Dead Image

by Joan Lock

  He began forming his plan of action. He would offer, oh so tactfully, to take over the investigation, using his foreknowledge of the case and characters and its connection with the one they were already handling, to justify his immediate control. He would be modest, helpful and make it clear that he did not assume that his position of control was inevitable. Moreover, he would acknowledge that he would be utterly dependent on, and extremely grateful for, the local knowledge of the Hertfordshire officers. He needn’t have worried. When Captain Robertson, the divisional superintendent, arrived from Hemel Hempstead, he proved a reasonable man in charge of an overstretched division. Indeed, he confided with some disgust, the whole county Force numbered only 117 men. The fact that the Hertfordshire Police were well established helped as well. No beginners’ inferiority complex niggling its senior officers. And it was sufficiently close to London to make contact with the Metropolitan Police more usual and less threatening.

  Superintendent Robertson was only too willing to let his constables guard the scene and leave the rest to the Yard man subject, of course, to permission from his chief constable. Blessedly, that officer was not only on the best of terms with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police but was also situated miles away in Hertford which delayed the seeking of permission and gave Best merciful breathing space. Panic over. Now to work.

  Minchin’s twisted body had been lifted on to a board which, in turn, had been placed on a hand ambulance and spirited away along a pathway which took it a long way round to the village, but avoided alerting those on the canal towpath. But such news travels like lightning and Best knew it was only a matter of time before the deluge of attention would begin. Nonetheless, before returning to search the area again, he had to contact Cheadle. He spent precious time writing and rewriting his message trying to find a way to say that he had found his quarry, but that he was dead.

  In the end he could think of nothing better than: Quarry found, dcd. Taking charge, please send assistance. Letter follows. He was optimistic that Cheadle would realize what ‘dcd’ meant and the telegraph operator wouldn’t, although he didn’t hold out much hope of that. In any case, a telegraph addressed to Scotland Yard would doubtless put the man on full alert. Maybe he should just be straightforward and say, ‘Minchin found dead’. Otherwise, he would be accused of being fancy – and even obtuse, if Cheadle knew what that meant. Perhaps he shouldn’t say ‘taking charge’ until he had the chief constable’s permission?

  ‘Can I help you?’ asked a vaguely familiar melancholy voice. Best looked up to see Traffic Manager Albert Thornley, framed in the doorway, ‘I’ve heard the news,’ Thornley said, and sighed. He looked more worried than ever, as well he might. But what on earth what was he doing here?

  The traffic manager sensed Best’s puzzlement, ‘I came up to see if I might trace up Minchin,’ he offered apologetically, avoiding Best’s incredulous eye. The man is well aware that that is precisely what I’m doing, thought Best, and he had made sure he got here before I did. In fact, he must have come by train! Small wonder he looked abashed. Curious wording that, too, ‘I came up’ not ‘I was sent up’.

  ‘I hear it was suicide?’

  ‘Seems so.’ Best was not going to be drawn.

  ‘That must be a relief – not too much work to do.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Best casually. ‘In a case like this – got to be sure.’ He paused and, without attempting to take the edge off his voice, asked, ‘You been here long?’

  ‘Oh, just a few hours.’ Thornley shifted his weight from one foot to the other under the Sergeant’s icy gaze.

  Not prepared to be specific, obviously. What was going on?

  ‘He was our employee,’ explained Thornley stiffly, ‘and, of course, we felt it our duty to check what happened to him.’

  Touching, that, answered Best’s unrelenting stare.

  ‘And the company want to be of as much assistance to the police as possible, naturally.’

  Now, he really is lying, thought Best.

  ‘I’ve been asking around the village. Just see if he knew anyone here, or if any stranger had been seen hereabouts,’ Thornley added lamely. The man was embarrassed, as he might well be. He knew that asking around was exactly what Best had intended to do. But then again he certainly could use the help of a man who wielded some authority hereabouts.

