It was vexing, to say the least. The discovery of the Mithraeum had been a triumphant public success, enhancing his reputation as an archaeologist of unusual flair. The Marquess of Lome had visited the site, thus setting the Royal seal of approval on the enterprise. And then, some weeks later, perhaps, there would have been yet another sensation in Clerkenwell to tickle the ears of the general public….
Would that happen now, in view of that young man’s demise? That remained to be seen.
What was Wayneflete thinking about the business? Indigent old fool – no, he wasn’t that. He was no fool, even though half the antiquities in his wretched house were of decidedly doubtful provenance – second-rate stuff was all that he could afford. It would be better to keep out of his way. Distant civility would be in order, but no communication of any kind. Wayneflete’s star was almost set, in any case, and the general public had never heard of him. Let sleeping dogs lie….
But was Wayneflete sleeping? Was he a man to be cowed into inaction by a brutal slaying? No, Sir Charles Wayneflete was a dangerous man, a man to be watched.
Professor Ainsworth climbed into his bunk, and turned the little oil lamp down to a glimmer. Presently there came a triumphant emission of steam from the great engine, and the carriage began to move slowly along the platform. Ainsworth lay back on the pillow. It had been a full, rather tiring day, and he was ready to sleep. Just as he was dropping off, some lingering fragment of anxiety jerked him awake, and made him ask himself a silent question.
How much does Wayneflete know?
5
The Clerkenwell Chemist
Detective Sergeant Knollys stood for a moment on the pavement in front of 5 Hayward’s Court, a gaunt, three-storeyed house in an enclave of liver-brick dwellings leading off St John Street in Clerkenwell. A brass plate beside the front door told him that this was the premises of Raymond Walsh & Son, Assayers and Samplers, established 1836.
As Knollys mounted the steps from the street, the front door was opened, and a young woman came out on to the top step to greet him.
‘Sergeant Knollys?’ she asked. ‘We were given notice that you were coming. Please come upstairs.’
Knollys recognized the young woman immediately: he had seen her smiling out of the photograph that Gregory Walsh had kept in his wallet. ‘To Greg, with love from Thelma’, it had said on the reverse. He saw the flash of a diamond engagement ring as she placed her left hand on the lintel of the door.
Thelma was not smiling now, but although her eyes were red with weeping, she was clearly in full control of herself. Neatly and carefully dressed, she had drawn back her fair hair from her forehead, and tied it into a bun. As Jack Knollys stepped over the threshold, he saw her glance at the bulky valise that he was carrying. Fresh tears started to her eyes. No doubt she had realized that it contained her fiancé’s clothes and effects.
He followed her up a steep and narrow staircase, its walls papered with dark brown anaglypta. She opened a door on the top landing, and as they entered a long room overlooking the court, Knollys saw an old gentleman rise from his chair to greet him. He was very tall and thin, clad in a dark-grey suit, and with a wide mourning band on his arm. When he spoke, his voice quavered a little, but that, Knollys decided, was the effect of age rather than emotion. Old or not, this gentleman conveyed a strong air of command and control.
‘Detective Sergeant Knollys,’ said the old man. ‘I am Raymond Walsh, Gregory’s father. This young lady is Miss Thelma Thompson, who is staying in the house both at my request, and out of the kindness of her generous heart. Until yesterday, she was my son’s fiancée. Sit down, Mr Knollys.’
Knollys did as he was bid, and Thelma Thompson followed suit. The room was homely and comfortable, and was evidently the main living area of the house. Without more ado, the sergeant unfastened the valise and silently withdrew Gregory Walsh’s clothing, which he handed, item by item, to Thelma. Trousers, jacket, cap; a discreet cloth bag containing his shirt and undergarments – all the violated relics of what had once been a living man. How he hated this particular task! Silver watch and leather guard, signet ring; an official envelope containing one sovereign, two half-crowns, four shillings, and one and sevenpence in copper. One chemical spatula.
Old Mr Walsh, who had sat silently in his chair, watching the solemn production of his dead son’s effects, suddenly spoke.
‘A Sergeant French came here yesterday, to break the news of Gregory’s death. He couldn’t tell us much, but he did say that my son had been murdered. That was true, was it?’
