As usual Bucket’s attention was everywhere. Particularly in the area visible from Miss Sutton’s drawing room window. But he could see no sign of newly disturbed earth or suspiciously bumpy mounds.
“Could even be recent, the disturbance,” he confided. “Who knows, the thief and murderer could have come back in the dead of night to rescue his jemmy, his wedges, or his ring of skeleton keys.”
“I’d ‘ave knowed right orff,” announced Hardacre adamantly. “Right orff.”
Bucket believed him.
So, what else might Sligh have been doing in the garden at midnight, apart from burying something? He glanced over to the apple and pear trees in the kitchen garden. Had Sligh put something among the branches or in the potting shed? But the kitchen garden was not visible from Miss Sutton’s window. Of course, he might have just been passing through when she saw him, possibly carrying something sinister? Yes, often the simplest answers were the most likely.
He turned his attention back to Hardacre, who was idly absorbed in dead-heading. Holding up the fat forefinger, he begged just one more indulgence.
“I need the name of a decent hostelry around here. Nothing fancy, just spit and sawdust and a friendly landlord. You see, I’m coming back this way later to see someone and I’ll be needing a spot of refreshment to help me on my way.”
By good fortune, Hardacre did know such a place and was happy to recommend it: The Cock, just off the King’s Road.
Bucket left it late but not too late to enter the long, winding passageway leading to the swing door of the bar of The Cock.
By then, the room had been well warmed and the air thickened by smoke from the roaring fire and the customers’ innumerable clay pipes, steam from the huge kettle awaiting hot toddy duty on the hob and fumes from the oil lamps which lit and blackened the walls and windows.
He felt at home with the sawdust and flagstones under his feet. His father had been a publican and it was in such a place that his fondness for society had developed.
Although it was a chilly night one of the two snug corner seats by the fire was still vacant. But he did not take it. He just stood by the bar, holding his glass of Fine Old East India sherry, absently surveying the room.
As he had expected, his reverie was soon interrupted by a shout.
“’Ere, Mr Bucket! ‘Ere!”
It came from one of the blackened boxes extending outwards from the back wall. Turning, he saw a horny hand reaching high and beckoning him across. He went, leaned over the central table and shook the hand.
“This was just what I wanted,” he said, a wave from his plump hand encompassing the room, “just the ticket.”
As Bucket had hoped, Hardacre was not alone. Alongside him were Alfred, the meek gardener’s lad who had hovered in the background that afternoon; a pale young man who turned out to be Vincent, the under-butler, and George, the groom with whom he had passed time as he had left that afternoon, taking the trouble to congratulate him on the grandeur of the black stallions he was hitching up. Bucket would be the first to admit a woeful ignorance about the merits or otherwise of horses but he did know such men and the pride they took in their charges.
The welcome was warm. Hardacre was proud of his acquaintance. Alfred and Vincent were wide-eyed and awestruck by the proximity of one of those famous Scotland Yard detectives and George was impressed by the man’s appreciation of the finer aspects of livestock.
As he had also hoped, the four men were well ahead of him with their intake from their pewter mugs of stout, so he was able to accept their insistence that he have another with them before pressing them to try something a little stronger in his honour. Soon, all were merry. Very merry.
Even Jeremiah Hardacre, the grizzled old gardener, became quite animated, despite the fact that his experience of the gentry who visited Praxton House (on whose antics much of the hilarity depended) was more limited than that of the others.
Bucket chortled appreciatively at the pretensions of old Lord Brocket who had so exhausted himself with his primping and preening in readiness for his portrait that when he eventually sat down to pose he fell fast asleep and snored noisily. Then there was the nubile, swooning young Lady Sarah who always managed to time her swoon so that she fell straight into the arms of the handsome butler, Sligh.
Mr Bellingham had obviously had to be a very patient man, remarked Bucket, carefully resisting the temptation to steer the gossip towards Sligh – knowing it would drift that way naturally enough.
