The Barker's Dozen - Reminiscences of an Early Police Dog

by Robert Warr

  ‘By the time anyone thought to summon me, Johnstone and Harris were well into an interrogation of the poor man. I tried to intervene but was promptly ordered to search Beresford’s van and check his alibi.’

  ‘Ordered?’ my master asked, cutting into Graves’ tirade. ‘Ordered, by whom?’

  ‘Inspector Harris, if you’d credit it.’ He waved my master to silence before continuing, ‘Johnstone also wired the Home Secretary, claimed that we were being obstructive, and asked that his “good assistant” be instantly promoted and placed in charge of the case. As a result we both answer to that louse on this one.’

  ‘What did you find when you checked out the van?’ My master asked after a few moments quiet introspection.

  ‘The van was clean, with no traces of anything untoward. I woke the assistant and had him show me a list of the deliveries made by Mr Beresford. There were only three of them and they wouldn’t have taken him more that half an hour. I asked about the length of time he had been out of the shop and was told that Mr Beresford often used the pretence of deliveries to leave the shop for a few hours.

  ‘Mr Beresford refused to tell us where he was but hinted that he had seen someone. His alibi is, therefore, in complete tatters and he goes before a Magistrate this morning who will remand him in custody pending trial in the high court.’

  ‘Be that as it may, Charles,’ my master said, rising with sudden energy to his feet. ‘I’m not convinced that Beresford is a killer. While Johnstone and Harris are enjoying themselves at the Magistrates’ Court I think I will go and interview the domestic staff again.’

  ‘What can I do?’

  ‘It might be prudent to interview the other traders, especially those who share the van with Beresford. It might possibly throw some light on this case.’

  ‘Johnstone will be furious when he finds out,’ Inspector Graves astutely observed as my master opened the office door.

  ‘I do hope so,’ my master replied with a smile. ‘Angry men often make silly mistakes.’

  We walked to the villa and I could tell from my master’s demeanour that his bad temper of that morning was a thing of the past. He kept whistling small snatches of his old regimental march, a sure sign that he was rather pleased by something.

  A police constable was standing by the front gate of the villa glaring at the small crowd of ne’er do wells, loiterers and children who had gathered in the road hoping for some further sensation. He straightened up on seeing your uncle and held the gate open.

  ‘Good morning, Inspector,’ he said proffering a small key. ‘That Mr Johnstone had the bath drained last night to see if there was anything under the water. Apart from that, nothing has been touched and the door has been kept locked.’

  My master took the key and having thanked the constable rang the doorbell. After a few minutes, Jane Prentice opened the door. No longer was she the pert and pretty young woman of the day before. Her cheeks were white and her eyes were red from crying. For a moment, I didn’t understand her grief but then I realised that the death of her mistress and her master’s arrest probably meant that she had lost her position in such a way that neither of her employers could give her a character.

  ‘Good Morning, Jane,’ my master said gently. ‘Could you tell Mrs Morris that I’ve arrived and I will be along to see her in a few minutes?’

  The maid nodded and went towards the kitchen. The poor girl was obviously distracted or she would not have left the door open and visitors on the step. I followed your uncle along the corridor where he unlocked and opened the bathroom door.

  The macabre horror of the room had altered with the draining of the bath, which, with its brown stained sides and the growing stench of an abattoir, was becoming more horrific. My master walked into the room and examined the pile of clothes before crouching down and touching the floor. He stood up and walked from the bathroom with a small smile on his lips.

  Calling me to him, he locked the door and led me in the direction of the kitchen. It was obvious that he was much happier. I was sure that something in the bathroom had supported a theory of his; the trouble was that I had no idea what it was. I couldn’t really ask him so I had to curb my curiosity.

  The cook was sitting at the kitchen table staring in a desultory manner at a cold cup of tea when we entered the room. It was obvious that she, like the maid, was extremely despondent. Your uncle is a sensitive man and some of the bounce went out of his step when he saw the sad tableau in the room.

