Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  ‘The Black Watch tartan,’ finished Helen softly.

  They stared at each other.

  ‘That’s right m’dear,’ Sir Giles confirmed kindly, ‘just like the Black Watch tartan.’

  ‘But what was she doing there!’ Helen burst out. ‘I can’t think what she could be doing there!’

  Best got up. It seemed a good time to move. ‘We will do our best to find out,’ he said resolutely. ‘Our very best. Now, let me take you home.’

  ‘There was a flash above the Tilbury’s cabin and a short report – like the sound of a gun – the sort of gun you would use to shoot sparrows,’ said White who had been the labourer on the Dee when she sank. ‘Then came some shouting.’

  The man was a pathetic sight. The severity of his injuries had kept him from the earlier inquest hearings. Now, between his slow and hesitant answers, his lips kept moving as he mumbled quietly to himself. But, for the jury’s benefit, he managed to relive the loading-up at City Road, the waiting until the little fleet was assembled, then the procession up the canal to the explosion point.

  After that, he remembered nothing. Yes, he knew there had been a second explosion but he didn’t remember what it was like. No, he didn’t recall any smoke.

  There was a murmur of interest when the next witness appeared. Being the country’s leading poisons expert he was a familiar figure at sensational murder inquests and trials. This time, however, the tall and imposing Professor Alfred Swaine Taylor was demonstrating his expertise in the causes of explosions and the dangers of naphthalene storage. But he was also a victim/witness, for his house at 15 St John’s Wood Terrace had been among those badly damaged by the explosion.

  It was one of the many strange coincidences, Best reflected, in what was turning out to be a very strange case. He had never known one which had involved so many well-known personages as well as such a strange assortment of people: artists and scientists, businessmen and boatmen, rich and poor, the famous and the obscure.

  Professor Taylor informed the coroner that he had seen many boats and steam tugs pass his house at all hours of the day and night.

  He then added, somewhat dramatically for such an experienced professional witness, ‘On winter nights I have seen a fiery tug going along like a luminous meteor among the trees – sparks going in all directions.’

  Either living among artists or becoming a victim for a change was having an adverse effect on him. Perhaps both. He reverted to being the more matter-of-fact expert when he explained that the sparks could carry as far as forty to fifty yards – when the wind was blowing hard. And, as to the cause of the tragedy, the now ageing professor demonstrated that he had lost none of his scientific certainty. The benzoline carried on board had been the catalyst.

  ‘Benzoline is exceedingly inflammable and highly volatile,’ he explained. ‘The problem is the vapour which pours off the oil – only a glass container, tightly stoppered, will hold it. It would seep through anything else such as wood,’ he assured the jury. The benzoline carried by the Tilbury had been contained in wooden barrels.

  ‘In normal circumstances,’ Taylor continued, ‘the vapour would disperse but, in this case, it accumulated slowly under the tarpaulin becoming “fearfully dense”. Anything red-hot would have inflamed it – a cinder from a chimney, or more especially, a naked flame. The tarpaulin would probably have protected it from sparks from above, but the tarpaulin had also served as a tunnel. When the cabin fire drew air towards it, as all fires do, it also drew (through the sight hole in the bulkhead) the deadly gas – and ignited it. That was the cause of the fire, and the subsequent explosion.’

  The jury looked relieved at such calm, expert conviction after a mass of seemingly unconnected, circumstantial evidence and speculation.

  The noises White had heard tied in with the professor’s hypothesis.

  ‘A gaseous explosion is short and sharp in its report,’ he explained in answer to a juryman’s question. That accounted for the early gunshot bang. ‘Gunpowder is a little slower to go off and needs to be heated to five hundred and forty degrees.’ That accounted for the second explosion. ‘In my opinion,’ the professor concluded, ‘the accident would never have happened had benzoline not been carried or had the cabin been lighted only by a Davy safety lamp.’

