by Joyce Porter
MacGregor examined it again. ‘Pity the signature’s so badly written. Cath? Cuth? Leith, perhaps? Ceith? Will? Drat it, it might be anything.’
Dover peered at it himself. He really needed reading glasses, but preferred to think that people were using smaller print these days. ‘Could be Cath,’ he said gloomily. ‘That’d be a woman, I suppose. Oh well,’ he sighed crossly, ‘I reckon a woman could have written it. Be just like a woman,’ he snorted, ‘to leave the year out of the date. Thing might have been written twenty years ago, damn it!’
‘We can get the lab boys to check on that, sir. They’ll probably be able to tell us whether it was written by a man or a woman.’
Dover sighed again and handed the letter back to MacGregor. ‘All right, get ’em to run a check on it.’
‘Finger-prints?’
‘Might as well. Though Gawd knows what good it’ll do. We might try asking Violet Slatcher about it tomorrow. If she’s not gone completely round the twist she might know something about it, though I doubt it. I wish we’d got the envelope.’
Dover sat sullenly on the bed while MacGregor had another hunt around to see if he could find anything else. He couldn’t.
The two men returned to the Station Hotel and Dover permitted his sergeant to buy him a celebratory drink. After all, Dover had solved a murder case.
Chapter Eleven
When Dover came down to breakfast the next morning he had the unusual pleasure of finding himself a minor celebrity. News travels fast in Curdley and the word had flashed around that that fat old blighter from London had, against all the betting, actually solved the murder of Isobel Slatcher. The Protestants basked in the reflected glory of one of their co-religionists (C. of E. supporters played down the hero’s Methodism) and the Catholics were delighted that the heinous crime had not been committed by one of them. It was, they pointed out smugly, only likely that a heretic would be guilty of killing her own child.
As Dover passed through the hall there was a flattering murmur as people knowingly pointed him out to their friends. The receptionist coyly asked him to autograph last night’s menu and then, oh joy of joys, the Press burst in, excitedly demanding the inside story and would Chief Inspector Dover, sir, mind handing the menu back to the receptionist again while they took a picture. Dover smirked and obliged, only too willingly. He’d like to see Smartie Alec Roderick’s face when he got an eyeful of this in his morning paper!
It was highly unlikely, though, that Superintendent Roderick subscribed to the Curdley and District Custodian. And, however much professional bustle and verve Ralph Gostage and his part-time photographer/wedding reporter put into it, there was no disguising the fact that the Custodian was the only organ of the Press anxious to photograph and interview the great man.
But Dover played his part to perfection. It might have been an everyday occurrence as far as he was concerned. In curt, manly monosyllables he acknowledged the Press’s congratulations on the successful outcome of his investigations and modestly attributed his latest triumph (like all his others) to ‘hard work’. Sphinx-faced but eagle-eyed, he regretted that he could not divulge further details at this stage. And, yes, he intended to pursue resolutely and without fear or favour the dastardly perpetrator of the original cowardly attack on Curdley’s Sleeping Beauty. No, he would not be attending the funeral, adding, meaningfully, that he would be otherwise engaged. The Press were delighted at such generous co-operation. Dover posed for another photograph, chins up and stomach in. It is impossible to guess how long all this would have gone on if Dover hadn’t spotted MacGregor pushing his way through the admiring throng of guests and staff. That did it! Dover was the last one to share the limelight with anybody, never mind his own sergeant. Pausing only to request three dozen free copies of that week’s Custodian, he bustled Mr Gostage rapidly out of the hotel before he could get a glimpse of the highly photogenic Charles Edward.
MacGregor came panting up, pink with excitement. ‘Sir,’ he began.
Dover held up a lordly hand and glanced significantly at the gaping crowd, happily prepared to drink in every confidential word.
‘Not here, Sergeant!’ said Dover, doing his Sherlock Holmes act. ‘Walls have ears.’
Luckily breakfast tables have not, and once Dover had got a double helping of bacon and eggs (a modest tribute from the cook) in front of him, MacGregor was permitted to speak.
‘That letter, sir,’ said MacGregor, dropping his voice to a whisper just to be on the safe side. ‘You remember, the one we found last night?’
