A Dangerous Deceit

by Marjorie Eccles

  Nor was there anywhere on the street where anyone hanging about waiting for Arthur Aston to arrive could have stayed out of sight, not with the two Aston workshops, Dunn’s Motors and the nail-making shop occupying the one side, and the row of terraced houses on the other. The only possible place of concealment would have been inside one of the workshops, but the weedy, self-important youth at Dunn’s who performed roughly the same sort of duties as Eileen Gerrity did at Aston’s, plus odd jobs in the workshop, had sniggered at the idea when Joe had approached him. A woman venturing into Dunn’s? he’d repeated, wiping oily hands on an oily rag. While men were lying on their backs on the floor beneath the vehicles being repaired, with full view of her legs? Not likely, unless she’d been a tart. More sniggers. Joe had likewise drawn blank at the nail-making shop, where a man and his wife worked alone.

  That put paid to anyone identifying the woman Gladys had seen, then, and left only the houses, where none of the occupants had any connection with Aston’s nor, as far as anyone had been able to ascertain, with Aston himself. He hadn’t been a popular man, yet so far they’d come across no one who had enough resentment against him to want him dead – with the possible exception of Felix Rees-Talbot, and Aston’s wife, Lily. But even Lily might have decided there was an easier way of getting rid of an unsatisfactory husband than resorting to following him to the foundry and taking such a risky way of killing him – always supposing she’d known he would go straight in there, rather than into his office, anyway.

  All this, of course, applied to anyone who might have done the deed. The crime had none of the marks of premeditation: the killer had not come equipped, or even taken advantage of any of the heavy tools lying about – the hammers, files, spades, iron rods and other nameless potential weapons. No weapon had been required. All that had been needed after a sudden shove, or even an accidental fall, into that pile of sand, was pressure to keep him there. A spur of the moment reaction, made in the heat of a quarrel and regretted afterwards, or just simply that an opportunity too good to miss had arisen for someone whose motives had not yet been made apparent.

  Joe finished his tea. He was on his own today. Reardon had made a sudden decision and taken himself off on his motorbike to the village near Worcester where the detective inspector, Micklejohn, who’d been in charge of the original Snowman case, was settling into a small cottage with a shed in the garden for his racing pigeons; a nice place where he and his wife hoped to spend their retirement.

  Joe stifled another yawn. He rocked back on his chair, sucking his pencil and contemplating the lists again. There was only one house on Henrietta Street where no one had been at home, either on that first door-to-door enquiry, or at the subsequent follow-up. He let the chair fall back on to its four legs. Since he couldn’t see any further way forward at the moment, it seemed like a good idea to take a break, wake himself up, use his initiative and have another go to see if he could catch anyone at home.

  This time he didn’t make use of the official car, less out of any consideration for the cost of petrol to the police than a reluctance to face yet another of Stringer’s complaining monologues. Instead, he hopped on a bus which took him up Victoria Road, to a stop within yards of Henrietta Street. There was still no reply to his knock at number eighteen. He put his hands either side of his face to try to peer into the front sitting room, but heavy lace curtains at the window prevented him from seeing anything of the room inside.

  He walked further along to Gladys Ibbotson’s house. This time the sash window where she had been sitting was closed and similar lace curtains to those at the other house were drawn across. In answer to his knock the door was opened by a tired-looking young woman in bedroom slippers and a flowered, crossover pinafore. Her first words after he had introduced himself and enquired for Miss Ibbotson confirmed his guess that she was Muriel Hollins, Gladys’s niece. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘they took Auntie Gladys into hospital yesterday.’

  ‘Nothing too serious, I hope?’ He was concerned. He’d liked Gladys.

  She sighed. ‘No more serious than usual. She’s always in and out, poor old duck. Chest infection this time.’ She looked curiously at him. ‘What did you want her for?’

  ‘We’ve been trying to get hold of the people at number eighteen, but they’re very elusive and I thought she might be able to give me some help as to when I could find them at home. She seems to know everything that happens on the street.’ He looked at her speculatively. ‘Maybe you can help?’

  ‘I don’t know about that, but you’d best come in.’ She led the way along a narrow hallway, past a steep, narrow flight of stairs and into the large kitchen-living room at the back, filled with too much furniture, some of it no doubt cleared from the front room to make way for auntie’s bed. There was a warm smell of baking, a pie cooling on a tray and a large pot of tea already made, a mug and Woman’s Weekly on the table next to it. She indicated a chair by the table and fetched a flowery patterned cup and saucer from a cupboard, polished it with a tea towel, poured tea into it and passed it over to Joe, taking the opportunity to refill her own mug. ‘You’ve come at the right time. There’s just half an hour before the kids come in from school and then it’ll be Bedlam, little monkeys.’ She smiled fondly. ‘How can I help?’

  ‘It won’t take that long.’ Joe was sorry he’d intruded into what was evidently a snatched precious half-hour or so to herself before the advent of her children – two boys and a girl, by the photos on the mantel – clamouring for their tea and her attention. ‘Who lives at number eighteen?’

