by Granger, Ann
But Mas had no intention of accepting our offer. He was in his own waterside element. We saw his slim figure stand erect at the very point of the gable. He raised his arms and we all fell silent in awe and apprehension as the silhouetted form, starkly outlined again the moon, took flight, arching into the air, and then flying outward and downward in a swallow dive. By some miracle he cleared the wharf, and plunged into the murky waters of the Thames.
He caused a waterspout that sent a great fountain high into the air and across the wharf to drench those nearby. We all ran to the edge. Lanterns were held out. The surface of the river was black, choppy, and slicked with oil. Debris of all sorts bobbed about. Moored craft creaked and rocked with the wave. But nothing resembled the head of a man treading water, or showed us the progress of a swimmer.
‘He can stay underwater for so long,’ I muttered. ‘But not for ever.’
‘He’ll have knocked himself out and drowned,’ murmured Morris, as the seconds ticked by.
‘No, sir, look!’ shouted one of the River officers, pointing.
There in the distance, caught in the light of lanterns hung from the bow of a moored vessel, we could see the water breaking, and a stream of foam, as a swimmer struck out strongly.
Perhaps his intention was to lose himself among the moored craft, and come ashore at a different spot. He might have been successful. But crewmen aboard a barge anchored further out had spotted the man in the water. Not knowing what was happening, they were reacting instinctively.
We heard their cry of ‘Man overboard!’ They were already lowering a boat. Figures, one armed with a boathook, were waiting to scramble into it to the rescue.
‘Mr Ross!’ shouted the sergeant of the River Police who had come with us. ‘We have a police launch ready, sir. This way!’
We ran after him, and found ourselves crammed into the police launch, heading towards the spot. As we neared it we saw a remarkable sight, as if we had not already seen so many that evening.
The would-be rescuers had reached the man in the water, but he was declining to be rescued. Hands stretched out to him. A rope was thrown. Voices implored him to ‘Grab hold, matey!’ He ignored all offers and struck out in another direction.
The River Police sergeant put a loud-hailer to his mouth. ‘Detain him! Detain that man!’
The crewmen heard him. The one with the boathook stretched it out and hooked it into the swimmer’s clothing. The swimmer threshed about, trying to free himself without drowning in the effort. But he was caught as surely as a fish on a line, and soon we had him landed.
‘Hector Mas?’ I gasped at the sodden figure sprawled on the deck of the launch at our feet. ‘Otherwise known as Pierre Laurent? You are under arrest.’
The half-drowned creature rolled on to his side and spewed out half a gallon of filthy river water. Then he looked up and disgorged another stream, this time of French, directed at me.
I don’t understand French and, if Lizzie had been with us, I doubt her knowledge included the words Mas was using. But, no matter, I got his meaning quite clearly.
It was late when I arrived home that evening, damp and exhausted. I was eager to tell the tale of our triumph. But I was forestalled. To my surprise, not only had Lizzie waited up for me, but she also had Mrs Jameson with her.
‘I am surprised to see you, ma’am,’ I said to her, ‘at this late hour. I hope nothing more has gone amiss.’
Not waiting for her answer, I couldn’t help but add eagerly, ‘You should know, ma’am, that we have him! We have the man who killed your lodger. He is a Frenchman and is now sitting, still awash with river water, in the cells.’
It struck me that this intelligence was not being received with the cries of amazement and delight I had anticipated. I saw the two women glance at one another. My heart sank.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘Ben,’ began Lizzie. ‘We’re delighted you’ve caught Mas, of course. You must all be so pleased and Superintendent Dunn in particular. But Mrs Jameson has waited to see you, even though it’s so late, because she has something very important she wants to tell you.’
I sat down, feeling the heat from the hearth begin to dry my damp clothes. I suspected I was starting to steam like a racehorse and probably smelled abominably of the river.
‘The fact is this, Mr Ross,’ Mrs Jameson began. ‘I should offer an apology. I should have told you of this before, but it was not until the funeral of poor Mr Tapley that it occurred to me you might like to know about it. Indeed, I had almost forgot it until today.’
‘Yes?’ I encouraged her. She looked very nervous.
