Joan Lock served as a policewoman in the sixties and wrote of her experiences (and problems) in Lady Policeman (1968), plus a more detailed study in The British Policewoman (1978). She has since become renowned for her books about the early days of the British police force, most notably Dreadful Deeds and Awful Murders (1990), about Scotland Yard’s first detectives. She has also written her own series about Victorian police detective Sergeant Best, which began with Dead Image (2000). Her detailed knowledge of the period made her a natural to create a new story about Inspector Bucket.
Inspector Bucket did not hold with letters. He had as little to do with correspondence as possible, either as a sender or receiver. In his opinion, not only were they too simple and direct a way to conduct delicate business, but they could be dangerous.
He preferred a more roundabout approach. One which exercised, he would hesitate to say more guile, but at least more sociability and subtlety. That was it. Subtlety. To look a person in the eye while pleasantries and information were exchanged. That was the civilized way to conduct affairs. Furthermore, he had seen the damage these thoughts made firm could do when produced as evidence in a court of law.
No, letters were things to be avoided. Yet here he was contemplating a pile of them as he sat in the Inspector’s office in Scotland Yard. All, he had no doubt, would be telling him how to do his job and how to solve this terrible crime which the newspapers had already dubbed the Chelsea Art Murder.
All notable crimes brought this influx of letters to the Detective Branch and the Commissioner insisted they were taken notice of just in case they might hold important information. In Bucket’s experience they never did and the time he was obliged to waste on them only increased his dislike and distrust of letters.
He gazed out of the window at the fog which always seemed to hang low and become trapped in the Yard, persisting when it had dispersed elsewhere. He sighed, thoughtfully rubbed the side of his nose with his fat forefinger, and began.
The first three were clearly nonsense born of ignorance of both the case and the progress of their investigation. The fourth was from a Mr Billings of Ware who was clearly deranged. Bucket realized that even before he read the content. All the tell-tale signs were there: overlarge wild handwriting punctuated with a great many giant exclamation marks which gave the impression that the sender was shouting at the recipient – which he probably intended.
By contrast, the fifth letter was written in a small, delicate, feminine hand on pale blue paper and was controlled both in execution and content. It said simply,
Dear Mr Bucket,
With reference to the Praxton House murder I suggest you ask the butler what he was doing in the garden at midnight on Thursday.
Abigail Sutton (Miss)
That gave Bucket a start but also puzzled him. A butler in the garden at midnight was certainly an oddity. But what could he be doing that was sinister? They already had the weapon and had arrived at a motive. The crime was obviously a burglary gone wrong.
An awful possibility occurred to the Detective Inspector. Was there another body out there in the garden? He soon dismissed that idea as fanciful. Not fitting in with his conclusions about the crime. He looked again at the pale blue fine quality notepaper and it occurred to him that the idea of a butler lurking in the garden at midnight had a melodramatic tinge to it – such as that found in cheap novels read by impressionable young ladies with little better to do.
What was certain was that he must go to see Miss Abigail Sutton. Even the sociable Bucket usually ignored the insistence of letter writers who demanded that a detective should call on them – or he sent a sergeant in his stead.
Miss Sutton had not made such a demand. But she had appended her address: 5, Lilac Villas, Chelsea. These villas were in the adjacent street to Praxton House, the scene of the murder. Depending on how sane and sensible Miss Sutton seemed to be, he would decide whether to put her question to Sligh, the butler. And, perhaps, he would commence digging up Praxton House garden.
Number five, Lilac Villas, proved, as he had expected, to be small, white and feminine in its decor. Miss Abigail Sutton likewise. Although no longer a young woman she had a youthful and amused sparkle in her eyes. Dainty would be the description he would use if pressed. She wore a soft, cream-coloured gown with a prodigious cascade of lace ruffles at the wrist, as was the mode among wealthy ladies.
“A detective!” she exclaimed when he was shown in to the drawing room. “How very exciting! But what could you want with me?”