‘It was, sir. Mr Walsh died from a single blow to the back of the head, delivered by an axe or adze— I’m sorry, Miss Thompson. Do you want to leave us alone for a while?’
‘No, no! I want to stay!’ cried Thelma, angrily dashing away her sudden tears. ‘Let me hear what happened to my fiancé.’
‘Very well, miss. Death would have been instantaneous, if that’s any consolation. The weapon has not yet been found.’ Knollys delved once more into the valise. ‘This handkerchief,’ he said, ‘had been used by Mr Gregory Walsh to wipe paint from his hand. I mean artists’ paint, the powdered kind, that you mix with water. Could that action have any connection with his work as an assayer and sampler?’
‘It could well be a part of Gregory’s work,’ said old Mr Walsh. ‘He may have been handling a sample of paint for analysis, and stained his hands. Like many analytical chemists, his fingers got stained with chemicals and burned with acids – occupational hazards, you might say. He was a wonderfully skilful man in his profession, you know. He was only twenty-six. I handed the business over to him last year, and was looking forward to Thelma here becoming his wife. But there, it was not to be.’
His old eyes filled with tears, and he looked away, so as to hide them from his visitor.
‘Mr Knollys,’ said Thelma, ‘why not look at the books downstairs in the laboratory? You’ll be able to see whether any of the jobs going forward yesterday would have involved the handling of paint. Mr Craven, the chief assistant, will be able to tell you.’
‘Thank you, miss, I’ll do that, presently. And now, here are Mr Walsh’s reading glasses, folded in their tin case.’
‘Glasses? No, they’re not Greg’s,’ said Thelma. ‘Greg had perfect sight. He never wore glasses.’
‘Never,’ said Gregory Walsh’s father. ‘If those glasses were in Gregory’s pocket, then they must have been put there.’
‘Well, that’s possible, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘though there are other explanations.’
He rummaged through the valise, and withdrew Gregory Walsh’s wallet. Thelma gave vent to a stifled sob, and held out her hand, but Knollys seemed unwilling for the moment to relinquish the wallet.
‘I found the cancelled halves of two tickets for the Alhambra in Mr Walsh’s wallet,’ he said. ‘They were dated the 14 July, which was a Saturday. Returning the stubs of tickets to his wallet suggests to me that Mr Gregory Walsh was a meticulous young man – a man concerned with detail.’
‘That was clever of you, Sergeant,’ said the elder Mr Walsh. ‘Gregory always paid great attention to detail. He noticed when things were awry, and would put them right.’
‘The 14 July – that was the night Greg took me to the music hall,’ said Thelma. ‘Hetty Miller was on, and the Santini Brothers. When we came out into Leicester Square, the heavens opened, and we were both drenched. It was all such fun, you know. But now …’
The girl shook her head sadly. Knollys glanced at her, and then turned his attention once more to the murdered man’s father.
‘Did your son live with you, Mr Walsh?’
‘He did, and if things had gone as planned, he would have married Thelma, as I told you, and they would have taken over the top floor. Who could have wished him any harm? He hadn’t an enemy in the world…. Gregory was born in this house, and will be buried from it. When shall we – when…?’
‘The body will be released from Horseferry Road Police Mortuary tomorr
ow, Mr Walsh, so you can begin making arrangements immediately. I can’t tell you how sorry I am, sir, to be plaguing you with all these questions at this time. As your son lived in Clerkenwell, did he ever visit the Mithraeum in Priory Gate Street?’
‘Yes, he did. He’d made several visits there, when they were still admitting the public. They stopped doing that about a fortnight ago. I don’t know why. It was something to do with replacing the wooden stairs leading down into the chamber, I think.’
The old man moved in his chair, and a light of animation came to his old eyes.
‘I wonder, Sergeant, whether poor Gregory went to look at the site yesterday, and was attacked by a vagrant? That would explain it all. As I said, Gregory was no stranger to the Mithraeum, and I know for a fact that he’d been allowed in there despite its being closed for the duration.’
‘It could be as you say, sir,’ said Knollys, though privately he thought it a very remote possibility. Murderous vagrants didn’t go round with pots of honey in their pockets. ‘Did your son know Professor Ainsworth, the man who discovered the Mithraeum? Did he ever mention having met the professor?’
