Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  He invited himself in in the friendly manner with which he had seen Best gain entry. The small boy in the background who had been staring at Smith thundered along the wooden corridor ahead of them to open the door of their room. Smith winked at him and he grinned and came and sat beside him. Now for the difficult part.

  Mrs Minchin was obviously expecting to hear more from him about where Joe might be. He wanted the same from her, but without sounding the alarm or upsetting her unduly. He mustn’t even hint that Joe might be an adulterer and even a murderer. For the same reasons he decided not to tell her he was a policeman. She seemed to assume he was a company official and he left it at that.

  ‘Can you think where Joe might be?’

  ‘No. Didn’t you ask his mates? I was only told he didn’t get back on the boat after he was at some locks.’

  ‘That’s right. That’s right. He’s not stayed away before, then?’

  ‘No. He always comes back when he says. Never stayed away before, ‘cept when they didn’t get the loading done in time.’ She plucked nervously at her baby’s vest. She might not be bruised physically – where you could see anyway – but she seemed injured somehow.

  ‘No relatives or friends up Tring way?’

  ‘No, we comes from Bethnal Green. ‘Course, he might have met someone on the boats. But he don’t make friends easy.’

  She didn’t seem to know anything, or, at least, said she didn’t, but she might be lying. Until he had become a policeman he had never realized how much people lied to officials and it had shocked him when he found out.

  ‘He’s got no relatives he goes to see, then? His mum or …’

  ‘Oh yes. He goes to see his mum. But he always says first.’

  He couldn’t, shouldn’t ask her, but he had to. He did it like a joke. ‘Not got a lady-friend nowhere, then?’

  Her mouth dropped open and she looked at him aghast.

  ‘Just my little joke, Mrs Minchin. My little joke.’ He forced a chuckle.

  She clearly thought his little joke not very funny and was near to tears. Smith rushed on, ‘I expect he just accidentally missed the boat. Maybe he was tired and had a little nap. It’s a hard job. He’s a good workman and I’m sure the company wouldn’t want to lose him.’

  She nodded. ‘He only went ‘cos we needed the extra money.’

  He was at a loss at how to continue and he felt she was looking at him strangely as though wondering why the company had sent such a clumsy young man to see her. Best would know what to say next. He was a past master at keeping things going and finding things out from people without them realizing they were giving things away.

  Mrs Minchin was struggling to say something. ‘His pay – we was waiting for his pay …’ She blushed as though it were not right to be asking.

  ‘I’ll speak to the manager, Mrs Minchin, don’t you worry. Meanwhile’ – he reached in his pocket and gave her a shilling – ‘this will help you get a meal today.’

  Relieved, she took pity on the awkward young man and offered him a cup of tea. He accepted gratefully, time to think what else he could ask and maybe look around.

  Best’s mother was taking him to Italy, as she had always promised to do, but they were on a train and he couldn’t get her to understand that trains did not travel on water. They would have to alight and get on the boat for that section of the journey. The train driver seemed to be in her thrall for he attempted the journey nonetheless. Best rushed around, trying to find his mother who had stalked off when he argued with her, and, at the same time, trying to prevent the inevitable tragedy. But the water had come pouring in and the train, bumping and heaving, began to slide, hissing and groaning, under the waves.

  He had begun to scream out in terror when a particularly heavy thump awakened him. His immediate relief was cut short by the fact that he could not work out where he was. It was dark, there was bumping and grinding outside and he could hear water sloshing about. He struck out and found himself in a wooden box. Oh God! He was in a sinking train! Suddenly, a heavy hessian curtain was dragged back and, in the welcoming light, a weather-worn hand appeared bearing a tin mug of steaming-hot tea. The captain was looking down on him. Best wondered if he looked as terrified as he felt.

  He had boarded the boat at Paddington Basin and straight away been shown his bunk, a straw pallet on an iron-hard board in the corner of a stuffy cabin, but he had been so exhausted that no sooner had he lay down than he had fallen into a deep sleep. The first fifteen miles they just glided silently along but eventually they came to a lock with all the shouting, the bumping and grinding of the boat against the lock-sides and the hiss of the water as it poured in to raise them to the next level, but on he slept, the sounds and movement weaving themselves into his dream.