‘I was very surprised, when we attended the funeral, to meet Mr Tapley’s cousin, Mr Jonathan Tapley, and see what a fine, prosperous gentleman he was – is. Such a beautifully tailored coat . . . The coat particularly, and the cane.’
‘Yes . . .’ I repeated dully, apprehension growing in me.
‘I do realise you asked me, and Jenny, too, on the day of the murder, whether we’d seen any strangers loitering about the house. I said I had not because, you see, my mind was running on suspicious-looking strangers, ruffians, murderers . . . I had forgotten the gentleman with the cane.’
I closed my eyes briefly. ‘Go on, ma’am.’
‘It was earlier that afternoon – on the day of the murder. It would have been some time after three o’clock. I am not usually in my front parlour at that time of the afternoon, unless I have visitors. But I had gone in to fetch some item I’d left there the evening before. Something attracted me, a movement in the street outside that just caught the corner of my eye, and caused me to look out of the parlour window. I saw a gentleman walk past my house and glance up at it. He was very well dressed and carried a cane, A few moments later, he walked past again. I did not know him, and thought perhaps he was looking for an address. When he did not come back a third time, I assumed he’d found it. He was a most respectable-looking man, a professional-looking man, very dignified. It was not until the funeral, and to tell the truth, not until we were on the Necropolis railway train, travelling out to Brookwood, that I was able to study Mr Jonathan Tapley close at hand. I became convinced that it was the same man. And yet, I thought I must be mistaken. But the more I looked at him, the more I became sure.’
‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ I said. ‘But do you sometimes wear spectacles? I ask because this is what a barrister may one day ask.’
‘I do not wear spectacles, Inspector, not even when reading by artificial light. I have always been blessed with excellent eyesight!’ Mrs Jameson sounded nettled. She resumed her usual placid tone to continue, ‘I hesitated to speak to you at once. You told us, the doctor’s opinion was poor Mr Thomas Tapley had died no earlier than five that afternoon. But I saw the other gentleman – I am now sure it was Mr Jonathan Tapley – so much earlier in the afternoon. I cannot give you a time o’clock, but it was certainly not so very long after three when he first passed by my house and about two minutes after that when he passed by the second time. You can see my predicament and why I have waited until tonight to tell you? But then I decided, you should know of it, even if it makes no difference. You say you have the culprit? Well, then, I suppose it does make no difference and I have troubled you with this to no purpose.’
‘Thank you, Mrs Jameson,’ I told her hollowly. ‘I – we, the police, are much obliged to you. You did quite the right thing in telling me.’
‘Thank you,’ she said with relief, rising to her feet. ‘And now I must go home.’
‘I’ll walk with you,’ I said. ‘It’s late.’
When I returned to my own fireside, my wife wasted no time. ‘But he couldn’t have done it, surely? Why should he? Mrs Jameson must be wrong. You have Mas in the cells, and Victorine as well. What will you do?’
‘I shall tell Dunn’, I said, ‘first thing tomorrow morning. What he will say, I dread to imagine.’
Chapter Twenty
* * *
‘THE WRONG man?’ roa
red Dunn. His eyes bulged. ‘What on earth are you talking about, Ross?’
‘I mean, it would be dangerous to congratulate ourselves too soon, sir. We may not have solved this case yet.’
‘Of course we’ve solved it! Do you seriously mean to suggest that, with Mas downstairs in the cells, we have arrested an innocent man!’ Dunn gurgled into silence, gulping for air in the manner of a stranded fish.
‘No, no, Hector Mas is not an innocent man, sir,’ I hurried on. ‘Except, possibly, of the murder of Thomas Tapley. On other counts I’m quite sure he’s guilty and we have the right villain locked up in the cells. He killed Jenkins and tried to abduct Flora Tapley. It may have been his original intention – and that of his accomplice Guillaume – on coming to England, that they seek out Thomas Tapley and that Mas murder him. But we cannot place him at the scene of that murder. Let us suppose that it’s just possible someone else was there. Someone found Thomas Tapley before Mas did.’
‘Let us suppose, for the sake of a mental exercise, that the moon is made of blue cheese,’ offered Dunn sarcastically.
‘All I am saying, sir, is that I don’t think we have yet established beyond doubt that it was Mas who killed Thomas Tapley.’