  Thornley could see to it that the telegraph was despatched quickly, get him a list of the canal company men likely to be at Marsworth on the night in question, help in parrying reporters, and find some trusty men to assist in guarding the scene. What he did not want Thornley to do was to accompany him when he went back to examine it – which he must do now, before complete darkness fell. Then he realized the futility of that – if the man was in any way involved in Minchin’s demise he would already have done what he had to do to cover his tracks. Nonetheless, Best gave Thornley enough work to keep him busy elsewhere and returned, alone. He was pleased to note that the local constable had carried out his guard duty discreetly and well and had not succumbed to the temptation to trample round the scene. Doubtless, the lingering, pungent smell had helped dissuade him.

  When removing the body, the cause of death became apparent. Not only was Minchin’s outstretched hand loosely grasping an open razor but his wrists had been slashed and beneath them were pools of dried-up blood.

  Suicide.

  It looked quite conclusive but, just to be on the safe side, Best now went back to go over the ground again, raking through the broken branches, his handkerchief once again clamped to his mouth and nose. Something might have fallen from Minchin’s pocket, or there could be a letter and, although everything pointed to it, he mustn’t just presume that Minchin had killed himself. He had to keep an open mind. It seemed an odd place to go to end one’s life – but, then again, maybe only to a landsman like himself. These canals and their surrounds were the boatmen’s roads and streets.

  But Minchin wasn’t a regular boatman. Maybe the compulsion just came over him and he headed for the nearest spot. Would it have been light enough, Best wondered? As a townie, he took little notice of the moon’s waxes and wanes but he knew it became very dark in the country on moonless nights. He must find out whether it had shone that night and if the sky had been clear or cloudy. But then, he mimed the movements, you wouldn’t need any light to find your own wrists. He continued his search, wavering only when maggots rolled slowly down the slimy leaves as he lifted them with his stick, before plopping on to the ground.

  He had all but given up when he spotted something in the soft, peaty earth he had now revealed with his stick; a boot print just below where Minchin’s head had rested. What’s more, it was a deep and definite print with a clear, hobnail pattern. Obviously, the man had trodden around a deal before he did the deed, quite a natural thing to do thought Best, who couldn’t imagine cutting himself deliberately under any circumstances. He cursed himself for not noting what Minchin’s boots had been like. He made a note to get hold of them. Meanwhile, he had better get some plaster of Paris to preserve the print, just to be on the safe side.

  One thing was certain, if anyone else had had a hand in the death of Joseph Minchin he would have been heavily bloodstained. But who would have noticed in the dark? He must ask Thornley to check. Ah, no, better not do that: he was no longer sure about Thornley.

  Chapter Fourteen

  The once-prosperous village of Braunston was well past its prime when Best strode along its High Street just as the first chill of winter began to grip the air. But it still seemed a passing pleasant place to the Sergeant, strung out as it was along the ridge of the Northamptonshire uplands.

  Unlike some canalside villages, which appeared to be just stuck around the waterway to serve its purposes and that of commerce, Braunston had a proper centre. It also had a small, triangular village green, a school and a surprisingly large and imposing church with a tall spire visible for miles around. The houses were a pleasing mixture of sty
les and materials from mellow, golden stone to red brick.

  The boatmen had described the disastrous effect of the coming of the railways on this historic coach and canal crossroads so he was aware that many of the dwellings he admired were empty. The inhabitants had either emigrated or gone to where the prospect of work seemed better. That was exactly what Mary Elizabeth Jones had done when she lost her job with the Chambers family at Manley Hall.

  One of the few ways of life still thriving in the area was that of the gentry. Their considerable presence was due largely to the pleasant countryside, the abundance of foxes and the generosity of a grateful William the Conqueror who had doled out parcels of the land to his nobles. Ironically, the convenience of railway travel had brought new money in as well.

  It was with one of these families, the Chambers at Manley Hall, that the fair and lovely Mary Elizabeth Jones had obtained a good position: first as a parlour-maid, then a lady’s maid – quite a leap for a poor miner’s daughter. But then, not only had Mary Elizabeth been remarkably delicate-looking for someone from her background, but she had been better educated than most, having been taught to read and write at the village school – unlike her elder sister Liza who now sat opposite Best.