  The Home Office explosives expert not only agreed that the tunnel of benzoline must have been ignited by the cabin fire and the gunpowder explosion caused by that fire flashing back over the load – he demonstrated the theory in spectacular fashion. Into the bows of a scale model of a canal boat he poured half an inch of liquid benzoline, then he covered the cargo with tin (to represent tarpaulin) and touched the cabin area with a lighted taper. There was an immediate loud report and a rush of flame down the length of the boat.

  The jury gasped. They had not been quite so awake since the start of the proceedings nearly three weeks earlier.

  Well, at least that was an answer to one question, thought Best, and it knocked the Fenians and the rival railways out of the picture, or at least pushed them way down near the bottom of the list. Of course, experts could be wrong. Despite his air of implacable confidence, Professor Taylor’s expertise had occasionally been challenged and found wanting – as the police knew to their cost when one of his errors had brought about the reprieve and release of convicted murderer, Dr Smethurst.

  An even more pathetic figure than White appeared to give the answer to another burning question. A feeble old man from the village of Brades, near Birmingham, identified the third corpse as that of his nineteen-year-old son who had left home a year earlier. A tactful chat with the old man before the hearing had convinced Best that the old man would be of little help in establishing his son’s relationships with women.

  Finally, Sergeant Best was called upon to give a report on the progress, or lack of it, regarding the identification of the woman. He had to admit there had been little so far. In answer to questions from the coroner, he reminded the jury that it was thought her body had not been in the canal for long, there being little sign that various water-borne creatures had begun to feed on the body.

  The jury brought in a verdict of accidental death on the boatmen and the coroner postponed the inquest on the female victim until such time as some progress had been made. When that happened, Best had no doubt that it would be Chief Inspector Cheadle who would be standing where he was now.

  Chapter Nine

  A terrible guilt was weighing on Mrs Briggs, the Franks’s housekeeper. She had not realized that Matilda was missing as early as she might have done and, not knowing, had not informed anyone. Trying to convince her that it may not have made any difference proved a futile task. Best was grateful that the woman was sensible enough to dry her tears so as to answer his questions.

  ‘You see, I knew she was going to Pinner for a few days while Helen was away and when she didn’t come back that evening,’ she said, dabbing at the corners of her pale-blue eyes, ‘I just thought that’s where she was.’

  ‘Wouldn’t she have reminded you before she went?’

  ‘Usually, yes. But,’ she added apologetically, ‘I might not have remembered.’

  Before leaving them together in her front parlour, Helen had spoken to her cook-housekeeper almost as though to a friend or relative. Best followed suit, but in the rather firmer tone necessary for sharpening witnesses’ responses and making them think carefully about their replies. In most social exchanges answers tend to be tempered so as not to upset anyone, so half-truths reign. He wanted the full truth. Not easy to extricate from servants when it came to their employers.

  ‘You’re a little forgetful?’

  To his surprise she blushed and said, ‘Yes, well, maybe …’

  He was intrigued. A typical, plump, middle-aged cook-housekeeper of unremarkable appearance, she had a certain extra something Best found it hard to put his finger on.

  ‘Go on. Maybe … what?’

  She was silent for a moment, contemplating her short fingernai
ls, then said in a rush, ‘You see, I might never have heard.’

  ‘You’re a little deaf, then?’ he nodded, understandingly.

  ‘Oh no, not really.’ She stopped again, looked down again at her surprisingly neat little hands then straight up at him. ‘I know they think I’m forgetful or deaf.’ She gave him a quick, conspiratorial smile. ‘But, honest truth, I don’t always listen to them.’

  Best wanted to laugh but managed to suppress his mirth. The indefinable something was intelligence and humour. Teach him to make assumptions.

  ‘Not on purpose, do you see?’ she went on. ‘It’s just that sometimes the girls tell me things when I’m busy – fitting the pastry crust on to a pie or polishing an awkward bit of the grate. Sometimes they might be telling me about things I don’t really understand, or I might be thinking of something else – like you do when you’re doing boring things, you know?’

  Best nodded. ‘Very understandable.’ He suspected that ‘the girls’, despite their straitened circumstances, had little experience of doing anything really boring.

