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

by Granger, Ann

  ‘No, sir, she does not. I asked her.’ I smiled at him.

  Of course he was right: Mrs Jameson’s confident assertion, that she had seen Jonathan Tapley before the house, would easily be demolished by a competent defence barrister. But I knew both she and I were right too. Jonathan had been there; and now he knew he’d been seen. Frustration struck me as a physical ache in my stomach. I had to have something more. But what?

  Tapley gripped his cane again and rose magisterially to his feet. ‘Inspector Ross, I have sat here with remarkable patience and listened to this farrago. Your two main witnesses, the doctor and the house owner, wouldn’t last five minutes under cross-examination. Nor would a cabbie’s testimony, even if you found a cabman who said he took me on the day, at the time, to the destination, hold up in court. As you yourself said, I would have been one fare among many. Let us say – again this is purely hypothetical – that I remember I left court early. Let us say I admit I went to the street and walked up and down before the house, debating whether to go in and face my cousin. But suppose I also say I changed my mind as I walked there, and left without doing so. What then, Ross? You cannot put me in that house, in that room, with my cousin. If you have nothing more to say, then I shall leave, unless you care to arrest me? Or you can lose your senses altogether and charge me. Otherwise, I shall go.’

  He stood there before me, that same dapper figure who had entered my office not so very long ago, and told me he thought he could identify the victim. I remembered him standing in the morgue looking down at his cousin’s body and showing not a scrap of emotion. Here was that same man, in that elegant coat and holding that same distinctive cane, looking down at me with something very like triumph. And he was a murderer! I could not let him win. I would not let him win. We were like a pair of duellists, facing one another in a misty dawn, pistols drawn and having one shot each. But he had fired his pistol shot. Now it was my turn. Now it was a test of whether his nerve would hold out the better . . . or my resolve.

  ‘Your appearance is impressive, Mr Tapley,’ I said. ‘Because it is part of your stock in trade to look the part, is it not? It impressed me when we first met. It is even possible a cabman might recall such a distinguished gentleman. Your distinctive appearance is why Mrs Jameson took a good look at you from her window; and was so sure when she saw you again on the train, that it was you she’d seen in the street. She particularly mentioned to me your well-tailored frock coat and . . .’

  I saw it then. It lasted but a split second but I saw the alarm in his eyes. I caught the involuntary twitch of his shoulder as if he would have moved his arm but stilled it. The coat! I thought. That well-tailored coat, it is something to do with his coat . . .

  Now I dared not let him walk out of here. If he had forgotten something that might incriminate him, he would immediately put it right the moment he left the Yard. It could not be a bloodstain, because anything like that he’d have looked for and cleaned off at once. So, what else could a coat have? It has pockets, I thought. Can it be . . .?

  He had already told me he thought me a fool in my attempt to build a case against him. I might as well be hanged for a sheep as for a lamb.

  ‘Mr Tapley,’ I said, ‘would you be so kind as to turn out your coat pockets and put the contents on my desk?’

  ‘What?’ he shouted, suddenly losing his temper. ‘Am I to be treated like a delinquent schoolboy? Like a common pickpocket?’

  ‘If you would oblige me?’ I persisted in a polite tone. His loss of composure confirmed to me I was on the right track.

  ‘Damned if I will! You shall hear more of this, Ross! I shall complain to your superiors! I am a professional man of some standing in the community. I practise the law myself and have represented many eminent men and their cases before the courts. When they hear of this, this nonsense of accusing me, they will laugh the Yard to scorn and your superiors will not thank you for it!’

  ‘I discussed matters with my immediate superior, Superintendent Dunn, before I sent a request to you to come to the Yard, Mr Tapley. Mr Dunn is even now, I believe, in a meeting with the deputy commissioner about the case. It is not unusual, Mr Tapley, that when an investigation strikes near to home, a gentleman such as yourself threatens the officer with a complaint to his superiors.’

  Tapley scowled. But he had run out of delaying tactics. Slowly, and with very bad grace, he set down his cane, put his hand into his right-hand pocket and withdrew a handkerchief and some loose coins. He put these on my desk. From his left-hand pocket he produced a stub of pencil, at which he looked mildly surprised. He put that down also.

  ‘Do you want my wallet also? It is in my inside pocket.’ He opened his coat and took out a fine pigskin wallet to add to the collection on the desk.

  None of these items was what I was looking for. ‘The procedure, sir,’ I said to Tapley, ‘is to turn the pockets inside out, to make sure nothing is missed. If you would oblige us?’

  ‘Oblige you? Why the devil should I do any such thing?’ he exploded again, his face reddening. ‘I object in the strongest terms. This is confounded impertinence and nothing more, Ross! I refuse.’

  ‘Why so? If you have not omitted anything, there is nothing to worry about. Come now, Mr Tapley, let us get it over with.’

  For a moment Tapley stood there rigid with rage and I really began to think he would be obstinate in his refusal. I was now sure that there was something in one pocket he did not want us to see, because if there really was nothing more, surely he wouldn’t pass up the opportunity to make me look a fool.