  ‘Mrs Morris can I have a quick word with you?’ he asked very gently, pausing until she nodded, he continued, ‘I think a nice pot of tea is called for don’t you?’

  With no further ado, my master sat at the kitchen table and watched quietly while the cook made a fresh pot of tea. As she worked, she seemed to lose some of her despondency, as if the familiar ritual reassured her in some way.

  ‘Here you are then Inspector,’ she said handing my master a cup of tea. ‘You don’t mind if I join you as I could do with a nice hot drink.’

  My master indicated his agreement and the good lady not only poured herself a cup but produced a really first class fruit cake. A few moments of quiet enjoyment passed before my master placed his cup gently on the saucer and began his interrogation.

  ‘Mrs Morris, there are certain aspects of this case which do not, in my opinion, make sense and I am hoping that you can enlighten me?

  My master’s gentle voice and his obvious willingness to view her as an equal threw the cook into some confusion but after a few seconds I could see her relax as she accepted him at face value.

  ‘I’ll do what I can sir, but as the cook I’m not really privy to as much of the family’s business as Jane.’

  ‘I’m sure that she confides in you,’ my master replied with a smile. ‘I will be interviewing Miss Prentice soon enough, but I but thought that I should talk to you first. What was the relationship like between Mr and Mrs Beresford?’

  ‘On the surface, sir, they were as happy a married couple as you could want to see.’ The cook paused, and looked down at the table while she gathered her thoughts, ‘but I think that was all show.’

  ‘Why?’ my master asked, leaning forward slightly.

  ‘I had the mistress come in here once or twice, while my master was at work.’ She looked up, staring straight into your uncle’s eyes. ‘In floods of tears she was. Apparently, all Mr Beresford’s show of loving his wife was just a hollow façade that covered a monstrous brute.’

  ‘How exactly?’ My master asked with an obvious surge of interest. Brutality might easily provide a motive.

  ‘She told me that he used to bend her fingers and limbs into uncomfortable positions and just hold them until the pain became unbearable. One time he broke a finger on her right hand; she said that it had been caught in a door and at the time I believed her.’

  ‘When did this occur and what finger was injured?

  ‘Over a year ago, sir, it’s the right little finger,’ the cook held up her hand and curled the first three fingers leaving the last one straight. ‘It healed slightly crookedly and now she cannot bend it properly.’

  ‘This was before Mrs Beresford confided with you about her husband’s brutality?’

  ‘Oh yes, sir, she only told me the truth about two months ago.’ Mrs Morris, paused for a moment as she topped up the teacups and then continued, ‘before she spoke to me I just wouldn’t have guessed as they seemed so devoted to each other.’

  ‘When you say devoted…’ my master let the question trail off into silence.

  ‘Mr Beresford always did his best to make sure that Mrs Beresford was well provided for in case anything should happen to him. He even took out a life assurance so that if he died suddenly she would not become destitute. When she found out about the policy she insisted that he insured her life as well, so that he too would have some compensation in the case of her unforeseen demise.’

  ‘Did Mrs Beresford tell you about this?’ my master asked with some puzzleme
nt since it was not the sort of matter one normally discussed with one’s domestic staff.

  ‘Good lord no, sir! Jane was serving breakfast one morning when a letter arrived about the policy and she overheard the conversation.’

  ‘Was there any major source of disagreement between husband and wife?’ your uncle asked casually, finishing his tea.

  ‘I only once heard him shout at the mistress and that was about her sister in France,’ Mrs Morris replied, fiddling with her cup.

  ‘Who is this sister and why should she cause a disagreement?’

  ‘I don’t really know, sir.’ The cook replied in a somewhat unhappy tone. ‘Mrs Beresford told me that she had a twin sister, Caroline, but they had become estranged some years ago. The sister had apparently married an inappropriate Frenchman. This had led to a major row and she had been ostracised by her family. Apparently the sister’s husband died recently and the master and mistress were arguing about whether she should be invited to stay.’

  ‘So Mr Beresford was refusing to allow his wife’s widowed sister to come?’ my master asked.