  The scalding tea was strangely flavoured, very weak, very sweet, and milkless. Nonetheless, it restored Best to some degree of normality. More was achieved when, to his surprise, the boat’s lad appeared, handed him a nobbly scrap of rough yellow soap and a small, coarse towel and indicated a bowl of hot water for his morning wash.

  While he cleaned himself up, two of the crew settled themselves into the bunk he had just vacated, the lad took over the steering and the captain began to get busy with a frying pan. Best got out of their way and perched himself on the wooden plank on top of the load, dangling his legs over the tarpaulin.

  Leaving behind a small, rural lock lined with pretty cottages, their gardens dotted with yellow, gold and white chrysanthemums, they reached a stretch as wide as a river. Off to the right, the dark-lined furrows of a newly ploughed field; in the woods to the left, glimmers of early morning sun touched the gold and flame-red leaves.

  All was peaceful, bar the chirruping and twittering of the birds who had been up for hours. Intermingled now with sweet musty smells of autumn was the heavenly aroma of frying bacon as the captain busied himself over the small stove. Best was famished. Already breakfasting, a family of rabbits munched steadily at the dew-moist grass, and a kingfisher flashed by, dipping towards the water and away again with a small fish glinting in its beak. Best, the city boy, was enchanted. Despite the chill in the air and his stiffness from sleeping in such cramped conditions, he began to smile.

  Mrs Minchin was in the communal kitchen making tea. Meanwhile, Smith, under the unrelenting gaze of the small boy, wandered around the sparsely furnished room, attempting to appear merely thoughtful as he strove to find some clue as to where Minchin might be – a letter on the mantelpiece, a bus or pawn ticket. There was nothing. In fact, the only sign of the written word was on the side of a dented tin, long since empty of its Bennetts Assorted Biscuits.

  Suddenly the lad was peering up at him earnestly. ‘You know where my dad is?’ He must have been about five or six years old. Maybe more, but undersized.

  ‘No, son. But don’t worry, I expect he’ll be back soon.’

  The boy did not seem specially cheered by this thought. He hitched up his right sock and enquired abruptly, ‘You got a pencil? I ’ad one but it’s gawn.’

  ‘Yes, son. In fact, I’ve got two pencils. What’s your name?’

  ‘George.’

  ‘Well, George,’ – he fished in his jacket pocket – ‘I have a big one and a little one.’

  He brought out the short stub he had been using up and handed it to the lad who snatched it, then grinned. ‘Fanks.’

  On the mangled remnants of a brown paper-bag George soon demonstrated his ability not only to draw cats, dogs and houses but to name them – after a fashion. He made no attempt, however, to depict Mum, or Dad, or Grandma.

  ‘What about your …’ Smith began, but hesitated as George began to scrawl laboriously under a drawing of a three-storey house. Two wobbly words later he looked up expectantly. ‘M A R – what does that say?’ Smith asked. ‘Mar – Martha?’

  Little George nodded vigorously and looked pleased.

  ‘Now, that second word …’ Under the eager gaze of the boy, Smith struggled until he bega
n to realize that the second word began with a capital E which had gone terribly wrong and was followed by a ‘u’ – or was it a ‘v’? Clearly the next letter was an ‘a’, there was no doubt about that.

  ‘It’s Hevans, Marfa Hevans, ‘course,’ George announced finally, unable to wait any longer for his slow-witted friend. His tone suggested that everyone knew who she was.

  ‘Who’s she, George?’

  George was taken aback. ‘You know – where my dad goes sometimes.’

  ‘Oh, yes. ‘Course. I forgot.’

  He could hear the clink of cups and saucers as Mrs Minchin approached, but before she opened the door he managed to whisper, ‘I’ve forgotten where that is, George, will you take me?’