‘Of course he did!’ bawled Dunn. ‘Who else had a motive and opportunity?’
‘For that we must widen the scope of our enquiries, sir. But we have a starting point. We have agreed that there is a clever woman involved in this case, Victorine Guillaume. But I’m thinking there has also been a clever man.’
‘Aha!’ Dunn looked up at me under bushy eyebrows. ‘Hector Mas is your clever man.’
‘He has the quickness and ruthlessness of a wild beast, sir. But he is all instinct. The brains belong to Victorine Guillaume. No, I am thinking of Jonathan Tapley.’
‘Tapley and Guillaume in league? Nonsense!’
‘Yes, sir, that would be nonsense and I don’t suggest it for a moment. I mean they have acted separately and in ignorance of one another. Victorine and her henchman, Mas, have been playing one deadly game. Jonathan Tapley has been playing another. Normally we have one set of villains. This time, I fancy we have two.’
Dunn shook his head. ‘No, no, it won’t do, Ross.’
I persisted. ‘Mrs Jameson saw a man in the street, as I have been telling you, sir, walking up and down outside her house on the afternoon of the murder. When she saw Jonathan Tapley at the funeral, she recognised him as that man. She is quite certain. So, we have no witness to put Hector Mas in front of the house, but we do have a reliable one to put Jonathan Tapley there.’
‘Reliable? We have an elderly lady, whose sight, for all we know, may be failing. She saw a man through her window, some distance away, and now she is ready to swear that it was Jonathan Tapley? Come, come, Ross, no jury would accept that.’
‘We have to consider it. Of course, Mrs Jameson saw the man at around three in the afternoon or shortly thereafter—’
Dunn interrupted. ‘In that case, how on earth is Jonathan Tapley supposed to have done it? In the medical man’s opinion, the murder took place some time between five and the discovery of the corpse at a little after seven. Jonathan Tapley could not have done it. His actions at the time of the murder are accounted for. He was in court all day! By four thirty he was at his chambers, eating cold chicken. At five he held a case conference there. All these things during the period when we know, from our medical man, that the murder was committed! He has given us a list of those people who saw and spoke to him at his chambers. Anyway, why, for pity’s sake, should he kill his cousin?’
‘Mr Dunn,’ I began. ‘Let me explain my thinking.’
‘Please do so,’ said Dunn sarcastically, with a broad gesture of his hand and arm. ‘I confess myself fascinated, Ross. Proceed!’
I did so, carefully laying out my reasons.
‘Guillaume repeatedly tells us that she was told by her husband, or that he gave her clearly to understand, that the cousins had quarrelled. There was a bitter rift, she suggests, between them. Well, now, that might be so. Because Guillaume is thrifty with her evidence, it does not mean everything she says is to be disbelieved. She twists the facts to suit her purpose, but in a curious sort of way, she sticks to them. So, was there animosity between the two men?
‘Only consider, sir, Jonathan had forced his cousin to leave the country, had taken away his cousin’s only child, his daughter Flora. We have good reason to believe Thomas was devoted to his child. Lizzie discovered how he had sought out Flora secretly here in London and how worried he was that she was about to make a disastrous marriage. We have this from Flora’s own lips.
‘But Jonathan’s account of the arrangement made with his cousin is that it was entirely amicable; that Thomas was grateful to Jonathan and his wife for taking in little Flora and raising her as their own. Thomas found visiting the child “difficult”, says Jonathan, and that is the reason his visits were so few and brief. But is that true? According to Jonathan, Thomas agreed it was best he leave the country for France and never return. Did he put up no argument against the plan? We don’t know, because if he did, then Jonathan has been careful not to tell us so. To my mind, there is a discrepancy between what Jonathan has told us, and what we know from Flora herself of her father’s actions when he was back in London.