  ‘Our mother died and someone had to look after the family while my father was out working down the mines,’ she explained. Liza was a sturdier, stronger-boned version of her sister with mousy brown, rather than fair, hair and an air of sadness not due solely, Best reckoned, to the fate of her sister but also an awareness of chances of happiness probably lost for ever for duty’s sake.

  ‘There was eight of us and I wanted them to do as well so they could get on – and to get away from all this.’ She gazed bleakly around at the cold, bare room then down at her own worn dress and pinny. Best wished he had dirtied his shoes a little and worn a rough necktie. His immaculate appearance was not only an affront amidst such dire poverty, but it was making this good, simple woman self-conscious, more aware and ashamed of her shabby surroundings and clothes.

  ‘Mary Elizabeth was … is the next eldest.’ She smiled sadly. ‘The princess we used to call her. Mind you, she used to teach me some reading and writing when we had time – so I can read – just a little.’ She blushed at her claims, her reddened hands grasping each other in support. ‘She was very patient with me, she was.’

  ‘Was it her first job – the one at Manley Hall?’

  ‘Oh no, Mr Best. First off she worked as a barmaid at a pub down on the green. I got to say I didn’t like that but there was nothing else for her and the landlord looked after her. Then Mrs Chambers saw how nicely she handed out the stirrup cup one New Year’s Day and took a shine to her. Took her on. She loved it, did Mary, fair blossomed. Mrs Chambers gave her some of her old clothes and, oh, she did look so lovely in them when she went out walking on her afternoon off.’

  ‘Why did she want to leave?’

  ‘Oh she didn’t: she was made to.’ Liza’s eyes filled and she clenched her strong hands. ‘She was too pretty, you see, and Mr Chambers began going after her. Mary didn’t know what to do, did she? Kept trying to dodge him like, but it was no use an’ then Mrs Chambers caught him trying to kiss her.’

  A familiar story.

  ‘So she was told to leave.’

  ‘Yes, right away. “Pack your box this minute!”, Mrs Chambers shouted at her, didn’t she, and “Get out of this house. We’re respectable here”. That’s what she said.’ The injustice of it still burned. ‘Mrs Chambers blamed her for “tempting Mr Chambers”, that’s what she said, didn’t she, an’ Mary knew right off that she wouldn’t get another job in these parts after that. But the butler, he could see what was going on, an’ he took pity on her and gives her a reference and two addresses to try for in London.’

  ‘When was that?’

  ‘Back in March. She went down to London on one of the boats.’

  Best’s expression must have shown surprise that such a pretty girl should be put on a boat on her own for Liza said quickly, ‘That’s how we all travel, it’s natural to us you see, and we’ve all got relatives and friends on the boats. She went down on Nella Queen with her Aunt Hester and Uncle George.’

  ‘Did Mr Chambers know where she was going?’

  Liza looked surprised, such an idea obviously had not crossed her mind. ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Could the reference have been on his say-so, d’you think?’

  Her eyes widened. ‘I s’pose it’s possible, Mr Best.’ She frowned thinking back for clues. ‘I s’pose you might ’ave something there. I never thought of that.’ She paused. ‘I should ’ave done,’ she said sadly, ‘I should ’ave done.’

  Best’s heart bled for the woman whose eyes were pleading with him to tell her that the body found in the canal was not that of her beloved sister. He’d been putting off the evil moment, partly for practicality’s sake. She had been a willing participant. But now they both knew it was time to stop and face it. With a sigh, Best reached into his inside pocket and brought out a paper bag containing the victim’s petticoat. The instant she saw it tears began to pour unheeded down Liza’s face. She sat immobile, transfixed by the pretty, lace-trimmed garment. Best longed to hug her, to comfort her, she seemed so desperately alone. But it was too awkward while she sat so he leaned over and patted her hand, held it and whispered, ‘I’m so sorry.’

