Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  Having come to a dead end with ‘Mary Evans’, PC Smith decided to begin work on Best’s list of male artists’ models to see if they could tell him anything the police did not already known about Matilda Franks. He didn’t feel entirely dejected by the Minchin episode, consoling himself with the thought that at least he had discovered that the man was a regular gambler – which could mean something.

  Giving some money to Mrs Minchin had made things a little more difficult for him. To make up for the loss he would have to walk a bit more, but he was used to that. Divisional detectives and their assistants always had to walk the first three miles before becoming eligible for travel expenses – something the Yard men didn’t have to suffer.

  Number one on his list proved wonderfully handsome and eager to assist, but somehow told him very little having only met Matilda twice and then only briefly. Numbers two and three were obviously effeminate and, while agreeing they had spoken to Matilda in passing, were clearly much more excited by their recollections of sharing the artistic stage with the beautiful number one. About him, they could remember a great deal. About Matilda, not much. When they began commenting on Smith’s well-developed torso being very paintable, he beat a hasty retreat.

  The fourth man was quite elderly, obviously used by Bertrand to portray an old beggar, a blind man, a wise old senator or a young maiden’s grandfather. He had no recollection whatsoever of meeting Matilda, but Smith suspected his recent recollections on any subject were somewhat limited.

  The fifth man, Montague Price, would have seemed more at home holding a straight bat on the playing fields of Eton than gracing a historical tableau in an artist’s studio: fair, clean-cut, impeccably English, with a slightly supercilious manner softened by a touch of humour in his pale-blue eyes.

  ‘Yes, of course I knew Matilda. A very pretty girl. Knew both girls, in fact.’

  ‘Both?’ Smith was puzzled.

  ‘Yes, Matilda and Helen.’

  ‘Helen posed as well?’

  ‘Oh, no, no. Helen is the painter. She took lessons.’

  ‘From Bertrand? You mean when Matilda sat?’

  Price waved his hand correctively. ‘Only sometimes. She was just a member of our class and sometimes we were there when Matilda was posing and sometimes not.’

  Smith felt at sea. ‘Your class. I don’t understand. I thought you were a model?’

  ‘I’m both, old boy. I’m a budding artist for my sins, who earns a crust with a spot of posing. Pater cut me off when I said I wanted to paint. Not an unusual story, I can assure you.’

  ‘And Mr Bertrand gives you lessons?’

  ‘Correct, Constable. Master classes he calls them. For myself and others, of course. A group of about ten.’

  ‘A mixed group?’

  ‘Well, Helen was the only lady, until she went off to Paris, now we are all male.’

  Smith was stunned by this new turn. ‘Male young men?’

  Price laughed uproariously then said, ‘Well, maybe not – you’ve seen some of them!’

  Smith blushed and stuttered, ‘I didn’t mean . … I mean, what I did mean was it’s just that we didn’t realize that there were other young men coming to the studio besides models. It, it … complicates things.’ He felt foolish, but struggled to adjust his thoughts and think of the kind of questions Best would ask. Was he missing something again – like he had at the Three Tuns? His next question, when it came, came out clumsily. ‘These young men, were any of them particularly friendly with Matilda?’

  Price hesitated very slightly before saying casually, ‘Not that I noticed, old boy. But then, I wouldn’t. Too busy learning the elements, don’t you know. Getting things in perspective.’ He grinned. ‘Hopeless at that I am, judging where the disappearing point should be …’

  Joseph Minchin had last been seen going off to relieve himself by the final locks in the approach to Marsworth. Where had he gone after that, and why? Not for the first time Best wished he knew more about the man. The main impression, gained at the inquest was of a gaunt, sullen, non-communicative man. Woman trouble, Grealey had claimed. But maybe Minchin had merely been bored with his fellow workman’s chatter, or justifiably worried that the inquest might reveal some carelessness which could cost him his job. In the event, that seemed not to be the case. True, carelessness had been revealed but largely of a general kind pointing more to lack of good management. The revelation, of course, could still affect Minchin’s job.

