by Joan Lock
‘Albert Thornley.’
‘That’s it. That’s him.’
‘She was friendly with him?’
‘Not special, I don’t think. He just did her a kindness – and me. I used to write back’ – she looked down at her hands – ‘best I could,’ course, and they left them in the office.’
Best nodded. ‘Did she mention anyone else there?’
‘No. Not as I recall. She only told me his name because he gave permission and that. But you can see yourself.’ She held out the rest of the bundle of letters.
Best took them. ‘Thank you. I’d be obliged if I could keep them for a while, Miss Jones, in case I can find any useful information in them.’
The idea clearly upset her, tears jumping into her eyes as she agreed. ‘Yes, Mr Best, of course you can.’
‘I’ll guard them with my life,’ he promised. Then he fired the last and most potentially upsetting question at her. ‘Why did you not tell us sooner that she was missing?’
‘She wasn’t! Not that I knew! She was happy and well.’ Tears spilled over. ‘Even when we heard about the girl being found in the canal, I never thought … there was no reason.’ Tears were coming fast now. Best handed her his newly-laundered handkerchief. ‘It weren’t until I was told about the petticoats with the hearts that I thought it might be …’ She broke down, then.
‘Just one last question. Where did she work?’
‘At Grantham House – in … in Mary something,’ she sobbed.
‘Marylebone?’
She looked confused. ‘I suppose that’s it, something like that.’
Oh well, at least it wasn’t St John’s Wood, Best thought, as he stepped back on to the High Street. Shabby children, mostly boys, released from the school were running towards him shouting and laughing. But it wasn’t far off either.
At first, Van Ellen attempted to be his usual implacable self and Smith began by politely requesting to talk to the younger son, Eddie Van Ellen. But when Van Ellen airily dismissed the request, saying that the boy was out and anyway too busy, Smith suddenly found himself becoming startlingly firm and implacable in return.
‘Is your son in the house at this moment?’ he demanded of a pinker-than-usual Van Ellen.
‘No.’
‘Then I wish to see his room.’ As he spoke he stood up and moved forward.
Van Ellen was taken unawares. ‘But … but …’
‘Lead the way, please,’ he said commandingly and Van Ellen did. He’s holding something back, Smith thought to himself when his astonishment subsided. That’s why he gave way so easily, he’s confused.
Eddie’s room was probably much the same as any other in the house, but it was clear by the rigidity of his bearing and the pink spots on his cheeks, that its contents had earned the disapproval of his father. It must be the pictures, Smith concluded. He could see no other reason. Two were views of dockland in the same vague style as those he had seen in Anthony Wheeler’s attic. Another, resting against the wall, was a rather amateurish portrait of a young woman wearing pink, but it was impossible to see her face for the violent slashes of red which had obliterated it.
Smith was suddenly aware of something other than disapproval in Van Ellen’s demeanour – fear. ‘How long has your son been gone, sir?’ he enquired peremptorily.
‘I don’t know what you mean …’
‘You know exactly what I mean. And I must remind you that this is a very serious matter. Now I ask you again, sir, how long has your son been away?’
The man hesitated, then crumpled. With a look of utter defeat which astonished Smith, he muttered, ‘Since last Tuesday.’
Five days.
‘Where is he?’
To Smith’s further astonishment the man began to cry quite silently, the tears welling up, spilling over and being allowed to flow unchecked down his still face as he stood, an immobile picture of abject misery.
‘Just tell me, sir?’ said the PC more gently.
‘I don’t know!’ Sobs began to rack the man’s pink, plump face making him look more like an overgrown baby than ever. ‘I just don’t know!’
‘He didn’t tell anyone where he was going?’
The man shook his head, unable to speak.
‘He is missing from home, in fact?’
‘I shouldn’t have been so hard on him … I should have …’
The PC ignored this and asked bluntly, ‘Wouldn’t he have told his mother or his sister even?’ Smith couldn’t imagine going anywhere without telling his mother.
He shook his head. ‘They’re as distressed as I am!’