There was much nodding at this observation. Mr Bellingham, it was clear, had been a very easy-going master. He had even called them by their first names – except in the presence of his sitters, of course, who might frown on such familiarity with the lower orders.
And if any members of their families had been sick he had allowed them leave to visit and even gave them a few coins to help with the coach fare or provide calves’ foot jelly for the invalid. A few sly glances were exchanged at this intelligence. Clearly, their families had been prone to a higher than average rate of sickness. Which reminded Bucket that he must enquire into the true state of health of Sligh’s father.
Bucket expressed the sentiment that it was a pity that such a kind and good-tempered employer should be so cruelly murdered, to which there was much nodding of assent.
“Mind you,” Vincent the under-butler suddenly burst out, “when his temper was roused!”
“Oh, he did have a temper then?” smiled Bucket.
“Oh, aye! Oh, aye!”
The lad was pleased to regain the attention due to being someone with superior access to the inner workings of the house. Being so little used to the drink, he was unaware of the sudden wariness in the faces of his companions.
“You should have seen him when he discovered them silver Queen’s Head studs couldn’t be found. He was mad as a hornet!”
“As I should be. As I should be,” said Bucket, then looked around at the frozen faces of the others. “I think, and I hope you good gentlemen agree, that it is time for a final round and I hope you will do me the honour.” He reached into his pocket but was told to desist. As he had hoped, Hardacre and George the groom went to fetch the drinks.
“And so, did your master find his studs?” he prompted not showing any great interest in the answer.
Vincent shook his head vigorously, then grabbed onto the edge of the table when he realized that such a movement had been unwise.
“No! No!” he insisted, this time thumping the table. “An,” he confided in a low voice, “it weren’t the first time things had gone missing and that Sligh,” he burbled on, “that Sligh even tried to say it must be me or Lizzy the parlour maid that took them! He thought we didn’t know about that – but we did!”
Clearly this had caused Vincent great offence which, Bucket guessed, Sligh would soon come to regret.
“And did Mr Bellingham call in the police?”
Vincent shook his head but more gently this time. “Didn’t want no scandal. Not with all those toffs coming to the house. Bad for business.”
“So, he didn’t do anything about it?”
“Oh, yes, he did.” Vincent thumped the table harder. “He told Mr Sligh to leave.”
Before the final toasts to everlasting comradeship and goodwill Bucket regaled the company with tales of murder and mayhem encountered by the stalwart men of the Detective Branch.
By then, the pale young Vincent had become even paler and when he stood up proved somewhat unsteady on his feet. The under-butler was the only member of the quartet to live in at Praxton House. The rest were heading in the opposite direction to the poorer part of the village.
“I’ll see this young fellow home,” said Bucket firmly. “I’m going his way.”
He was now, anyway. The others, who were also weaving about a little, were easily persuaded.
Fortunately, the fresh air perked the lad up, as did his bending over the gutter and relieving himself of some of the poison he had imbibed. This made it easi
er for the Inspector to steer Vincent through the leafy streets of this part of Chelsea and back onto the topic of Mr Sligh.
“They all know it were him.” Vincent thrust his right arm outwards as though to encompassing the whole world but probably only referring to the rest of the household.
They might know it, thought Bucket, but they had kept this knowledge to themselves. Not only, he deduced, due to the fear of being left without a character, but fear of Sligh himself. They doubtless felt that a man so devious and clever would somehow turn the tables on them, particularly since there did not appear to be any evidence against him. Even the persistent loss of small valuables had never been proven.
Vincent admitted that he had no idea just when Sligh had returned on the night in question, being fast asleep under the eves of the house and so hearing nothing. Neither had he nor any of the others ever seen Sligh set foot in the garden, the opinion being that he was loath to dirty his sleek shoes.