‘Yes, I remember, laddie,’ Dover spoke absent-mindedly. He was wondering whether he ought to start smoking a pipe, or taking snuff. The public liked that sort of thing and one had to think of one’s image, didn’t one? A pipe, perhaps? He frowned doubtfully. With his dentures? Some of MacGregor’s words filtered through. Dover switched smartly back to reality.
‘What’s that? ‘he snarled.
‘I think I’ve solved the letter, sir,’ hissed MacGregor.
‘For God’s sake, speak up, Sergeant! Lost your flaming voice or something?’
‘No, sir,’ said MacGregor, reverting to his normal tone.
‘Well, what’s all this about the letter?’
‘I was thinking about it last night, sir, and trying to puzzle out the signature when, all at once, it hit me!’
Dover gave a disparaging sniff.
‘It just came to me in a flash, sir. The signature – it’s Cuth.’
Dover shovelled a forkful of egg rather unsuccessfully into his mouth. ‘So what?’
‘Cuth – that’s short for Cuthbert, isn’t it?’
‘Probably,’ said Dover, anxious not to commit himself too far.
‘Well, if it is Cuthbert, can’t you see what that means, sir?’
‘No!’ snapped Dover. ‘I can’t. For God’s sake, get on with it, man!’
‘Cuthbert! Cuthbert Boys, sir!’
Dover munched his bacon. ‘Who’s he?’
MacGregor’s jaw tightened and silently, to himself, he said the same rude word ten times. Somehow, it helped.
‘Cuthbert Boys, sir! Bigamous Bertie! The chap Superintendent Roderick caught!’
‘Oh!’ Dover scowled horribly. ‘Him! Well, what’s he got to do with it? Pour me out another cuppa, will you?’
MacGregor picked up the teapot, wondered for a moment if he dared, decided he didn’t and meekly filled his chief inspector’s cup.
‘I think, sir,’ he said, watching Dover spoon the sugar in, ‘ that the letter we found in Isobel Slatcher’s Bible might have been written by Cuthbert Boys. As far as I can remember the date would fit in all right. Bigamous Bertie was run to earth some time after Christmas last year. This letter’s dated the tenth of January and I reckon that might be just about when Bertie was arrested. Now, Super Percy’s just run him in, on a capital murder charge too. Bertie must have been feeling pretty low. He can’t have had any friends or anybody he could turn to for help – not after the kind of life he’d been living. So, what does he do? He turns to his family and writes to the brother he’s not seen for donkey’s years.’
Dover reached for the last piece of toast. ‘Hey, wait a minute,’ he said, always ready to pick holes in other people’s theories. ‘How do you know the letter was written to a man? It might have been sent to a woman.’
‘No.’ MacGregor shook his head firmly and produced the letter which he had carefully sealed in a transparent envelope. ‘Look, it says here, “But you can’t forget that however much has come between us, you’re still my brother.” The letter was written to a man all right. Cuthbert Boys’s brother.’
Dover screwed up his nose and read the letter through again. ‘Well,’ he observed grudgingly, ‘I suppose it might fit – if the signature is Cuth and if the date’s right. But, I dunno, it might fit dozens of things, mightn’t it? No, I think it’s a bit thin, MacGregor, it’s a bit too far fetched.’
‘But we could check it, couldn’t we, sir?’
‘How do you mean?’
‘Well, surely the lab could find out for us how old the letter is. They can check the ink, can’t they? They should be able to give us some idea how old the ink is at the very least. And we can check the handwriting too, can’t we? There must be some specimens of Bertie’s handwriting somewhere. And the date – we can easily find out whether Bertie would be likely to have written a letter asking for help in January this year. It’s my guess he wanted the money to pay for his defence, probably didn’t realize the newspapers’d see to all that in return for his life story.’
‘All right,’ said Dover. ‘But what’s it going to prove, even if Bertie did write it?’
‘Don’t you see, sir? It could be a motive for Isobel Slatcher’s murder.’
‘Motive for murder?’