A disconcerting start perhaps but Bucket was a philosophical man accustomed to disappointment.
“You have doubtless heard about the murder of one of your neighbours, Miss Sutton? That of the artist, Mr Augustus Bellingham?”
“Oh, of course, of course!” She threw her hands in the air and shook her head causing her ruffles and her tight little ringlets to shake and flutter. “No one speaks of anything else. So sad. Such a talented man.”
“Indeed. Indeed.” Bucket glanced around the room appreciatively. “Judging by your own pictures, madam, if I may be so bold, you would have particular appreciation of art.” His eyes lit on one. “Isn’t that . . .” he waved his forefinger in the air then brought it to his forehead which he tapped before exclaiming. “I know! Isn’t that one of Mr Benchley’s fine etchings?”
Miss Sutton smiled. “Absolutely, Inspector.”
“And that one.” He pointed to a small oil landscape rendered in indeterminate greens and paused. “May I look?”
“Of course.” The bemused Miss Sutton nodded. Clearly this was not the sharp, penetrating questioning she had expected from one of the Metropolitan Police’s finest. But rather than such personal attentions appearing impertinent on such a short acquaintance Bucket’s very enthusiasm and interest were endearing.
She smiled indulgently as he got up to look closely at the painting. His glance also, quite incidentally, included the view from the nearby window and the objects resting on the adjacent side table.
“Fine. Very fine. With such taste I wonder if you are an artist yourself?” He glanced around for evidence of her skills.
She shook her head sadly. “Only an admirer.”
“Myself also. My sculptor friend, Alfonso, swears that my artistic talents are merely waiting to be drawn out but,” he shook head in concert with his finger. “In that his otherwise excellent judgement fails him.”
“You doubtless have other talents,” said Miss Sutton consolingly. “For detection, for example.”
But he was not to be deflected from the subject of art. “I wonder whether you have any of the late Mr Bellingham’s paintings?” He stopped aghast. “Oh, how tactless of me. Living so near and you being an art lover, you may have known him?”
“Oh, no,” she smiled. “I don’t get about so much in society these days. My health, you know.” Her dainty hand fluttered above her chest.
“Ah. A pity, but . . .” He suddenly sat forward as though dragged back involuntarily, “to more serious matters. The death of Mr Bellingham and your letter.”
Miss Sutton sat back, perplexed.
“My letter, Mr Bucket? I’m afraid you have the advantage of me there.”
He fished about in his pocket and retrieved a large black pocketbook which he ungirdled to reveal the blue notepaper. She frowned at the sight.
“This letter you wrote to Scotland Yard.” He held it up but did not offer it for inspection. “The contents refer to the murder of Mr Bellingham and offer us some helpful advice with regard to our investigation.”
Miss Sutton gasped then sat up straighter and more stiffly as people of small stature tend to do when attempting to add dignity and gravitas to their pronouncements. “I can assure you, Mr Bucket,” she said slowly, “that I wrote no such letter.”
“Oh.”
His substantial shoulders drooped and his forefinger crept to his upper lip and began to stroke it thoughtfully.
“That is a grave disappointment.” H
e paused. “But it does have your signature and this address is appended.”
He held it forward, his meaty fingers obscuring the body of the letter.
Her eyes had lost their amused sparkle and grown icy. “Well, I can assure you, Mr Bucket, I did not write that letter.”
“Oh, dear, Oh, dear,” said Bucket looking defeated. He paused, then said, “But I sense you may recognize the paper?” Not giving her the chance to disagree, he continued, “Might you also recognize the hand?” He held up the letter once more.
Her mouth tightened.
“It is meant, I assume, to imitate my own,” she said then held her right palm outwards to ward off any further questions. “If you would leave this with me, Inspector, I will enquire further. I can only say that I have my suspicions.”