  The gesture seemed to undo her completely and a howl of anguish came from the back of her throat, followed by sobs so heartrending Best hoped he would never hear the like again.

  ‘My baby! Oh my baby!’ she cried out, and sobbed and sobbed.

  When the worst had subsided Best handed her his last clean handkerchief.

  ‘I’m sorry, I did not mean for that …’ She got up, looking round desperately, trying to compose herself, but, breaking down again and grasping the back of the chair, she leaned over and howled, ‘Oh, Mary Elizabeth! My darling girl!’

  This time Best followed his instincts and put his arms around the grieving woman and let her sob her heart out on the sleeve of his best plaid jacket.

  After a while, he said quietly and slowly, ‘Now Liza, we must find out who did this.’ She nodded helplessly. ‘I’m going to go off for a couple of hours, so you can recover a little and tell who you have to.’ She held his handkerchief to her lips to stifle the fresh sobs this thought brought on. ‘Then, I’ll come back and talk to you again because, you see,’ – he grasped her hand tightly – ‘I need your help. Without you, I can’t find the person who did it.’ He paused. ‘Is that all right?’

  She nodded wordlessly and finally managed to gasp out, ‘You’re a good man. She should have found someone like you.’

  Best spent the two hours eating a steak pie and downing a pint of strong local ale at The Dog and Gun, opposite the school on the village green. After attending the opening of Minchin’s inquest, Best had seized the opportunity to continue up to Braunston before it resumed again two days later. Now, as he ate and drank he read the letters from Cheadle and Smith which he’d collected from the canal office. The first contained more or less what he had expected, the second shook him.

  By the time he returned to Liza she had dried her eyes, tidied her hair, washed, dried and ironed his handkerchief, lit a fire in the grate, and regained some self control, but it was still a fragile thing. To help her retain it Best refrained from mentioning anything that had gone before and adopted a kind, but dispassionate and businesslike manner.

  The fire, poor as it was, was particularly welcome on this increasingly chilly day. Coal, he had been told, was one thing that was quite cheap hereabouts, due to the canal trade. Even the poorest could gather the dust. But, he was painfully aware that she would not have lit it just for herself, it was the one way she could be hospitable. He sat on the right-hand side of the grate, in a wheel-back chair which leaned to the left where one leg was shorter, facing Liza perched on a scrubbed but dilapidated kitchen chair. She began to explain how – when she had last heard �
� her sister had got a job as a chamber-maid, quite quickly, and was doing well.

  ‘When was that.’

  ‘September, ‘bout the middle.’ She held out a blue envelope from the small pile in her lap.

  Best noticed it did not carry a stamp.

  ‘How did it come? By canal?’

  She nodded. ‘Aunt and Uncle usually brought them up, but they don’t always get down to London so sometimes one of the company men on the fly run would bring them – quicker and more regular, you see.’

  ‘And who brought this one?’

  ‘Charles Baxton.’

  The skipper of the Tilbury who had been killed. Best sat forward in his chair causing it to rock. ‘They knew each other well?’

  ‘Oh, no.’ She shook her head. ‘I don’t think so. Not as I knows, anyway.’

  ‘Did he always bring them?’

  ‘Oh no, no. Different person each time, mostly. Anyone who happened to be on the next fly run, I suppose, an’ who could be trusted.’

  ‘Did they have money in them?’

  She nodded sadly. ‘Sometimes, when she could, when she could. She wanted to keep the children in school as well, but it’s hard enough just to feed them now.’ She looked embarrassed by what she had just said and just so that he’d not think she was asking for charity, added proudly, ‘But we’ll manage, somehow.’

  How much do you eat? Best wondered, noticing just how painfully thin she was. ‘So it was a different man each time?’

  ‘Most times, yes. She just left the letters in the Grand Junction office.’

  Best tried not to show any quickened interest. ‘Who would that be with?’

  ‘Oh, it was all proper. She left them with the gaffer there. His name was’ – she struggled to recall it – ‘I dunno. Albert something – something like prickles …’