  George was delighted with this idea, ‘Yeah, ‘course,’ he said, jumping instantly to his feet and making for the street door.

  Mrs Minchin was opening the other door as Smith whispered quickly, ‘No, in a minute, when we’ve had our tea.’ He put a finger to his lips and winked. ‘Just our secret, eh?’ The lad nodded eagerly, put a grimy finger to his lips and struggled to wink back but managed only to screw up both eyes simultaneously.

  Best ate his breakfast sitting on the edge of the little stern deck at the captain’s feet. The captain was back at the tiller. It was a mercy that the deck looked reasonably clean, thought the Sergeant. It was acting as a plate for the doorstep slices of bread and butter which accompanied his egg and bacon but he was too hungry to care. He was beginning to appreciate that there were some advantages in this compact simple living. Everything to hand, few problems and possessions to worry about.

  The more tiresome side of canal life reasserted itself when another run of locks loomed. The Sergeant, spirits still high as the day blossomed into one of autumn’s golden best, decided that this was just the time to get out his homework and do his thinking. He walked ahead and found himself a perch on a pile of logs at the top of the run of locks, wiped off the dew with his (unusually grubby) handkerchief, and began reading.

  The Fenians were out of the picture. Best was sure of that now. The more he thought about the inquest evidence the more it seemed feasible to him that the experts were right. The explosion had been an accident and that would rule out dirty work by the railways as well. In any case, since the railways appeared to be winning the war what point would there be in them sabotaging the canals in such a cynical and lethal manner? He crossed both off his list along with the Somers Town barmaid. The Investigating Inspector had found more witnesses as to the cellarman’s passion for Liza Moody as well as some of her garments among the man’s meagre belongings. He had concluded that it was, as it appeared to be, a murder followed by a related suicide and, Best realized, with no likely connection to his Regent’s Canal body.

  He could concentrate on who she was, how she got into the canal and who put her there. So what did he have left? Not much: there was a girl not unlike the victim who had been seen walking towards the canal the evening before and who had a sister with good reason to wish her dead.

  There was a so far unexplained row overheard at St Pancras Basin on the night in question as the Tilbury passed through, and angry words left on the wall later. Coupled with that was the vague possibility that an evangelist was involved.

  There was the missing Limehouse woman in the Thames case. Sayers’ latest report which he had just read gave him further details as he had requested. She had indeed been young, and fair so it had not been surprising that the the dock-labourer husband and the anxious neighbour had failed to identify the gruesome remains as being hers. She also had blue eyes and a circular scar on her right shoulder. That crossed her off Best’s list. His victim had no such scar.

  His pencil was poised to delete her when he thought, just a minute though. It had been the husband who had described the scar and it was clear that Sayer was not happy about him. Indeed the neighbour felt if she did have a scar he had probably put it there. If she did not have a scar, what better way to prevent her identification than to make one up? Perhaps a little bit unlikely, Best had to concede, but for now he left the girl from Limehouse on his list.

  And then there was Joe Minchin, the surly man who had helped load the Tilbury that night. The man who had woman trouble. The man who had scratches on his face. The man who had gone missing. The murderer surely?

  Mrs Minchin had shown no surprise when little George followed big John George Smith out into the street and skipped off ahead of him. It was the way of small boys, following people. Two of his friends joined him. One an older, taller boy with a wall eye and crooked teeth was sporting boots which looked almost new, unusual in these parts. The other, younger and smaller, wore shoes which were collapsing all about him although he seemed oblivious of the fact.

  The little posse trotted down to the City Road where they turned left towards the City. They paused to look over a bridge into the City Road Basin before turning left again between a timber yard and a manufacturer’s of patent capsules. They were in Wharf Road which ran between the two canal basins; the City Road and Wenlock. There was only one turning off to the right before Wharf Road became a long unbroken tunnel of factories and warehouses. They took it.

  Smith was excited. Wait till Best heard this! He had found Minchin’s sweetheart! He might even find Minchin! But the boy’s skipping was becoming aimless.

  ‘Where are we going?’ Smith shouted to him.