Bucket had a healthy regard for women’s suspicions. Indeed, those of the estimable Mrs Bucket had been of great assistance to him on more than one occasion. In his opinion she was a natural detective.
“Very well. I will return later and we will confer,” he told her, then picked up his hat and withdrew.
On his way to Praxton House, Bucket reflected on why, if Miss Sutton had written that letter, she now disowned it? Had someone, perhaps the butler, threatened her? But why had she accused him in the first place? How did she know that he was in the garden at midnight? Was it merely servants’ gossip? A clue had rested on that table by the window: a pair of opera glasses. But surely they would not be powerful enough to see over into that garden, at midnight and enable her to identify the butler? Had she imagined it then? She seemed sane enough and convinced she knew who had sent it.
Of course, disclaiming letters sent to Scotland Yard was not unusual. Members of the public, excited by the mystery puffed up by the newspapers, wrote off making wild accusations which they withdrew when they realized the mischief they could cause. (The introduction of the Penny Post had much to answer for in Bucket’s estimation.) One officer had been obliged to go all the way to Bristol to see a man who declared himself to be in possession of vital information which could only be disclosed to the ears of a Scotland Yard detective, only for the man to tell him angrily that he had made no such communication.
The murder which had encouraged the latest influx of letters had been that of Mr Augustus Bellingham, successful painter to the gentry. He had been found dead early one morning on the kitchen floor of his Chelsea home, his head crushed by a rounded heavy instrument, which soon proved to be the bloodied kitchen poker left at the scene.
Several valuable items including silver plate were found lying just inside the kitchen door, as was a candle stuck in a flat bar of yellow soap – all of which indicated an aborted burglary. Burglars were obliged to carry their means of illumination with them. Sometimes a darkie – a lantern adjusted to issue only sufficient light to see a keyhole. For better light, once inside, some brought a candle stuck in a bar of soap which could be placed on a flat surface while the burglar rummaged for loot. The candle’s whereabouts by the door signalled that the crime had been committed by an outsider, although some wily servants aiming to rob their masters soon became alerted to the candle factor and acted accordingly.
The fact that the Praxton House kitchen door had been jemmied open also pointed to an outside job. Unfortunately, there had been a hard frost that night so there had been no footprints inside nor outside in the soil from which to take a plaster caste. The two women servants and the under butler all lived in slept at the top of the house and so heard nothing. Sligh, the butler in question, had been given the night off to visit his ailing father in Hampshire.
All in all, it looked as though Mr Bellingham, a poor sleeper in the habit of going down to his studio during the night, had heard a noise in the kitchen, gone to investigate and been struck down.
Bucket had had his suspicions about the butler but could find no evidence against him. The other servants, if they knew anything, were not saying. A not unusual occurrence. Servants were usually aware of what was going on below the tranquil surface of an establishment but if their livelihood depended on the goodwill of a suspect their memories could prove faulty.
It had been the butler, however, who had pointed out that some valuables were still missing: gold rings, coins, fob watches and seals. Pawnbrokers were alerted and informants questioned as to what thieves’ tattle was saying – which wasn’t much – and the house itself was searched including the butlers’ pantry. All to no avail although a couple of Chelsea’s habitual burglars were being sought. And that had been that. Until the arrival of the letter.
As butlers go the slim, elegant, James Sligh, was a very superior specimen. In his own eyes at least but not in those of Mr Bucket who had been looked down upon by far more impressive examples of the breed. Neither they nor Mr Sligh had dented his confidence in the least.
“Here again, Inspector?”
He stood aside, ushering Bucket through as though this was his very own house, which caused the Inspector to wonder anew about the terms of the victim’s will which were not yet revealed.
By the time Lizzy the parlour maid had accepted Bucket’s top hat and gloves and he turned back to Sligh, the man’s face had assumed an ingratiating smile. He is thinking better of antagonizing the law, thought Bucket, no matter how lowly its representative.
“What can I do for you, Inspector?”
“Answer a few more questions,” said Bucket.