Smith nodded thoughtfully to hide a sudden lack of resolve. What should he ask next? To cover his confusion he opened the wardrobe door. Then it came to him. ‘Did he take many clothes with him?’
They both knew this was the most serious question of all. Suicides did not need hairbrushes nor a change of clothes. ‘No,’ said Van Ellen. He had difficulty in getting the words out but eventually said in a small, quiet voice, ‘None. And I understand that it seems he did not even take his toiletries.’
‘Would he have much money?’
‘Some cash, but not a great deal and, the terrible thing is …’ The man could scarcely speak but Smith motioned him on. ‘He hasn’t drawn any money from his bank account since!’
‘Right, I want you and every other member of the household to tell me everything, and I mean everything, about your son that they can think of.’
Van Ellen was gathering himself together as best he could. ‘Of course.’
‘We will do our best to find him.’ Smith patted the man’s hand suddenly feeling much older. He still couldn’t get over the change in Van Ellen. All signs of the arrogant man of power had gone. He merely nodded, gratefully. Neither made any mention of what might happen to the son should they find him alive, and his beloved permanently removed from the scene in as savage a manner as she had been from the painting propped against the wall.
Chapter Fifteen
The first thing Best saw as he climbed up from the towpath to the White Lion Public House at Marsworth, was the bulky figure of Cheadle. It wasn’t just the man’s presence which surprised Best but his garb.
The Chief Inspector was dressed as for the country, a symphony in brown. Gone were the regulation dark frock coat and trousers, stiff collar and top hat. In their place, a Norfolk jacket and plus-fours fashioned from a marmalade tweed. This ensemble was topped off by a pale chocolate-coloured bowler.
Alongside Cheadle, like a cast of characters lining up in a play to take a bow, were Albert Thornley, Sam Grealey, and a slight, sad figure whom Best took to be Mrs Minchin. She wore a shabby but neat black dress relieved by touches of cheap white lace and, at her neck, a tiny jet brooch. Around her shoulders, but scarcely protection against the raw morning air, was a light woollen shawl. Indeed, she was shivering. But, as Smith had noticed, there was a dignity about the way the woman held herself and in the turn of her fair head.
Grealey greeted him like a long-lost brother despite the fact that he now knew him to be a policeman. Cheadle and Thornley acknowledged him with brief nods. The resumed inquest on the sudden death of Joseph Minchin was to take place in an upstairs room of the pub. Best had been to several such rural inquests but none as close to the murder scene – scarcely a hundred yards – and as appropriate as this one. The White Lion overlooked the canal and was a familiar part of the waterway scenery and life.
Best was puzzled by Cheadle’s presence. Why had he come all this way for an inquest at which the verdict was almost a foregone conclusion: suicide while the balance of the mind was disturbed. Why this sudden interest?
Another strange thing he noticed, apart from his chief’s metamorphosis into a country gentleman, was the man’s oddly benign behaviour. The probable explanation dawned slowly. It must be the presence of the grieving Mrs Minchin for whom, it soon transpired, nothing was too good. When they partook of a light lunch she must have the choicest cuts of m
eat and the most comfortable, least draughty seat in the inglenook.
This new vision of an old warhorse was startling but, never having seen the Chief Inspector in the presence of ladies, it was impossible to judge whether the confirmed bachelor extended this extravagant solicitude to Mrs Minchin alone or to all of her sex. Perhaps the man was merely being kind? The very thought bemused Best and made him smile to himself.
Whatever, it was it was good to see the shabby, stricken woman warming to the man’s elaborate and overdone attentions. Indeed, when she smiled gratefully at Cheadle in thanks for one particular nicety, Best glimpsed remnants of an attractive woman shining forth, but was brought up sharp when she turned her head. The translucence of the skin of her cheek was just like that of Emma in her last days.
He realized he hadn’t seen Grealey in the presence of women either and that sight also proved to be something of an eye-opener.