  ‘Quite the reverse, Mr Beresford wanted the sister to come here but the mistress was really opposed to the idea.’ Mrs Morris paused for effect and made a small shushing motion when your uncle started to speak, ‘and before you ask, Sir, I believe that Mr Beresford was originally walking out with the sister and only married his wife when her twin rebuffed his advances.’

  ‘Oh,’ my master sighed loudly, sitting back in his chair.

  ‘You only came to ask a few questions,’ Mrs Morris said with a delighted laugh, ‘and I’ve told you more than you bargained for I bet.’

  ‘Yes indeed, it has been a most enlightening cup of tea.’ My master joined her in her laughter. ‘Do you happen to know the sister’s married name?’

  ‘No, Sir, the mistress never told me.’

  ‘In that case, thank you for your time.’ My master stood up. ‘Could you please find Jane and ask her to see me in the drawing room.’

  The interview with the maid took less time and although she added nothing new to the story she did confirm most of the cook’s account. My master did ask her if she had removed anything from the bathroom and seemed to be very pleased when she answered no.

  We returned to the police station with my master in a very happy mood that not even the presence of the odious Harris managed to spoil. Apparently, Mr Beresford had been remanded for trial at the High Court and Johnstone was trying to arrange an early trial date.

  ‘How was the prisoner?’ my master asked Harris with a genuine interest that surprised me.

  ‘Quiet. I’d say he was resigned to his fate.’ Harris replied then went on with malice dripping from every word. ‘Like you, he probably didn’t expect anyone to rumble him.’

  ‘Like me?’ your uncle asked with a mocking smile.

  ‘Like you! Neither of you thought that someone like Mr Johnstone would spot you for frauds. Now he is headed for the gallows and you will be kicked out of the police force to make way for better men.’

  ‘Like you?’ my master observed with a sarcastic laugh. ‘I rather think not.’

  ‘You’ll see!’ Harris snapped violently. ‘Mr Johnstone wants to see you and Graves here after lunch.’

  ‘Very well, Harris,’ my master said with a cheerful equanimity that I could see enraged his interlocutor. ‘In the mean time I think I’ll take lunch at the Red Lion. The company will probably be better.’

  We left the station soon after and made our way back to the Red Lion stopping only to send a telegram to the Yard asking Sergeant Allen to contact the insurance companies and obtain the details of Beresford’s policies. For someone whose career was in jeopardy my master seemed to be extremely cheerful. It had to be whatever he had seen in the bathroom and I just could not work out what it had been.

  The main topic of conversation at the Red Lion was, quite naturally, the arrest of a local shopkeeper. The Landlord’s opinion was that Mr Beresford had been a nice enough man but was ‘so sharp that I knew he would cut himself some day.’ Another drinker suggested that Mr Beresford’s wife had found out about one of the accused’s affairs and had died during a violent row.

  If Mr Beresford was a womaniser, it might explain why he sometimes left the shop on the pretence of making deliveries.

  We returned to the police station to find a rather triumphant Johnstone waiting for us. He was in a very good mood and seemed to be inclined to ‘let bygones be bygones’ and that ‘there is no shame in being beaten by a better man, but it would be shameful not to learn from the experience.’

  To my surprise, my master took this arrogant gloating with very good humour and even agreed with the snide remarks about learning from experience. After an initial incredulous look Inspector Graves sat back in his seat and waited quietly. I sulked for a moment and then followed his lead; my master was obviously up to something.

  After a while Mr Johnstone ran out of self-aggrandising waffle and asked if there were any questions.’

  ‘Just one,’ your uncle said, with a mock humility that would have shamed Uriah Heep. ‘Now that you have arrested Mr Beresford, how do you intend to prove that he committed the murder?’

  ‘It is self-evident that he is the murderer,’ the bombastic bureaucrat retorted.

  ‘You know that he is, but the jury may not,’ my master continued with a certain amount of satisfaction. ‘You have to prove his guilt beyond all reasonable doubt and to do that you have to show that he had the means, the motive and the opportunity to commit the crime. You have to place him, beyond doubt, at the scene of the murder.’