  He might have been afraid of revelations about the woman victim but those, too, had not as yet transpired. But why, if he was innocent of the murder, had he gone missing? Was he trying to escape woman trouble? Did he fear the police were on his track? If so, what had given him that idea? Must have been something definite; he didn’t seem like a man who would panic. And how do you know that, Best chastised himself. You saw him once, side view, for a few minutes – and heard a little about him from his colleague, Grealey, and boss, Albert Thornley – both of whom may have had their own reasons for blacking Minchin.

  Maybe Minchin had stolen the woman one of them wanted? Seemed a bit unlikely. Thornley was too preoccupied with his work to get up to that kind of thing and a well set-up man like Grealey could surely outshine Minchin? But you could never be certain about such things. For example, he had never heard Minchin speak and people could alter before your eyes as soon as they did that. The charms of a pretty girl could diminish swiftly and, conversely, her plainer sister could flower and begin to wind herself into your dreams, and you could begin to wonder how you ever imagined she was plain! Take Helen Franks. She had seemed so colourless when he had first seen her but now seemed to make many of her brighter sisters seem flashy, silly and frivolous. But then, she was an accomplished deceiver, wasn’t she? A murderess, even? He shook all thoughts of her from his mind. Or tried to.

  Back to business. Why had Minchin gone missing at Marsworth of all places? Was this where the murder had taken place? Did he have some unfinished business with regard to the deed, some telltale tracks to eliminate? Did he have friends here? Or was there something else about this place? Best gazed across the canal up over the sloping fields dotted with grazing horses to the squat Norman tower of Marsworth village church. From here, it looked a quiet, peaceful, pretty little spot. What could Minchin have wanted here? He must go up into the village to investigate – if he had time.

  But first, he should look again at the precise place where the missing man had last been seen – back alongside the locks which ran down into Marsworth. He stood outside the junction offices on the west side of the canal, in a triangle of land formed by the Grand Junction, which here curved off north eastwards, and the narrow Aylesbury Arm which turned west dropping down abruptly and spectacularly to the plain below. Retracing his steps he climbed over one of the Aylesbury Arm locks, and gazed down the steep staircase of seven locks, on to the picturesque bridge and white house which sat at the bottom of the drop, and then over to Aylesbury in the distance. A delightful scene, unbelievably pretty. This was better than following criminals up the dingy Caledonian Road! Had Minchin been similarly struck and decided to leave London and his troubles behind?

  On the Grand Junction towpath, heading south again, he passed two large, square, water pits and began to wish he had taken advantage of facilities back at the offices. With water pits on his right and the canal on his left Best’s urge to urinate became urgent. It was no use, he must find a convenient spot. Maybe he should go back to the pub which overlooked the canal a few yards back? No, it was just too late and too far. The matter was urgent.

  He made a dash for the light fringe of trees and bushes which lined the towpath and pushed his way far enough to ensure discretion before giving way. Such relief! But what a dreadful smell! As relief became more complete the smell became more overpowering. Maybe this was a favourite watering-hole but, somehow, the odour was not that of human excrement but something thicker, richer and far more unpleasant. Surely, thought Best, the innocent townie, eve
n rotting vegetation could not smell so vile? Maybe there was a pig farm hereabouts?

  Gazing around, still suffused by the lingering glow of satisfaction at a relief mission accomplished, his eyes lit upon a scrap of brown corduroy peeping from the undergrowth a few yards away. At least, that’s what it looked like. He smiled, had someone got there too late and been forced to leave their trousers behind as a result? His curiosity aroused he went to investigate. It was then that he found Joseph Minchin. It was not a pleasant sight.

  Chapter Thirteen

  Anthony Wheeler was a short, rather uncouth lad with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and darting, restless eyes which gave him a, possibly undeserved, shifty appearance. He was seventh on PC Smith’s second list of names this time made up of ten of Bertrand’s pupil painters. There were more, he had been assured, pupils came and went, but these ten were the most consistent attenders.

  If the paintings on the walls of Wheeler’s bare attic room were anything to go by, the boy was possessed of a prodigious talent. Even Smith could see that, although he found some a bit too misty and indistinct in places for his taste.