As the unsteady pair turned into the avenue on which Praxton House was situated, Bucket became seized by an uncharacteristic melancholy. He, too, was becoming convinced that Sligh had committed the murder after being caught stealing. But he was unable to prove it.
He was distracted from such morose musings by a dark figure emerging from the shadow of Praxton House porch. What was this? The murderer returning to the scene to search the gardens? Or an accomplice of Sligh’s? No, he realized, as they drew nearer, it was the butler himself.
Checking that the premises were secure was part of a butler’s duty. But he was doing it from the outside and whilst wearing outdoor clothes. Now he was bending down. When he straightened he had a large box in one hand and a carpet bag in the other. He walked towards the garden gate, where he stopped to look about him but paid no heed to the weaving figures approaching down the ill-lit street. He put down his burdens, unlatched the garden gate, pushed the box and bag through, closed it quietly behind him, then bent down again.
Bucket was a portly man but quick on his feet, so that as Sligh drew himself upright again he found his way blocked by the large form of the Detective Inspector, who murmured, “Another midnight walk, Mr Sligh?” as he snapped a bracelet of his second-best handcuffs around the wrist of the startled butler.
The Bucket who made his way to Lilac Villas the following morning was not only a happy man but one newly converted to the benefits of Her Majesty’s postal service. Had they not received the letter (from Miss Sutton’s hand or no) he would not have revisited Praxton House at that time and the butler would not have taken fright and tried to flee with his loot. So far, the man was insisting he had not hidden any valuables in the garden, declaring smugly that he had put them all behind the skirting board in his pantry where the police had been too stupid to look. But they suspected that this was because more valuables were hidden in the garden, perhaps to be collected by an accomplice.
The air was fresh and the small white villa looked even whiter and prettier in the early morning sunlight. Bucket was looking forward to meeting the dainty Miss Sutton again and expressing his gratitude. Perhaps now she would admit to having penned the crucial missive which had gained him and herself a reward.
He was obliged to ring three times before he heard hurried footsteps echoing along the hall and the door was pulled back to reveal the flustered face of Polly, the parlour maid.
“She’s had to go back,” she said as though he would know what she was talking about.
Bucket frowned.
“Back? Where to?”
Miss Sutton had not appeared to be a person in transit.
She beckoned him inside then whispered, “To – you know – ‘the home’.”
Did she mean what he thought she meant?
He sat down on one of the chairs in the hall while she drew the other alongside and sat next to him the better to facilitate a discreet exchange of information.
“She’s been a lot better lately so they thought it would be all right to have her back,” Polly confided, “but she started to go off again a bit so it was thought best to . . .”
“Off? Oh,” he nodded and pointed to his chest. Miss Sutton had intimated she had trouble in that area when explaining why she did not venture out much these days.
“No. No.” Polly shook her head causing her already loosely attached cap to slip to one side. “It’s the fancies. That’s what it is.”
“The fancies?”
What was the girl talking about?
“She sees things. Things that aren’t there. An’ gets fixed on people – like that butler where the murder was.” She paused. “She kept saying she saw him doing things in the garden at midnight.”
“Well, she might have done,” said Bucket clinging to his new-found confidence in correspondence. “As a matter of fact . . .”
“She couldn’t,” said Polly firmly. “She was always tucked up in bed by ten o’clock, an’ her room looks out the front.”
Bucket brought his fat forefinger to the fore. The girl was obviously unaware that Miss Sutton had been proved right. The butler did it. “She could,” he pointed out, “have got up and gone into the drawing room.”
Polly shook her head. “Oh, no, she couldn’t. We locked the door to stop her wandering about.”
Bucket was not usually lost for words but in this instance they did take a time coming.
When they arrived the accompanying forefinger was accusing. “Why didn’t you tell me when I was here?”
She lowered her voice. “Well, the family don’t like people to know, do they? She seems all right to other people most of the time. But,” she lowered her voice more, “I was going to tip you the wink before you went but you dashed off afore I could an’ . . .” She noticed his dazed expression. “Does it matter?”