The old man glanced at Thelma, who shook her head.
‘No, Sergeant,’ said Mr Walsh, ‘I’m sure Gregory didn’t know this professor. He’d have mentioned it if he’d known him. I must confess that I’ve never heard of him. I’m not much interested in ancient things. Are there any further questions that you want to ask? I’m a little tired, you know. I’d like to lie down soon.’
‘Of course, sir. There is one other question I’d like to ask you, and it’s this: was Mr Gregory Walsh fond of honey? Or did he ever mention honey in any particular context?’
‘Honey?’ Thelma exclaimed. ‘I’ve no idea whether he liked it or not. What can honey have to do with my fiancé’s violent death?’
‘Is honey kept in the house?’ Knollys persisted. ‘Mr Walsh, sir—’
‘No, Sergeant!’ cried the old man. ‘I do not eat honey. And there’s none in the house. I detest the wretched stuff. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my bed. Thelma will show you the way down to the laboratory, and you can talk to Craven.’
Old Mr Walsh left the room, closing the door behind him. Jack Knollys took the amulet from his pocket, and showed it to Thelma. She looked at it curiously, but it was clear to Knollys that it meant nothing to her.
‘It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A little lion on one side, and a seated man on the other.’
‘It was found in Mr Gregory Walsh’s pocket.’
‘Maybe he picked it up in the street,’ Thelma suggested. ‘It certainly wasn’t something that he had before he was killed. He’d have shown it to me, otherwise.’
As they descended the narrow staircase to the ground floor, Knollys felt compelled to ask Thelma Thompson a question.
‘Will you be all right here, Miss Thompson? Haven’t you got a woman friend who could keep you company?’
Thelma paused on the stairs, and smiled. She placed a hand lightly on Jack Knollys’ arm.
‘How kind of you, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m quite content to stay here in the house for a few days in order to look after Greg’s father. He married and became a father very late in life, which makes Greg’s loss even more cruel. Greg was his only child, you see. His wife – Greg’s mother – died three years ago. He and I always got along well. My parents know where I am, and they don’t live far away. In a week’s time, Mr Walsh’s widowed sister will arrive to live with him. She’s years younger than he is, so he’ll be well cared for.’
Thelma paused for a moment, as though making up her mind to speak further. ‘Greg’s dead,’ she said at last, ‘and nothing can bring him back. But I do have another friend – a gentleman friend – who has already called to see me, and once things are settled here, I’ll start walking out with him. Life must go on. Just go down that little flight of stairs, Mr Knollys, and through the glazed door. That’ll take you into the laboratory.’
The laboratory proved to be a large, square room occupying most of the ground floor at the rear of the house. Stone-flagged and with a low, stained ceiling, it received daylight from a row of frosted glass windows giving on to a narrow passage which divided 5 Hayward’s Court from its neighbour. The room held the characteristic tang of hot metal and coal-gas. An acrid vapour smarted Knollys’ eyes.
Three laboratory benches, each equipped with a ceramic sink, piped water and gas, and a professional microscope, filled the centre space, and at one of these benches a man stood working. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty, and wore a long, brown laboratory coat, which concealed all but his stiff white collar and sober tie. He was holding a test tube by means of a special holder, and was gently moving it across the flame of a Bunsen burner. He looked up as Jack Knollys entered, and smiled; but it was a world-weary, cynical kind of smile, which did nothing to animate the man’s pale face.
‘Mr Craven? I’m Detective Sergeant Knollys of Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.’
‘Bear with me a little while, Sergeant,’ said Craven. ‘I need to finish this test without interruption. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
Still holding the test tube in its clamp, Craven poured the contents into a small glass dish, and put the test tube safely into a little wooden rack. He turned out the Bunsen burner, and wiped his hands on a cloth.
‘Now, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘I’m all attention. I expect you’re here in connection with the death of Mr Gregory. Well, I know nothing about it. On the day he was killed in Priory Gate Street, I came in here to work as usual at eight o’clock. Mr Gregory never turned up until ten, which was his agreed starting-time. So he wasn’t here, and I wasn’t there.’
This man, thought Knollys, didn’t like the late Mr Gregory Walsh, or at least, resented him. Perhaps it would be wise to find out why.