His manner was preening. Indeed, he managed to give the impression that, should he be interested, no other man would stand a chance in his handsome and virile presence. He was probably right there, but it was soon plain he wasn’t interested in the pale and wispy Mrs Minchin. Probably not to his lusty taste. The sturdy and peach-like barmaid apparently was and, while he was sensible enough not to openly flirt with her in such circumstances, Grealey’s eyes followed her everywhere and caught hers as she bent over to lay their places. He managed to murmur lasciviously to his friend Best as to what he could do were he in extremely close quarters with the young lady.
En route to Marsworth, Best had reread the letter from Smith giving him the amazing news that the Van Ellen boy was Matilda’s sweetheart. It made him itch to be back in London to confront the Van Ellens and he worried whether Smith was experienced enough to handle the matter properly. What would he do if Van Ellen refused to answer his questions? Best hesitated to bring the matter up with Cheadle. Now that the victim’s identity had been established he may not think they should still be pursuing the matter. But to Best’s mind, Matilda was still a woman missing in mysterious circumstances and maybe, who knows, another victim of the canal murderer.
The letters sent home by Mary Elizabeth had also provided illuminating reading on his return journey to Marsworth. Alongside many exclamations as to what a big, frightening but exciting city London was, were details regarding her life as a chamber-maid, which appeared quite hard, and a complete run-down on her fellow servants who, apparently, were all in thrall to one man. Not, of course, the head of the family but the purple-cheeked Mr Bates, the butler. A man certainly worth talking to, Best thought.
Now he was faced with another letter, handed to him by Cheadle with whom he had gone into a private huddle. This letter was sensational. It was from Minchin and, in it, he confessed to the murder of Mary Elizabeth, or at least, appeared to do so. I am guilty of the killing, announced a large, wavering black scrawl which obviously had taken some effort to execute. Then there was a signature, and that was that.
‘Looks like he did commit suicide then,’ murmured Best.
‘Looks like,’ said Cheadle. ‘She says it’s his handwriting.’ He nodded towards Mrs Minchin.
‘How’d she take it?’
‘She don’t believe it,’ he answered bluntly. ‘Says he never had no other woman but her.’
They exchanged knowing glances.
‘I must say,’ offered Best thoughtfully, ‘the idea did seem a bit strange to me. I mean, I know I only saw him briefly …’
This was the wrong thing to say. Cheadle gave him an icy look. ‘We all knows about that, don’t we, Sergeant?’ He looked over at Grealey, still engaged on his furthering of the barmaid quest and looking mighty pleased with himself in the process. There was no sign of his twitch. ‘Was him that told you that, weren’t it?’
‘Yes.’
Cheadle voiced it for them both. ‘Looks a bit like the pot calling the kettle, don’t it?’
Best nodded. ‘It does,’ adding carefully, ‘but, maybe, if Minchin wasn’t very successful with women he would take rejection harder?’
Cheadle grunted with, Best sensed, a hint of embarrassment. Oh dear, maybe he was getting too near home. ‘Well, anyway,’ shrugged the Chief Inspector, holding up the confessional letter, ‘it looks like it were him, don’t it?’
It occurred to Best that they only had Mrs Minchin’s word that it was her husband’s handwriting but, somehow, as he followed his chief’s besotted gaze, he felt that this would not be the right moment to voice that doubt so contented himself with a brief, ‘It does that.’ It suddenly occurred to him that the sight of Mrs Minchin and Grealey so studiously avoiding each other was an odd one. Minchin and Grealey might not have been close friends, but they had been workmates.
Cheadle, however, had not taken complete leave of his senses. ‘Bit pat, though, the note and all, ain’t it?’ he muttered finally.
The inquest hearing had gone much as Best expected. A procession of witnesses, starting with himself as the finder of the body, then the surgeon saying, in more complicated terms, that the cause of death was loss of blood due to the injuries to the throat and wrists. Canal workmen followed, describing where and when they had last seen Joseph Minchin and what mental condition he had been in at that time. Morose was the general opinion, but that, it seemed, was his normal demeanour.