  Wheeler’s recollection of Matilda proved similar to that of most of the other young men he had spoken to: he found her a pleasant, graceful and extremely pretty but rather shy girl, of much better education and class than the usual run of artists’ models. But, despite her obvious attractions, Wheeler claimed he had not made any romantic advances towards her.

  ‘Bertrand protected her like a mother hen. In any case,’ he grinned in man-to-man fashion, ‘she was spoken for.’

  Smith sat up eagerly. So much had been hinted at by the others but never spelled out. ‘Was she? Who by?’

  The boy was suddenly more alert, and hesitated before replying with a shrug, ‘Oh, I dunno that.’

  Smith was convinced that he did and cursed himself for his clumsiness in reacting so obviously, yet again. Best wouldn’t have done that. He would have pretended only polite interest and maybe even changed the subject and come back to it later, casually, oh so casually, when he had made a friend of the boy. It was so hard to keep an interview going and hold all these things in mind. Well, he must let it pass now and try to go back to the subject later.

  As a rather desperate diversion he pretended a great interest in harmless details, such as the times the pupils went for their lessons and how often. What they actually did whilst they were there (most of Bertrand’s painting, it seemed to Smith) and how helpful the lessons were to them. He began to get the distinct impression that, to Wheeler, the value of the lessons was largely that of providing contacts which might help him further his career. He admitted as much, eventually, when Smith had chatted him into a form of comradeship of the lower orders against the toffs.

  ‘What you got to understand,’ Wheeler explained conspiratorially, his eyes darting about the room as though the whole place was new to him, ‘is that some of them are just sons of gentlemen – playing at painting. They gives it all up as soon as they gets their inheritances, or they wants to get married and Papa will only cough up if they toes the line. But’, he grinned knowingly, ‘with a bit of luck, if I ’elps them to paint now and they see how good I am – they’ll remember an’ help me later, knowin’ that they’ll get themselves good pictures into the bargain.’ He hesitated, then spread his paint-stained hands. ‘Well, that’s my plan, anyway. D’you see?’

  Smith did. He could not but admire a fellow inhabitant of the bottom of the heap reaching up so determinedly and so deviously for the top. ‘Good luck to you,’ he grinned, and meant it.

  Wheeler laughed at Smith’s reaction, slapping his thighs noisily in his mirth. Smith chortled in return.

  Encouraged by such comradely applause, Wheeler began to elaborate. ‘You see, their parents don’t like to see ‘em doing this, so it’s a sort of rebellion, mostly. Some of ’em mean to keep it up an’ they have to be dead devious. Take young Charlie Venables. That’s not his real name; he daren’t use that, his old man – who’s loaded with booty – definitely don’t want him to be an artist so Charlie has to use a false name when he goes to classes.’

  This time Smith controlled his excitement and slapped his thigh too; so that was why he hadn’t been able to trace this Venables – it was a false name. He asked a question, the answer to which did not really interest him.

  ‘Why can’t he just go off and be a painter anyway?’

  ‘Well, it’s hard to get started, innit? If he can’t make it, he’ll be in dead trouble.’

  ‘What’s his real name then?’ Smith asked, still laughing. ‘The Prince of Wales?’

  They both roared with laughter at this, Wheeler pausing only to wipe his eyes with his grubby sleeve. ‘No, no – it’s Eddie.’

  ‘Oh, Prince Eddie!’

  Both parties collapsed with giggles at this. As they quietened down Smith asked, slightly more seriously, a question to which he really did want to know the answer, ‘Eddie what?’

  ‘Oh, I dunno,’ exclaimed Wheeler, ‘who cares?’

  Smith gave him a very direct look and answered quietly but firmly, ‘I do.’

  It was time, he had decided, to become a policeman again and reel in his catch. Wheeler’s eyes suddenly stopped roaming about and he looked uncertainly at Smith. Then he grinned. The young policeman was putting him on again. This time Smith did not return the grin, but keeping his eyes steadily on the boy enquired, ‘Are you quite sure you don’t know Eddie’s full name?’