‘Yes, sir. Suppose Isobel found this letter somewhere – in a returned library book, perhaps. She puts two and two together, like I did, and realizes that it was written by Cuthbert Boys to his brother. The brother of Cuthbert Boys is somebody here in Curdley. Suppose she knew who the letter was written to? Suppose she tried a bit of the old blackmail? The victim gets fed up with it and shoots her.’
‘’Strewth!’ observed Dover contemptuously. ‘You’re letting your imagination run riot a bit, aren’t you? Isobel Slatcher a blackmailer? Blimey, that’s coming it a bit strong, isn’t it? There hasn’t been a hint of blackmail anywhere, and you damned well know it. Oh no, this is building a bit too much on a signature we can’t blooming well even read!’
MacGregor was disappointed. ‘But, if we don’t follow this letter up, sir,’ he asked pointedly, ‘what are we going to do next?’
It was a good question. Dover scowled. He hadn’t the least idea. He took a large mouthful of hot tea and thought deeply. Young detective sergeants were, in his considered opinion, the lowest form of police life, and he spent long hours complaining happily about their shortcomings and inadequacies. But, however scathing he might be about the present generation of young detectives, the last thing he wanted was to have a really bright one working for him. That would be murder! Detective sergeants should be seen rarely, and heard never at all. They should be humble and admiring witnesses of the brilliant feats of detection carried out by their superiors. Any contributions which they felt it incumbent on them to make should be proffered modestly and hesitantly. They shouldn’t, thought Dover, twitching his nose crossly, discover something which, right out of the blue, might solve the whole bloody case. It put Dover in such a dilemma. If he followed up MacGregor’s line of thought and it turned out, oh horror of horrors, to be right, it would be very difficult (though not impossible) to deny his sergeant at least a share in the glory. And on the rare occasions that Dover actually managed to bring one of his cases to a successful conclusion he liked the limelight to play exclusively on him.
On the other hand, if he refused to have anything to do with his sergeant’s latest bright idea what, as MacGregor had so pertinently asked, the hell were they going to do next. It was all very annoying.
Dover’s underlip stuck out unhappily and he pushed his tea-cup forward again for a refill. It really was very difficult. Still, he sighed pathetically, these things were sent to try us. With a bit of luck he might still be able to pick MacGregor’s brains while retaining the lion’s share of the credit, if any, for himself. He had, after all, frequently done it before. He reached for the sugar.
‘All right,’ he said, ‘we’ll follow up this letter. Remember I told you last night it was significant, key to the whole case, I reckon. In fact I can’t think why you haven’t sent it to the lab already. Now then, I’ve got to go and see the Chief Constable this morning about Violet Slatcher, so you can get on with the routine stuff. Get them to try and establish how old that letter is – they ought to be able to tell us if it was written less than a year ago. And get it checked for finger-prints. It should have Isobel Slatcher’s on it, and Bigamous Bertie’s, if he wrote it, and a third set – the brother’s. Check whether we’ve got any record of those in the files. If Bertie’s brother’s anything like Bertie was he should have passed through our hands at some stage or another.’
‘OK, sir,’ said MacGregor.
‘Then get on to London and find out exactly when Bertie was taken into custody. See if anyone can remember whether he wrote a letter shortly after his arrest. And get a photostat copy of our letter down immediately for a comparison of the handwriting.’
‘OK, sir,’ said MacGregor again, happily making notes in his notebook as Dover fed his own suggestions back to him.
‘Then you’d better start checking on all the people called Boys in Curdley and’ – Dover was a great one for piling the work on to other people – ‘the surrounding districts. You can get the local police to give you a hand there,’ he added generously. ‘You might as well get them started on that right away. It’ll save time.’
‘I could have a word with Superintendent Roderick too, sir,’ suggested MacGregor. ‘He got quite chummy with Bertie. He might know whether he had any relations in this part of the world.’
‘He might,’ sniffed Dover.
‘Anything else, sir?’
Dover looked at the letter again. ‘The chap it’s written to looks as though he’s called Vic. I suppose that’s short for Victor. Might narrow the field down a bit when you’re checking on the Boys clan. Victor Boys – shouldn’t be too difficult to find.’