Sligh raised his right eyebrow, wrinkling the small diagonal scar that ran through it enhancing rather than detracting from the man’s sleek and saturnine appearance.
“As you can see,” he gestured towards the hall window at the household carriage in the process of acquiring a funereal aspect, “we imagined the investigation was done with and are getting on with organizing the proper conclusions to this sad business.”
Done with and no culprit identified, apart from an unknown burglar, was the unspoken slight. The butler wafted his slim hand towards the drawing room and made as if to guide the Detective Inspector through its door. But Bucket stopped abruptly, held up his pudgy forefinger and smiled in a benign fashion.
“Before the questions I wish to speak to your gardener.”
Sligh frowned. “Why would . . . I mean, I assure you old Jeremiah Hardacre knows nothing about . . .”
Bucket waved the said forefinger. “It’s purely a personal matter, Mr Sligh, if you would indulge me. You see,” he added confidingly, “I’m having problems with my petunias. They are small and puny and apt to expire without warning. On my way here I suddenly thought to myself, Bucket, you’re in luck. Praxton House has a splendid garden, doubtless due to your own excellent supervision, Mr Sligh, and surely, I thought, the man responsible for such splendour will be able to help me with my horticultural problems.”
Sligh was caught off guard. Before he could respond, he was following Bucket as he made his way towards the rear of the house and into the kitchen.
“This is most generous of you,” he said, without halting step. “Mrs Bucket is very particular about her garden, don’t you know, and it upsets her if it ain’t right.”
“He’s not here,” interposed Sligh, attempting to get ahead of the portly Scotland Yard detective, who was sailing like a stately galleon towards the door which led into the garden.
“I think you’re mistaken,” Bucket exclaimed, pointing through the kitchen window. “There he is!” He opened the door. “You keep them at it, I see. Admirable. Admirable.”
Sligh smiled weakly at this compliment as Bucket exited the kitchen, closing the door firmly behind him.
When Bucket asked his question Hardacre the gardener looked shocked.
“Should be under glass now if you wants to keep ’em!” he exclaimed as though the Inspector had been guilty of some wanton evil act. “Frost kills ’em!”
“Oh yes, yes,” said Bucket who scarcely knew a petunia from a Michaelmas daisy. “That’s done. That’s done. It’s when they’re coming on they don’t seem to thri
ve like those next door.” He shook his head. “And that upsets Mrs Bucket!”
Hardacre leaned back, pushing his gnarled thumbs over the top of his blue canvas apron. “Cut back the straggly roots and dead-head regular. That’s what they need!” He paused. “Not too heavy shade neither or they’ll pine.”
Pine, would they? Plants and flowers were living beings to this man, Bucket noted with approval. He liked an enthusiast.
The gardener, advice duly given, bent down to lift the handles of his barrow ready to go on his way. Bucket stayed him with the finger.
“Just one more horticultural matter I need your expert advice on.”
He walked forward among the lawns and flowerbeds, obliging Hardacre to follow. As he went, he expressed wonder at the beauty of the late autumnal display and gave compliments regarding the skills that had produced them. On his heels, a bemused Hardacre muttered about soils and the nurturing required for each plant while Bucket nodded sagely, tapping his forehead as if to ensure that the knowledge had been duly absorbed.
Once well away from the prying ears in the house he suddenly asked, “Has anyone been tampering with your garden?”
“Tampering?” Hardacre looked confused.
Bucket came to his aid. “I’m just tidying up loose ends,” he explained, patting the air in a comforting fashion, “and it occurred to me, somewhat late, I admit, that when the murderer made his escape he might have buried some of the tools of his trade here – in case he was waylaid by a vigilant member of the force once outside.”
Hardacre nodded, comprehension dawning.
“You’d notice if there had been any fresh digging?”
“Oh, aye,” said the gardener, “specially at this time of year – and,” he added firmly, “there ain’t been none.”
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 33