  ‘We know he had the means,’ Harris interjected. ‘He had the van and there are plenty of potential murder weapons in that shop.’

  ‘The same is true of every man in this city, who owns a cart and a knife,’ Inspector Graves, commented with a growing amount of relish. ‘Do you have any witnesses that can tie him to this crime?’

  ‘Well not as such,’ Johnstone blustered, a thin sheen of sweat on his forehead indicated that he realised his predicament.

  ‘In short you jumped the gun,’ my master summarised. ‘You were so keen to show up the police that you acted like a complete amateur without proper thought or attention to detail.’

  ‘What happens now?’ Mr Johnstone asked in quieter tones than normal. ‘Do we release him and admit that an error has been made?’

  ‘Probably not,’ your uncle replied. ‘I think that he might be the guilty party and I believe that I can establish a reasonable motive for murder.’

  ‘And I can show that he had the opportunity to commit the crime,’ Graves said with a flourish.

  Mr Johnstone looked from my master to Inspector Graves and then with a very sour grace asked your uncle to explain the possible motive.

  My master summarised his interviews of the morning and explained that the insurance policy could very well provide a financial motive. He also mentioned the twin sister and Mr Beresford’s reputation as a womaniser.

  ‘That is a good example of your lax thinking, Thompson,’ Johnstone said with a resurgence of his normal bluster. ‘You come up with a good motive and then you have to cloud the issue with irrelevancies. Money is the root of this crime, you mark my words.’

  With that epic example of pomposity, the great civil servant leant back in his chair and imperiously gestured at Inspector Graves to take up the story.

  ‘I spent this morning interviewing the local traders, especially those who share the van,’ Inspector Graves began. ‘I can confirm that Mr Beresford had the reputation of being somewhat of a ladies’ man and is cordially disliked by his fellows.

  ‘James Talbot, the grocer, told me that on the afternoon of the murder he agreed to do Mr Beresford’s deliveries as well as his own. It was, apparently, a common courtesy for the traders to do this whenever any of them wanted some time to themselves.

  ‘Mr Talbot further told me that he dropped Mr Beresford at the local underground sta
tion at about ten past two. The station is less than five minutes walk from the villa, which puts our man in the immediate area at the correct time. Our suspect apparently had a portmanteau with him when he left the van.

  ‘Coupling this information to the fact that we know that Mrs Morris had left the house on an errand for Mrs Beresford we can show that he had opportunity. The cook’s evidence also shows that Mr Beresford was no stranger to using violence on his wife.

  ‘All we need to do is to find something that will definitely show that he was at the murder scene. As it is, our case is based on circumstantial evidence and could easily come apart under the questioning of a good defence.’

  ‘Thank you, Gentlemen.’ Mr Johnstone said in such a sincere tone that I thought we might have misjudged him before he ruined it by adding, ‘I told you that I would arrest the murderer before you were ready.’

  Inspector Harris took over the case and I must concede that after the first fortnight he realised that he was out of his depth and started listening to advice. I think he realised that if anything went wrong with the case Mr Johnstone would happily throw him to the press.

  Harris worked hard but with an ever-increasing desperation. There just did not seem to be any solid evidence to link Mr Beresford with the murder of his wife. The insurance policy, for instance, was made out for a very substantial sum of money; Mr Beresford’s business was doing very well and he could easily afford the large premiums. Except for the bath full of blood stained water we had no proof that an act of violence had occurred. Most worrying of all there was no body; Mrs Beresford had disappeared without trace. Extensive enquiries failed to trace any witness who could place Mr Beresford near the villa.

  Although it is possible to try a murder case in the absence of a body, it is of course quite important for the prosecution to know why it is missing and to explain how the accused carried out the foul deed.

  The case was completely based on circumstantial evidence and as such your uncle felt if was, therefore, far too tenuous to risk a man’s life. The case was, I thought, only proceeding because Mr Beresford refused to tell us where he had gone that afternoon and as he refused to clear himself the presumption was that he must be guilty.