‘Mr Walsh was only twenty-six, so I’ve been told,’ he said. ‘Was he a qualified chemist? Was he skilled in the craft? These are not idle questions, Mr Craven.’
‘Skilled? Oh, he was skilled enough. And he was well qualified, I’ll grant him that.’
The man’s voice was grudging, and held an undertone of angered disappointment, but it was clear to Knollys that Craven would never tell a lie. He might begrudge telling the truth, but he’d tell it, nonetheless.
Craven picked up the small glass dish and peered at the liquid. Evidently, the result was satisfactory. His mind was clearly more on the day’s work than the cruel fate of his employer’s son.
‘But I’m qualified, too, Mr Knollys, and I’ve worked here since I was fourteen. There’s very little I don’t know about this business, and until last year—’
He stopped speaking, and again took up the dish. He swirled the contents around, and gave a little grunt of satisfaction. Box heard him mutter, ‘Yes, the crystals are growing nicely!’
‘Until last year? What happened then, Mr Craven?’
‘Old Mr Walsh – you’ve met him, haven’t you, upstairs? – old Mr Walsh had always half promised me a partnership on account of my seniority here, and the many years that I’ve worked for him – fifty years, to be precise. “Don’t worry, Craven”, he’d say, “when the time’s ripe, I’ll make you a partner”. But then, he decided to hand over the business to young Mr Walsh, and that was the end of all talk of a share for me!’
Craven all but slammed the dish down on to the bench. For the first time since Knollys had entered the dim chamber, he looked him straight in the eyes.
‘But that’s all changed, now, hasn’t it, Mr Knollys?’ he said, the bitter smile returning to his lips. ‘Mr Gregory is dead, so maybe the old man will think over what he used to say about a partnership. He’ll need all the dependable help that he can get, now, and there’s none more dependable than me.’
Knollys felt a sudden stab of pity for the man. He had spun himself a fantasy about a partnership, which had been unkindly dangled before him f
or years, in order to keep him loyal to the business. To become a partner, you had to bring money into a business, and Craven was clearly not a moneyed man.
‘I wish you every success, Mr Craven,’ said Knollys. ‘Now, let me ask you a specific question. Was Mr Gregory Walsh engaged on any experiments that could conceivably have a connection with the Mithraeum in Priory Gate Street?’
Mr Craven looked interested. He left the bench, and invited Knollys to enter a tiny office, little more than a cupboard, situated near the staircase door. He pulled down a ledger from a shelf, and turned its pages for a while.
‘On these pages, Mr Knollys,’ he said, ‘you see all the jobs assigned to Mr Gregory Walsh this month. There’s Tuesday, the fourteenth – the day he was killed. Nothing until eleven o’clock, when he was due at the East India Dock to collect a sample of pine oil from one of the Baltic freighters. Nothing then till the afternoon, when he was due to collect some samples of paint and pigment from Thomas & Jones at Tower Wharf. That would be something to do with faults in manufacture, I should imagine. Nothing about the Mithraeum.’
Knollys had seen and heard all that was necessary. As he prepared to mount the stairs to take leave of Miss Thompson, he asked a sudden and unrehearsed question.
‘Did you like Mr Gregory Walsh?’
‘Like him? Well, I suppose I did. Yes, of course I did. I’ll be going to his funeral, I expect. I must buy a little wreath. Old Mr Walsh would appreciate that.’
Jack Knollys walked thoughtfully out of Hayward’s Court and into St John Street. He wondered how the guvnor was faring in Carshalton. Well, he’d find out later in the day. Sergeant Kenwright would be in the Mithraeum by now, with his sketch pads, pencils, and tracing-paper. Should he call in on him as he walked past the entrance to the site? No, best to keep his mind on the task in hand.
He turned out of Priory Gate Street and stepped on to the cobbles of Catherine Lane, glancing as he did so at the premises of the wholesale jeweller on the corner. ‘Gold & Co.’, it said over the door. A very apt name. A stout man with a bushy black beard was looking incuriously out of the front door. Next door to Mr Gold’s workshop was the closed and inscrutable Hatchard’s Furniture Repository, at the side of which was Miller’s Alley, leading to Miller’s Court.
Depths of Deceit Page 6