  ‘So I just nod and say something like, “Oh, yes? Is that right? You don’t say so?”’

  She reminded him of his mother – keeping them all happy while working herself into an early grave. They always called her forgetful when she failed to recall a vital event in their small lives, but he couldn’t ever remember being required to listen to her problems.

  ‘And I’ve other things in my head, do you see? My husband has been off work with a bad chest and my eldest grandson has been dodging off school and we wants him to better himself.’

  ‘So Matilda might have mentioned going to Pinner that day, but you don’t know?’ She nodded her head miserably.

  ‘No need to blame yourself.’ He patted her hand. ‘You’re not her mother, are you? You’ve got your own family to look after.’ He paused. ‘And I bet you one thing,’ he added with a vehemence that surprised them both, ‘I bet she didn’t know what you were doing that evening.’ His own guilt, he supposed.

  There was a short, painful silence which he broke by saying in a brighter tone, ‘Tell me about Matilda.’

  The motherly little cook-cum-housekeeper looked perplexed.

  ‘Helen has told me a lot, of course,’ he assured her, ‘but different people remember different things and see things in different ways. You might have noticed something Helen did not, particularly after she went away.’

  She still looked doubtful. ‘They are both very nice girls and have been very good to me.’

  ‘I’m not asking you to be disloyal,’ he protested. ‘Look, let me tell you what I know.’ He ticked off on his fingers one by one. ‘She was young, pretty – and rather shy – but had gained confidence since she had taken up selling the paintings …’

  ‘She used to cry when she first had to do that,’ said Mrs Briggs, suddenly angry. ‘Poor thing.’ Her eyes shot guiltily towards the door. ‘But, of course, when Helen explained to her why she had to do it …’

  ‘Helen has the stronger personality?’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ she nodded, and smiled fondly, ‘like her father.’

  ‘Does Matilda mind?’

  ‘Well she is very under Helen’s thumb. But she is very proud of her clever sister and thinks most of the things she does are right.’

  ‘But not all of them?’

  ‘Well, no. She is more, I don’t know … more like a proper girl. More ladylike and demure.’ She took a deep breath and with another brief glance towards the door said quickly, ‘Helen does think some funny things, you know.’

  He did.

  ‘Nothing wicked, of course, just, just …’

  ‘Advanced? Different?’

  She seemed happy with those words, accepting them gratefully. ‘Yes, that’s it, advanced and – different. She’s so clever, you see.’

  ‘But Matilda is the pretty one.’

  ‘Oh yes, she’s beautiful.’ Her eyes lit up at the thought. ‘So fair, and delicate.’

  ‘How does Helen feel about having such a pretty sister?’

  She looked puzzled at the question, ‘Oh, she likes it, of course. And it comes in handy, doesn’t it? Selling the paintings.’ Mrs Briggs paused, then said, ‘But she’s not jealous of her or anything if that’s what you’re meaning. There’s a big age difference you know, so they were never young girls together. When Helen was eighteen, Matilda was only seven – and Helen has had plenty of chances. She is nice-looking as well, I think,’ she added protectively. ‘She just takes more knowing.’

  The woman was bright. A young Helen was never outshone by her exquisite sister. She could still resent such easy favour now, however. He wondered why he was pursuing this line but somehow felt impelled to continue. ‘And they look so different. One so fair, the other so dark.’

  ‘Oh, that’s because they had different mothers! Helen’s died when she was only eight.’

  He was taken aback. Why hadn’t she mentioned that? Maybe she didn’t think it was important. It might make for some feelings though. He was on to something, he just felt it.

  ‘Do they quarrel much?’

  ‘Oh no!’ Mrs Briggs thought for a moment, absently brushing escaping stray hairs back towards her bun. ‘Honestly, I can’t say they do that. ‘Course, they do have a dust-up now and then. Everybody does, don’t they?’

  They do, he agreed. Even he and his lovely Emma used to have a few angry words now and then. He would take every one of them back if only he could hold her again.