  Yet, what would I do if he did continue to refuse? I did not want to ask Morris to investigate the fellow’s pockets. That would lay the sergeant open to an accusation, should anything be found, that he had placed it there. I held Tapley’s gaze and waited. He must do it, I told myself. He must . . . not because I ask him as a police officer, but because he is a guilty man and we both know it. Because he must deal with all the evidence against him as he has dealt with my argument so far. He will now have to brazen it out, come what may, to the bitter end that is the scaffold.

  At long last, with infinite slowness, Tapley turned out the lining of the right pocket of the frock coat, which produced nothing. Even Biddle in the corner was holding his breath now, pencil suspended in his hand. Morris was sweating. I did not like to think what the expression on my face showed. Tapley’s hand moved to the left pocket . . .

  Some small object clattered to the floor.

  ‘Something’s fallen out, sir,’ said Morris hoarsely.

  He looked down at the floor. Tapley, too, looked down. I came round my desk to join them and Biddle got up from his chair and edged nearer to have a view.

  We were all staring down at a metal object. It was a key. Had Tapley, in desperation, tried to palm it, slip it into his sleeve, and lacked the dexterity? I thought I caught a brief expression of disappointment on his face. But it was quickly gone and he was impassive.

  ‘Perhaps,’ I suggested, ‘you would be so kind as to pick it up and put it on the desk?’

  Morris, realising Biddle had joined us, signalled him crossly to go back to his corner.

  I thought Tapley might explode in protest again, but he simply bent down and retrieved the key, tossing it on to my desk with a contemptuous gesture. It landed noisily, slid a little way, and came to rest in the middle.

  ‘Well now,’ I said. ‘Where does this come from, Mr Tapley?’

  ‘I have no idea,’ he said tightly. ‘I must have picked it up in error somewhere.’

  ‘No, you picked it up from the bedside table in your cousin’s bedchamber. It is, I think we’ll find, the street-door key to Mrs Jameson’s house. We know your cousin had one, but we have so far failed to find it, despite a diligent search. Having killed your cousin, you were anxious lest there were anything in his rooms you would not wish anyone to see. Perhaps he’d begun to write a letter to his daughter? Perhaps, even worse, she had written to him during his stay in London, once sh
e knew where he lived. It was important, in your view, that any direct connection between father and daughter be destroyed. Flora had to be presented as totally unaware of her father’s presence in London, if – in your view – her reputation was to be saved. You could not linger long, with a dead body on the floor. Someone might come at any moment. You were expected back at your chambers for a case conference later. You must not be late for that! That would require an explanation, complicate your story. You looked quickly round the sitting room, went into the bedroom next door and made a superficial search of that. You found nothing but were dissatisfied. You needed more time. There was a key looking like a street-door key in a tray on the bedside table. Ideal! You picked it up and slipped it into your pocket, intending to return. Then you left the house as you’d entered it.

  ‘But events moved rather too quickly for you, as you realised when you saw a report of the murder in the evening papers. You had to abandon your plan to return to the house . . . at least for a while. But the key remained in your pocket. Perhaps you thought it the best place for it. No one would see it there.’

  ‘If’, Tapley said in measured tones, ‘you believe that to be the key to Mrs Jameson’s house, then I suggest you take it there and open the front door with it.’ His gaze challenged me.

  I was equal to it and for the second time I allowed myself a smile. ‘You suggest I do that, because you know it will not now open it. The lock has been changed. It was changed the very next morning on my recommendation. But you have just revealed that you’re well aware of that. So you did return, after all, didn’t you? And you couldn’t get in. You did not risk entry through the kitchen again. Or perhaps you tried the kitchen door and found the maid had shut that fast, too. Given that a murderer had entered that way the last time she’d left it open, when she was out of the kitchen, she was now being extra careful.’

  ‘If the front-door lock has been changed,’ said Tapley, ‘then how will you prove that was formerly the key?’

  ‘You know,’ I told him, ‘I have met some interesting people in the course of this investigation. One of them was a taxidermist.’

  Tapley looked astounded. ‘What the devil has that to do with it?’

  ‘Only that he had a large number of keys on a ring, far more than he needed. I remarked on it to him. He told me he never threw away a key because you never knew when it might come in useful. There are many people like that, Mr Tapley, who hoard old keys. They usually have a box they keep them in, or a drawer in the kitchen or in a desk, or they put them on a ring like my taxidermist. If the key to something is lost, trying an old key or two may sometimes open a recalcitrant lock. I think I myself have a couple lying about at home somewhere. Perhaps that’s what inspired me to take possession of the old door lock to Mrs Jameson’s house, when the locksmith changed it, together with Mrs Jameson’s own key to it. That same unwillingness to part with a key, you could say, that might be useful. Particularly useful in this case, because there was a house key missing, the one we knew Thomas Tapley had in his possession. We hoped to find it. Should it turn up, well, then, it would be important to be able to establish beyond doubt that it was your cousin’s key. Constable, go and fetch the bag with the lock in it, the one I removed from the murder house.’

