,’ I told her, trying to keep my tone sober and not betray my elation.

  She stared at me with hatred. ‘You will never prove that Hector and I conspired to kill my husband,’ she said. ‘Because we did not; and you will never get the evidence to show otherwise.’

  Chapter Nineteen

  * * *

  THERE ARE still people who remember when pirates were hanged at Wapping. Whether their twitching limbs and swollen faces, or their tarred remains left hanging in iron cages as a warning, did anything other than provide the residents with a good spectacle is doubtful. Occasionally, even now, a yellowed bony hand pokes out of the stinking mud when the tide goes out.

  Crime is still breathed in at Wapping with its fetid air. Seamen still throng its narrow streets and rat-infested wharves and warehouses, and lurch drunkenly from its alehouses. Between the walls of its crammed, tottering buildings run dark alleys into which it would be rash to venture. Chandlers’ shops spill their wares upon the cobbles. Smuggled goods change hands in smoky back rooms. Grog-shops, taverns, opium dens and bawdy houses jostle one another. If you want a bed for the night, no questions asked, it can be had for a shilling or two, if you don’t mind the squalid condition. It might be cheaper if you are prepared to share it.

  Here Hector Mas had gone to earth, another face, another foreign accent, and another bearer of a false name among a crowd of such. He had begun life in the slums of Marseilles and he blended in here perfectly.

  It had grown dark by the time we reached the Silver Anchor tavern, a low, board-fronted building with a shingled roof, which looked as if it might originally have been a storehouse. We had enquired among the ships’ captains and shipping agents about anyone signing on as crew in the name of Laurent, or Mas, or speaking with a French accent. Most said they didn’t know of anyone of that description. Only one agent remembered an enquirer who possibly might have been our man. He had asked about ships wanting crew, but the agent had sent him away, not liking the look of him.

  ‘We are not fussy about a man, provided he’s fit and healthy and can do the job,’ said the agent. ‘But that one had a look in his eyes I have seen before. It was a look you see in the eyes of men with blood on their hands.’

  Now we gathered before the Silver Anchor, reasonably sure our quarry was within. Our numbers were swelled by officers of the River Police. The tavern was doing good business. The noise of raucous laughter, female shrieks and quarrelling male voices, snatches of music, all streamed with the light from the tavern’s mullioned windows. We had checked the area carefully and I’d made sure men were stationed round the building at all points from which an exit could be made. I opened the door and, followed by Sergeant Morris, went in.

  Before they saw us, they sensed the presence of the law. Silence fell at once over the company. Card-players froze with the next card to be laid down between their fingers, now held suspended in the air. The accordion player broke off in mid-note with a tuneless squawk. Someone spat audibly on the floor. We walked through the crowd to where a stout, bearded man in a stained apron leaned on a rickety bar.

  ‘You have a guest lodging here, a Frenchman, name of Pierre Laurent,’ I said to him. ‘I am Inspector Ross, of Scotland Yard, and I am anxious to speak to him. Where is he?’

  The innkeeper began to wipe down his bar with a rag so dirty, it would only make the surface grimier. ‘Well, sirs, I don’t know that he is here.’ Somewhere above, faintly, my ear caught the ting of a very small bell: the sort operated by a cord to summon a servant. Behind me, I heard Morris growl.

  ‘Where is he?’ I snapped. ‘Don’t play for time. The building is surrounded. If he’s here, he can’t escape.’

  The man straightened up and glanced at the staircase running up beside the bar. ‘Second door left.’

  Careful though we had been, there had been time enough for someone to communicate with the fugitive upstairs. The bell was probably a time-honoured signal given whenever the police entered the place. It needed only a jerk on a cord operated by someone below in the crowded taproom. The host might have done it with his foot while the movement of the grimy rag had distracted our attention. As Morris and I reached the first floor, we saw the bell, still quivering on its metal spring. The second door on the left gaped open, and the room beyond was empty.

  We threw open other doors as we ran along the corridor. In the first we discovered only a seaman, so far gone with drink that he sprawled semi-conscious on a grimy pallet and stared up at us blearily, probably unable to focus on our faces. In the next we disturbed an indignant bawd and her customer. He was not our quarry and demanded to know what we meant by bursting in. I ignored his protests, threw open a casement and shouted to my men below.

  ‘Has anyone left?’

  ‘No, sir! We’re watching all the doors and windows!’ yelled back the officer in the street.

  I hurried back to the main corridor, followed by one of the bawd’s shoes as an encouragement.

  Morris was standing by a narrow ladder and looking up at an open hatch. As I appeared, he pointed. ‘He’s not gone down, sir, he’s gone up! There must be an attic up there at least.’

  The ladder debouched into a long, low loft running the length of the building. Rows of straw mattresses indicated this was where you could buy your bed the most cheaply. Two old men sat staring at us with rheumy eyes, mildly surprised to see us pop up through the hatch like a pair of jack-in-the-boxes. There was no sign of Mas, or anywhere he could be hidden.

  ‘He’s on the roof, sir!’ shouted Morris, pointing upward at an open skylight. As he spoke we heard above our heads the scrape of a foot sliding on the tiles.

  We clattered back downstairs. The crowd in the taproom raised a derisive cheer as we raced through them and out into the street. Our quarry’s whereabouts was signalled by upturned faces and pointing fingers of our River Police colleagues outside. High above, outlined starkly against the blue-black of the night sky, a darker silhouette picked its way across the roof as delicately as a tightrope walker.

  ‘Mas!’ I yelled up to him. ‘You cannot escape! Come down!’

  His response was to jump, to make a graceful, athletic leap across the narrow space between this roof and that of the next building and land there. A couple of tiles were dislodged, fell to the ground and shattered. The silhouetted figure teetered wildly and appeared on the verge of fal
ling backwards. He flung out his arms to either side, to gain balance, and wavered like an aspen before the wind. A sizeable crowd was gathering fast below now, and from it came a united intake of breath.

  ‘He’s going to fall! He’ll break his neck!’ cried someone. A woman shrieked.

  But Mas didn’t fall. He regained his balance and, bent double, scrabbled rapidly on all fours, like the rat he was, across that roof, over the ridge tiles and disappeared. The crowd cheered.

  I reflected that Mas had been a seaman in his youth and learned to swarm up the rigging in blustery weather. He did not fear heights.

  We ran after him and the crowd ran after us. There then followed a weird and frantic chase. Mas scuttled across roof after roof, leaping from one to the other with the same balletic grace. We crashed and stumbled our way along below, trying to keep him in sight, waiting for the moment, which must come, when there wasn’t another roof to which he could jump. The sightseers, among them the patrons of the Silver Anchor, their ranks swelled by the customers of every taproom we passed, ran along with us, despite our orders to keep clear. They hindered our progress – their intention – and shouted their encouragements to the fleeing man.

  So we came to the end of the row of buildings where it abutted a narrow wharf beyond which lay the river, gurgling and slapping against the stonework.

  ‘He’ll have to climb down now,’ said Morris. ‘Fetch a ladder, someone! Hey, you up there!’ he added, bellowing to the fugitive. ‘Stay where you are and we’ll get you down.’