  Wheeler was clearly disconcerted, his eyes once again darting wildly around the room in an attempt to avoid Smith’s steady gaze until he could gather his thoughts. But Smith was not going to let that happen.

  ‘This is a very serious business,’ he said with every serious fibre in his being. ‘Heaven knows what charges may arise from it and, if you withhold evidence from me now, you could be charged with aiding or abetting, or, at the very least, obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty. Your gentry wouldn’t want anything to do with you then, would they? Your career would be finished. Don’t forget, you’ve got no rich daddy to fall back on.’

  The message hit home. Smith had correctly divined that the one thing in life that really meant anything to Wheeler was his painting. But, obviously, he felt he couldn’t betray his friend without at least a show of loyalty. ‘But I don’t know, honest. Eddie’s all he’s ever said – ’e goes on about his father wanting him to go into the business …’

  ‘Where does he live, this Eddie?’ Smith cut in coldly.

  ‘I dunno, honest.’

  ‘This girl might be dead,’ snapped Smith with icy bluntness.

  All the bravado evaporated. The boy was at sea, eyes everywhere. Smith knew he had him. He pinned him down with a glare. ‘Murdered!’

  The lad began to stutter, ‘I know – North London – I think that was it. No, I know, near Regent’s Park, somewhere. He used to walk there and paint.’

  ‘St John’s Wood, was it?’

  ‘That’s it. That’s it! St John’s Wood.’ His relief was palpable. He was off the hook but had not told tales. Well, not really.

  But Smith was not finished. ‘And,’ he said softly, ‘it is him who had spoken for Matilda?’ The boy was riveted by Smith’s icy gaze. ‘Isn’t it?’

  Wheeler, fish-like, opened and closed his mouth.

  ‘Say it!’ shouted Smith. ‘Just say it!’

  ‘Yes,’ the boy whispered, ‘it was him.’

  ‘And his name?’ Smith almost spat the words.

  ‘Eddie, Eddie Van Ellen.’ The lad looked about to cry.

  I’m learning, thought Smith.

  Joseph Minchin’s body was suspended at an angle face down on the low bushes. Head near the ground, feet in the air, and right arm outstretched as though to ward off a blow. Leaves had died off and fallen from the undergrowth leaving a mesh of bare branches which afforded a good view of what was left of the body. But it was of little use apart from convincing Best that this was the body of Joseph
Minchin. He could see no evidence of a wound. Holding his handkerchief to his nose and mouth he tried hard not to be sick, but failed miserably.

  Oh, God what a mess this was going to be, he realized, after he had got over the initial shock and revulsion and began hurrying back in the direction of the junction buildings. Now he had the task of obtaining the services of the local police and doctor – without arousing too much local interest.

  He must also inform Cheadle via an electric telegraph message written in language which explained to the Chief Inspector what had happened, but did not alert the telegraphist. The clerk, like so many of his kind, would doubtless have direct and profitable links with the Press but, in this backwater, little opportunity to benefit from them. But inform Cheadle quickly, that was essential. He needed reinforcements – fast.

  His haste and worried look were attracting attention. With some effort he slowed his pace and assumed a less concerned expression. The last thing he needed was hordes of curious sightseers tramping all over the scene before he had a chance to look at it properly. He had already taken some notes, before nausea again overtook him, but he wanted a better look around and under the body.

  ‘Oh no, we ain’t got none of those,’ said the local constable with some satisfaction when Best asked about getting their detectives to the scene. ‘We just do it all ourselves, like,’ he added, managing with his half-smile, to make the whole concept of detection appear an unnecessary, uppity idea.

  Of course you do, thought Best bitterly. Then you call in the Yard when the bird is well flown and all the evidence has been destroyed. Then you put obstacles in our way and encourage the local community to thwart us and treat us as enemies. Then you can blame us when we can’t find the culprit.

  Best knew he shouldn’t anticipate trouble, but should be looking on the bright side, counting his advantages. For example, it was a great advantage that he was there at the outset, indeed that he had found the body. His knowledge of the case and the Force having no detectives at all were also blessings. Being called in when they had their own detectives could be worst of all.