That the deceased was a possible suspect in a murder case was only touched upon. Before proceedings had commenced, Cheadle had seen the coroner and persuaded him that any divulging of detail would hamper the enquiry. He’d asked him to accept in court a statement begging the court’s indulgence regarding the information about this matter. The coroner had been reluctant, knowing that would mean another adjournment. Coroners could be very jealous of their authority and status, but Cheadle had flattered the man, hinting that while he had the chief constable on his side the police chief’s word was as naught compared to that of the coroner. Thus it was that not even the confession note was mentioned.
Outside, the light had begun to fade to a golden glow which reflected into the water and off the boats and their reflections. The effect was dreamlike and so peaceful in contrast to all this talk of violent death. If only Helen Franks could see that, sighed Best to himself. He must lose no time in telling her that the victim was not her sister. That would give her some respite.
The final witness appeared as the pub lamps were being lit. It was evident that Mrs Minchin did not see her husband in quite the light his colleagues had done. He was a kind man, she declared, and a good husband and father – brought down by his love of gambling. And he only did that to try to better their lot. The heat of the room brought an appealing flush in her fair cheeks and, as she spoke about his increasing worries about money, she stressed her words with graceful hand movements in the air. The effect, as the darkness deepened in the windows behind her, was hypnotic. Cheadle and Grealey particularly were transfixed. What was it, thought Best. The grace? The femininity? Or the self-possession – so odd in someone of her station in life? The accent was clearly cockney and her vocabulary limited, but the voice was low and pleasant. Whatever it was, she was clearly one of those people that the more you saw of her, the more she intrigued you. A bit like Helen Franks, thought Best suddenly, and was irritated at himself for allowing her re-entry into his subconscious twice in ten minutes. I miss her, he thought miserably, before dragging his mind back to the present.
Had Minchin’s problems been only monetary? Grealey’s hungry eyes watching her made him wonder again. Or had his wife caused him some difficulty? Driven him into the arms of other women who he was unable to shake off when he tired of them?
The coroner was just beginning to thank Mrs Minchin for attending to give evidence when she held up her hand gently to stop him.
‘There’s something else I fink I should tell you,’ she murmured in a voice so low that Best had to strain to hear her.
‘What’s that, my dear?’ the coroner’s voice boomed around the suddenly hushed room.
/> She drew a graceful arc with her right arm to point at the table containing the exhibits. ‘That ain’t his razor.’
Chapter Sixteen
The crew of the Mary Louise sat, razors in hand, on the grass beside the canal. All the cut-throats had proved to be of exactly the same make and pattern and all had handles of imitation ebony – just like the one which had cut Minchin’s throat. Hardly surprising. It was a common make and they all bought from the same canalside shops.
Yet the man’s own razor, his wife claimed, had an ivory handle inscribed with his initials. She didn’t know whether it was in the bundle of his belongings which had been returned to her. That was back in London and she had not opened it. Couldn’t bring herself to, yet.
‘This is just what we need,’ Best said to Cheadle, ‘another murder.’
‘Still, doesn’t have to be murder, you know,’ Cheadle said mildly. ‘He could have picked up someone else’s razor – easy done – these blokes live on top of each other. Or maybe he didn’t care. Sudden decision to end it all – grabs any handy razor.’
Best was beginning to find this newly benign Chief Inspector disconcerting. Was he going totally soft? He hadn’t even berated Best for not checking whether the razor found by the body was Minchin’s. Even seemed to look pleased about the whole thing. Because it would give him an excuse to see Mrs Minchin again? And what on earth had he been doing with his hair? Normally a strong but dull dark brown and a bit lifeless, it looked newly shiny and puffed up.
‘An’ we got the confession, ain’t we? Topping himself before we could do the job. Looks like suicide, don’t it?’
Best wished he’d make up his mind. ‘Looks like,’ he agreed, thinking again that they only had Mrs Minchin’s word for the handwriting. But then it was Mrs Minchin who had thrown doubt on a suicide verdict. What was going on?
‘The thing we got to ask ourselves,’ muttered Cheadle, ‘is why would anyone want to kill Joseph Minchin? We got to look at the picture from the other side, d’you see?’