He hesitated, then shook his head.
“No,” he said. “In fact, m’dear, I’m glad you didn’t.”
He took out a coin of large denomination and pressed it into her palm. “If you ‘ad my case would never have been solved.”
Whichever way you looked at it, Bucket decided philosophically when on his way back to Scotland Yard, correspondence could be a splendid aid to detection. Hadn’t he always suspected as much?
Not Cricket
Judith Cutler
Somewhat restless after completing Bleak House, Dickens gave a series of public readings from his works, which attracted large audiences and was rapturously received. He would continue to provide reading tours for the rest of his life which, along with all his other commitments, would contribute to his rapidly deteriorating health. These first readings were in Birmingham. Dickens was well aware of the industrialization of the northern towns of England and its effect upon individuals’ lives. He had followed the outcome of a strike by workers at one of the cotton mills in Preston in 1853-4. His concern was how the automaton-style demands of industry were turning people into machines and robbing them of individuality and imagination. This was the background for Hard Times on which he began work in March 1854 and decided to serialize in Household Words. He soon found the pressure of meeting the weekly deadlines exhausting, and though this gave the novel a fluidity and immediacy it also robbed it of Dickens’s deep characterization and atmosphere. The book is every bit as austere as the lives of its characters.
Hard Times is set in Coketown, a fictionalized Preston. Gradgrind runs a school which produces automatons and represses individuality. Amongst the pupils is Gradgrind’s son, Tom, who later develops into a gambler and embezzler. Also at the school is Sissy Jupe, whose father was a circus performer and who is seen as a bad influence, because of her flights of fancy. Tom, though, is fascinated by the circus and uses it to effect his escape from Coketown and England. His father subsequently relents and realizes his approach to education is too rigid and, rather like the transformation of Scrooge, seeks to do good. This, just one plot strand amongst many, is set against the struggle of the workers in Coketown to improve their pay and conditions. The following story returns to
Coketown some forty years after the events described in Hard Times, and includes a historical but surprisingly Dickensian character as our sleuth.
Judith Cutler is probably best known for her series of novels featuring Sophie Rivers who, like Cutler, was a lecturer at an inner-city college in Birmingham. That series began with Dying Fall (1995). With Life Sentence (2005), Cutler started a new series set in Kent featuring Detective Chief Superintendent Frances Harman.
It was Mr William M’Choakumchild who discovered the first outrage, as he took a health-giving spring stroll through Coketown’s civic park, generously donated to the town by none other than the victim.
To a casual visitor, the park was not much more attractive than the rest of the town. But at least it attempted to vary the monotony of the smoke-blackened once red-brick buildings, the unarguable green of the grassed areas like old emeralds in a heavily tarnished setting – by no means appearing at their best, but nonetheless gems of great value. The Hands, who chiefly used them (for utility remained a byword despite the great changes to the town), were well on their way to making them their own. On bright Sundays, they were happy to saunter to the strains of music from the green-painted bandstand. The bandsmen were yet other Hands, proudly attired in heavily frogged uniforms and puffing prodigious quan tities of air down brilliantly polished brass tubes provided by the Gradgrind Musical Instrument Fund.
During the winter large areas of grass had been scuffed and churned by the Hands’ feet in games of football, both official and unofficial. In the far distance lay a cricket field, surrounded by benches and with its centre carefully roped off as a reminder that in the summer games of cricket would be played with all the skill and determination necessary for competing against other counties from across the entire country.
Young Mr M’Choakumchild looked forward with an especial passion to the start of the season, for it was rumoured that early on no less a team than Gloucestershire, with members of the redoubtable Grace family as players, would be visiting. He had no hope of being anything but a lowly twelfth man for Lancashire, but the prospect of even watching WG, the greatest cricketer of all time, was enough to make his eyes sparkle.
The Mammoth Book of Dickensian Whodunnits Page 34