MacGregor rushed eagerly away, delighted to be able to pursue his own line of investigation and delighted not to have Dover breathing down his neck all the time. The chief inspector took his time and eventually strolled into the Chief Constable’s office to receive the sincere congratulations which awaited him there. It was all most satisfactory. Colonel Muckle took him out to lunch at his club and introduced him to all the leading Catholic dignitaries of the town. They were flatteringly generous with their praise and hospitality.
It was nearly three o’clock when Dover got back to his hotel room, his cheeks flushed with victory and alcohol. With his boots still on – he didn’t quite feel up to the bending down required to take them off – he flopped happily on top of the eiderdown and sank into a blissful sleep.
At seven o’clock MacGregor, dog-tired after a hectic day, came in to wake him up. At first Dover didn’t feel too good. He hadn’t exactly got a hangover and he hadn’t exactly got indigestion, but he felt like somebody who had eaten and drunk far too much in the middle of the day and had then tried to sleep it off in the afternoon. He washed his face grumpily, peering into the mirror with bloodshot eyes. He stuck his tongue out, winced, and hastily withdrew it back into his mouth.
MacGregor took him down to the bar and after he’d sunk half of his first pint of beer the chief inspector felt strong enough to listen to his sergeant’s account of his day’s work. It was, like the curate’s egg, good in parts.
‘We were right about the letter at any rate, sir,’ began MacGregor, sensibly associating Dover with the original idea.
Dover nodded wisely. ‘Ah yes,’ he said complacently, ‘I thought I was on the right lines there. Bigamous Bertie did write it then, did he?’
‘Yes, sir. The boys in the lab up here checked the ink and paper and they were pretty definite that it was written in January this year. They said it couldn’t possibly be more than a year old. I got on to London then but, unfortunately, Superintendent Roderick is away on leave, so I couldn’t speak to him, but I think I’ve managed to clear most of the points up. Bertie was arrested on the ninth of January all right, though I couldn’t find anybody who remembered whether he’d written any letters or not. Pity they don’t keep a record because that might have given us the brother’s address. Anyhow, I got a photograph of the letter wired to London and the experts down there are pretty certain Bertie wrote it. Of course they can’t be a hundred per cent sure till they’ve seen the original but, assuming it’s not a deliberate forgery, they’re pretty confident Bertie wrote it.’
�
�Umph,’ said Dover, ‘and what about the finger-prints?’
‘Not much good, I’m afraid, sir. There were several belonging to Isobel Slatcher – incidentally, sir, it’s a good thing they’ve not buried her yet. You see, she’s not touched anything for eight months, with her being unconscious, and I think we’d have had quite a job finding any of her dabs in her room even. Violet’s kept it quite clean and tidy and she’s probably wiped off most of the prints on the furniture and things.’
‘But there must have been other prints besides hers on the letter?’
‘Well, there are traces of other prints, sir, but they’re too blurred and indistinct to be any good. We couldn’t even identify Bertie’s positively.’
‘Blast it!’ said Dover. ‘ Well, go on.’
‘That’s about all as far as the letter’s concerned, sir. Bigamous Bertie definitely wrote it, presumably from the police station the day after he was arrested, but we aren’t any nearer as to who he wrote it to. I’ve got people in London still checking as to whether he ever mentioned having a brother, but it’s a bit of a job trying to track his contacts down after all this time. However, neither his solicitor nor the barrister who defended him ever remember him talking about his family, and the newspaper reporter who ghosted his life story says that Bertie wouldn’t even reveal where he was born, or even exactly when. They did think of searching the records at Somerset House but decided it wasn’t worth it. There might have been complaints to the Press Council if they’d started trying to drag Bertie’s family into it. I suppose we could do that ourselves – try Somerset House, I mean – but, of course, even if we found a brother it wouldn’t tell us where he is now. However, we may have to resort to that to get a lead because, so far, we’ve drawn a complete blank up here.’
‘Have you checked all the people called Boys?’
‘We’ve checked ’em all, sir,’ said MacGregor sadly. ‘ It isn’t a very common name so luckily there weren’t all that many of them, but as far as we can tell there isn’t one who fits the bill.’