  Biddle put down his notebook and pencil and scurried away. We all waited in uneasy silence. I think I must have been as nervous as Tapley must surely be. He didn’t show it, other than by a tapping of one hand upon the other. I had to admire his refusal to admit defeat, and I hoped I looked as confident.

  Biddle returned, nursing the bag in his arms like a baby. He carried it to the desk where he set it down reverently.

  ‘Well, open it, then, boy!’ growled Morris.

  ‘Yessir!’ Biddle flushed and pulled open the drawstring securing the neck of the bag. He tipped it up and the old lock slid out on to the desk. It was a fine bit of lockmaker’s art. It wouldn’t have surprised me if it had been set into the door of the Jameson house more than seventy years ago. No villain, intent on housebreaking, could have picked his way through that one, just as the locksmith had told us. Without a key, the intruder would have to depend on forcing a window – or on a careless maid, leaving the back door ajar.

  ‘Here it is,’ I said, ‘and there’s Mrs Jameson’s key in the bag with it.’ I took it out and set it down beside the key from Tapley’s pocket. ‘Yes, they look to me to be a pair. But we can make quite sure. We’ll try the key from your pocket in the lock. Will you do the honours, Mr Tapley, or shall I?’

  Tapley was now as still as a statue, and as silent. I smiled and, picking up the key that came from his pocket, put it into the keyhole of the old lock. It turned easily with a distinct click and the bolt leaped out smoothly. I turned it back and the bolt obligingly slid out of sight. I took out the key and set it down again. Tapley said nothing. But his eyes were filled with fury as he stared down at the little object that would send him to the gallows.

  ‘You invited me to arrest you earlier,’ I said. ‘I think I will now accept your offer and do so. Jonathan Tapley, you are under arrest, charged with the murder of Thomas Tapley.’

  It is quite something to have Lizzie listen in silence, but she spoke not a word as I told her of all this later. She hardly moved a muscle.

  ‘Jonathan must be gnashing his teeth in rage,’ I concluded, ‘as he sits in a cell and reflects on how unnecessary it all was! He should have tossed the key into the river when he found it was no more use to him. I wonder if he gave way to that instinct so many of us have, to keep odd keys? In any case, his speciality has not been criminal law, and he has never learned to think like a criminal and make careful disposal of evidence. After all, he never dreamed he’d be a suspect. Even more galling for him than his failure to get rid of the key is the knowledge that, had he not gone to his cousin’s lodgings, Hector Mas would probably have gone there not many days later, Jenkins having located their target, and carried out the foul crime. Jonathan need have done nothing! Mas would have done it for him.’

  Lizzie heaved a deep sigh. ‘Poor Flora,’ she said. ‘First she loses her father, horribly murdered. Now it seems the man she has grown up regarding as a substitute father may well end on the gallows. Just to know that he killed her father . . . and perhaps, even worse, her own action, in persuading the family coachman to drive her to a spot nearby to where her father was living, led to the fatal confrontation.’

  ‘When the truth comes out in these matters, all suffer,’ I told her, ‘the innocent as well as the guilty. What of Maria Tapley? Not a likeable woman, perhaps, but she’ll suffer, too. The reputation of the family, which means so much to her, is utterly destroyed.’

  ‘What of Victorine and that wretched man, Hector Mas?’ demanded Lizzie.

  ‘Oh, they’ll be charged concerning the death of Horatio Jenkins and the attempted abduction of Flora. Victorine will do her best to wriggle free of any foreknowledge of either. But she covered up for Mas afterwards, at the very least.’

  Lizzie looked thoughtful. ‘Victorine had nothing to do with the murder of her husband. She may, dreadful though the thought is, have been planning such an unspeakable crime with Mas, but they didn’t carry it out. So, do you think she will continue to press her claim to a share of Thomas Tapley’s estate?’

  ‘My dealings with Victorine Guillaume, or the widow Tapley as we should call her,’ I told Lizzie, ‘have taught me that the lady never gives up, no matter how tricky a situation she finds herself in!

  ‘But I understand,’ I went on, ‘that the matter of Thomas Tapley’s estate, in the absence of a valid will, will have to be decided by a court. When such things go to court, Lizzie, they are likely to linger there a long time. It may be a few years before it’s finally settled. Let us at least hope that the whole value of the estate does not finish by being swallowed up in legal fees! Flora may well need to make a good marriage now, if she can. She is tainted by events, alas.’

  ‘That young man who wanted to marry
her before this’, said Lizzie firmly, ‘was not suitable, no matter how highly Jonathan and Maria thought of him. Flora has written to tell me the marriage will now not take place. It is not surprising. The noble family feared the stories in the press. I hope that one day she’ll meet someone who will love her for the intelligent, loyal and courageous person she is, and not worry about old scandal. Then she’ll be truly happy . . .’ Lizzie reached out and took my hand . . . ‘like you and me.’