‘Because Jonathan is a respected barrister at law, our instinct is to believe his version of events. Because Victorine appears to have led a rackety life when young, has been difficult to deal with and obviously mistrusts the law, we are tempted to be suspicious of everything she says. That includes her report of some old quarrel she says took place between the two men. It could be that Victorine is simply her own worst enemy. Consider, sir, that Thomas never tried to contact Jonathan when he returned to England over a year ago. He lived in London, south of the river, near to Lizzie and me. He crossed the river, using Waterloo Bridge, regularly on his way to spend his day in town. Lizzie met him in the area. Jenkins, waiting about in his clown’s costume, ran him to earth there. Yet Thomas did not walk as far as his cousin’s house; or even his cousin’s chambers in the Gray’s Inn Road. Thomas sought out his daughter in a public library, and swore her to secrecy about their meeting. He agreed to her dressing up and visiting him in disguise. This, to me, is a man who did not trust his cousin Jonathan and was anxious, above all, that Jonathan never learn Thomas was back in London.
‘Was this just because Thomas knew he had broken his word about never returning? Because he feared Jonathan’s anger? Did he fear resurrection of old scandal? Or something else altogether? You know, when I first met Jonathan, he said something odd. It struck me at the time as merely tasteless, but now I wonder. I had noticed his cane, with the skull pommel. He saw it had taken my interest. He held it up, saying that he had not used it to beat in his cousin’s brains. I would not have thought him a man to make such a crude joke at so inappropriate a time. So, then, why did he say it? Was he meeting my suspicion head-on in order to deflect it?’
‘Supposition . . .’ growled Dunn.
‘At least give me a chance, sir, to go through Tapley’s alibi again. If I can crack it . . . find a loophole somewhere . . .’
‘You’ll but offend him and make us look ridiculous!’ Dunn grumbled. ‘How are you going to crack his alibi for the time of the murder, when we have medical evidence that the victim died after five that afternoon?’
‘Well, sir,’ I said, ‘as to that, I have an idea I’d like to try out.’
Dunn threw up his hands and brought them palm down on his desk with a thump. ‘An idea? It seems to me you’re full of ideas, Ross, each one crazier than the last. Where, if I may ask, did you get this latest idea?’
I allowed myself a smile, which seemed to alarm the superintendent. ‘I got it from a steak and kidney pie, sir.’
At that, Dunn looked even more alarmed, until I explained. ‘Hum,’ he muttered. ‘Forty-eight hours, Ross, I give you forty-eight hours. If you haven’t got a case against Jonathan Tapley
in that time, I shall personally charge Hector Mas with the murder of Thomas Tapley.’
Elizabeth Martin Ross
‘I heard your old man has arrested a Frenchie for the murder of the gent living in your street.’
The voice appeared out of nowhere and made me jump. I looked around and a movement in the shadow of a doorway materialised into the familiar ragged form of Coalhouse Joey.
‘Oh, Joey!’ I exclaimed in relief. ‘Where have you been recently? I’ve been looking out for you.’
‘Was you?’ Joey’s features twisted into a scowl. ‘I thought as you might be, so I cleared off, didn’t I?’
‘Why did you do that?’
‘Because,’ said Joey patiently, as if speaking to someone slow on the uptake, ‘you would have told your old man what I told you, about the young swell what I spotted signalling to old Tapley from the street. Then your old man, being a rozzer, would have come questioning me. I don’t like talking to rozzers. So I cleared off. But now I heard he’s gone and nabbed the villain, he won’t be interested in me no more, and I can come back.’ Joey paused. ‘So I have, and here I am!’ he concluded.
‘My husband would have liked to talk to you,’ I admitted. ‘But not now, because the mystery of the young man you saw has been cleared up.’
‘Oh? Has it?’ Joey looked disappointed. ‘Nuffin’ to do with the murder, then?’
‘No, not exactly. But you were right to tell me what you saw. If you ever see anything else unusual like that, you can always tell me. Witnesses are always very important.’
Joey obviously liked the idea of being important, but tempered his enthusiasm with the knowledge it meant talking to rozzers.
‘A Frenchie, eh?’ He stared at me thoughtfully. ‘I heard they went chasing him all round Wapping, River Police, too. The Frenchie climbed up a building and stood on the top of a chimney, shaking his fists and defying all the p’licemen. Then ran across all the roofs in Wapping before he leaped into the river. He swam across the Thames to escape ’em; but they went after him in a boat and hauled him out of the water, swearing and cussing and fighting for his life. It took six of ’em to hold him down.’