  ‘Dunno!’ he shouted back.

  ‘But you said you knew!’

  Little George stopped suddenly and looked back, offended. ‘I do, mister! I do! It’s just up there … near … near school.’

  Smith apologized and gave himself into the care of the confident young George. No sense in spoiling it now. On and on they went until suddenly, young George stopped and pointed eagerly at the centre of a row of shops beside the Eagle Tavern. Minchin’s woman must be a shop assistant or … PC Smith’s heart sank to the woolly socks handknitted by his mother. There, alongside the familiar three golden spheres, was writ large, MARY EVANS, Jewellers and Pawnbrokers.

  Smith, who was still young enough to expect life to fulfil its rosy promises, was crestfallen. The chipped and tarnished gold balls taunted him. Of course! Everyone around here used the pawnshop. Those as poor as the Minchins would probably be back and forth to the pawnshop regularly. They didn’t sing about going up and down the City Road, in and out the Eagle, and popping the weasel for nothing.

  He had been silly to follow a small child. George grinned up at him, pleased with himself. ‘Didn’t I tell you, mister?’ He hitched up both his socks in celebration and awaited approval.

  Smith patted his head. ‘Well done, son, well done.’ Suddenly, a thought occurred, ‘This Mary Evans, is she pretty?’

  ‘Nah, she’s an ugly old gel,’ said the older boy, obviously blissfully unaware of his own shortcomings in that department,

  ‘You going in there to ‘ave a bet mister?’

  Chapter Twelve

  It was a great foolishness to remove him from the scene of action for so long at such a vital time, thought Best. Trails grew colder by the minute.

  The fly boats were gliding along the high ridge of the Tring Summit Level which was shared, somewhat ironically, by the tracks of the London/Birmingham railway. Soon they would begin going downhill again but before they reached Marsworth Junction, Best’s destination, there would be a run of no less than seven locks to work through. He decided to walk the rest of the way.

  The late afternoon was pleasant, the air was fresh and he needed the exercise. In any case, he was becoming impatient of the slow progress. The sooner he got to Marsworth the sooner he would be back where his presence mattered. Nonetheless, he would be the first to admit that the rest and change had done him good and he strode out on to the sunlit towpath with a lively step and a whistle on his lips.

  The path was busy. He dodged towing horses waiting for their boats to pass through the locks and hordes of unkempt children playing while doing the same. He ack
nowledged greetings from boat people and fishermen on the bankside, obviously bemused to see such a spruce and dapper gent striding along their lowly towpath. Some of the children were so affected by the sight they upped and followed him, Pied Piper-like, until called back by their parents.

  Below and to his left, glinting in the slanting sunlight were two of the three huge reservoirs built to hold the water necessary to keep the locks operating. Many of the water birds they gave home to were new to Best, although he did recognize the mallards, tufted ducks and crested grebes common to London’s parks. The queue of colourful boats were making magical reflections in the murky waters of the canal. Even the more decrepit and dirtier kind managed to look quite appealing in their mirror image.

  The news he received when he reached Marsworth brought him up sharp. A telegraph awaited him. It was from Cheadle:

  Proceed immediately to Braunston – missing woman,

  Mary Elizabeth Jones, answers description. Letter follows.

  Well, at least he wouldn’t be expected to go the rest of the way by boat. With the aid of the lock-keeper’s railway guides he set to work. He could catch the train either by going north a few miles to Cheddington or south back to Tring, from where he would travel to Rugby. Trouble was, he could not get to either station in time for the next train in an hour’s time and there wasn’t another for four hours. Then, of course, when he arrived in Rugby it would be late and so most unlikely he would be able to obtain a horse and trap to take him to Braunston at that hour. That would mean he would have to stay overnight and incur more expense. He sighed. Not only would it be cheaper but probably quicker, and a great deal less of a headache just to stay on the canal.

  Now, his boat had to complete the run down the locks to Marsworth, then up another run on the other side towards Leighton Buzzard. He decided to utilize the time by doing what he came to do in the first place, trace up Minchin.