  ‘It was just that some of the things they did, I mean do, make Matilda feel uncomfortable, but she doesn’t like to say anything because she knows how hard her sister works to keep them and, anyway, she thinks Helen knows best.’

  ‘So you can’t see Matilda running away, leaving home – to get away from her sister?’

  ‘No! Oh no. After their father died they clung to each other.’

  Best nodded sympathetically. ‘Very hard that they were left with very little money.’

  She looked a bit nonplussed, ‘Yes …’

  ‘Weren’t they?’ he asked very casually.

  ‘Well … well, I don’t know that much about how they are set up, of course,’ she said offering the requisite servant’s denial of in-depth knowledge, ‘but of course there was Matilda’s inheritance from her Aunt Augusta.’

  ‘Oh?’ As Best’s senses quivered acutely, his most offhand manner switched on automatically. He shrugged. ‘But I expect that didn’t amount to much?’

  ‘Oh yes it did,’ she assured him. ‘It came to a lot – I think. They were very excited about it at the time anyways. ‘Course, they was a bit disappointed that they couldn’t get much of it straight away.’

  ‘What a shame. Why was that?’

  ‘Well, someone, I don’t know who, was – what they said? – “holding it” for Matilda until she came of age.’ She began to look about nervously again. ‘But Miss Helen will tell you all that.’

  Oh she will, will she, thought Best? She hasn’t so far. ‘Oh, I remember – she did mention something,’ he lied. ‘Must have slipped my mind – that’s why it helps to talk to someone else – reminds me of things I missed.’ He smiled and tapped his head to indicate his own inadequacy.

  ‘I suppose the amount she got straight away went on clearing up their father’s debts?’

  Mrs Briggs looked nonplussed, then nodded vaguely. ‘I suppose so. That and Helen’s trip to Paris, of course.’

  ‘Oh, of course, of course,’ he nodded, as though that, too, had slipped his foolish mind.

  ‘An investment, Miss Helen called it.’

  ‘I expect Matilda would have rather spent it on pretty clothes!’ laughed Best.

  ‘I’m sure,’ Mrs Briggs nodded fondly.

  ‘So, should anything happen to Matilda’ – he stopped short when he saw how this suggestion affected the cook-housekeeper – ‘which I’m sure it won’t, of course,’ he added hastily, ‘the money would all go to Helen?’

 
‘There isn’t anyone else, is there?’

  Best didn’t know. He didn’t know anything any more. For some reason he felt a weary disappointment at the heart of him. He reminded himself that he really didn’t like Helen Franks. But he had somehow trusted her. Accepted her story unequivocally. Thought her honourable. And that didn’t happen often. What he did know, he thought, bringing himself back to the job in hand, was that Mrs Briggs was clearly a witness to cultivate – but slowly. He could see that when he paused she was already becoming nervous that she had said too much and was troubled by the implication of his final question. Better get back to safer ground.

  ‘Now,’ he said quietly, proffering a list written on blue paper in his neat but slightly florid hand, ‘I want you to look at this and tell me if you can think of anything else of Matilda’s that is missing. Take your time.’

  It contained a change of underwear, spare gloves and handkerchiefs, a nightdress and a few trinkets. All indicating that Matilda certainly intended to stay away, but possibly only for a night. Mrs Briggs took it but didn’t look at it.

  ‘You can read?’ he asked gingerly.

  ‘Of course!’ She was indignant. ‘I went to St Saviour’s Church School until I was ten and I was always one of the best readers in Miss O’Connor’s class! No,’ – she put the list down on the table – ‘it’s just that yesterday I noticed something else that was gone.’ She twisted her damp hankie in her lap. ‘It gave me a turn when I realized and’ – the emotion began to choke her – ‘made me think she might have meant to stay away for ever!’

  Best touched her hand and said softly, ‘And what was that, Mrs Briggs?’

  ‘Her raggedy doll!’

  ‘It was important to her?’

  ‘She would never be parted from it. Her mother made it for her from scraps from her workbasket. It was a poor wee thing, that doll, been patched and mended, patched and mended …’