  ‘I can’t tell you their name. A married couple, I think they are. They came here – oh, about six months since, or maybe more, but they keep theirselves to theirselves, you hardly ever see them, especially her. They’ll use their back door, anyway, like we all do.’ He looked out of the window overlooking a small back yard with an outdoor privy and a washhouse that obscured the view of the alley beyond, which the backs of similar houses in the next street would face. ‘I don’t think anybody’s seen either of them for ages.’

  Another blank, Joe thought, but he was interested.

  ‘You could try Wilfred’s. Wilfred Smith. He keeps the corner shop and his sister Eva helps. He owns number eighteen and three others on the street as well. His dad bought them as they came empty, when they were going cheap. Like father, like son! I reckon the old man meant them for his family when they married, but none of them ever have. Well, chance’d be a fine thing for her, old Vinegar Face.’

  Joe grinned. Maybe the sharp observation was a family inheritance, or maybe she’d just picked it up from her Auntie Gladys. Either way, it was honest. He stood up. ‘Looks as though that should be my next port of call, then. I’ll leave you in peace and pop along now to have a word with Mr Smith.’

  ‘And the best of luck!’

  ‘Thank you for your help – and for the tea, Mrs Hollins, you make a good cup. I hope your auntie will soon be well again.’

  ‘Oh, she will, it’ll take more than that. She’ll always come back, as she says, like a bad penny,’ she told him with a smile.

  They were so comically alike they couldn’t be anything but twins, Wilfred Smith and his sister Eva, even to the side parting in their greying hair. She wore hers slightly longer, cut in a straight bob and clamped to her head with a fierce hair grip, and he had on a brown smock and she a button-through overall in intimidating black. Apart from that, it would have been difficult to determine their sex.

  As the shop bell tinkled, the two stocky figures turned in unison to inspect the new entrant. Eva had been attending to the rows of tins displayed on the shelves and stayed where she was, duster in hand, while Wilfred leaned forward with his hands on the counter, but there was no mistaking the hostility on their faces. Encountering their unwelcoming stares, he wondered if everyone received this sort of reception – hardly customer-friendly – or if it was just because they remembered him, as Gladys had done, as one of the police. He hadn’t been the one to q
uestion them when the enquiry started, but he’d slipped in to buy cigarettes and he’d been in uniform then.

  Neither of them had reportedly seen anything unusual on the day of the murder, but they had neglected, most likely in the spirit of uncooperativeness that seemed to come naturally to them, to mention the absence of their tenants at number eighteen. He showed them his badge, told them why he was there and that he would like to speak to them in private. Would they prefer to go into the back?

  ‘We can’t leave the shop,’ Smith said stolidly.

  Joe went to the door and turned the ‘Open’ sign to ‘Closed’. Selling anything from firelighters and scouring powders to humbugs and boiled ham, the shop was no doubt what was known as ‘a little goldmine’ and a missed customer or two wouldn’t be the end of the world. ‘Anybody wants anything urgent, they’ll come back,’ he remarked, ignoring the cluck of indignation from the sister. ‘Now then … number eighteen. I understand you are the owner, Mr Smith.’

  ‘It’s no secret,’ Wilfred said.

  ‘Why didn’t you tell our officers that, or inform them your tenants were away when they called round – twice?’

  ‘Didn’t think it mattered. They couldn’t have seen anything anyway, if they were away, could they?’

  ‘It’s wasted police time, so I’d advise you to make up for it now. Firstly, what was their name?’

  ‘Morris,’ he admitted reluctantly.

  ‘Christian names?’

  ‘Don’t know. That’s all I needed to put on his rent book.’

  ‘How long have they been gone?’

  Wilfred shrugged. ‘I don’t keep track of their movements. Three or four months?’

  ‘That’s a long time. What about their rent?’

  ‘They paid six months in advance. The next’s not due yet.’

  ‘Six months?’ Joe was flabbergasted, until he thought, well, the rent for a house like that couldn’t be much – a few bob a week, maybe—

  ‘Fifteen-and-six,’ Smith supplied before he could ask, and in case the sergeant should faint with the shock, added defensively, ‘It was furnished.’ A quick glance at Joe’s face and he decided to be more forthcoming. ‘It was Old Dick lived there, see, Dick Heath. When he died, I got sick of asking his relatives to clear out the house, but they wouldn’t bother, said it was all junk anyway and to give it away if I couldn’t sell it. It was better to rent the house furnished than to pay to have the stuff taken away.’

  All the same, he must have thought his birthday had come when he succeeded in renting it, Joe reflected: the demand for furnished property in Folbury, even low-grade property like this, was practically non-existent. It was easy to see why no questions had been raised about the absence of someone who was willing to pay that much rent in advance. ‘Tell me about these tenants.’

  ‘What do you want to know all this for? They couldn’t have had anything to do with that business over the road if they haven’t been back for so long.’

  ‘Didn’t that strike you as odd? That they’d pay to rent a house and then not use it? Come on, you must have wondered. Where did they come from? What were they doing here? What were they like?’

  Wilfred Smith shrugged and was silent.

  Eva Smith said suddenly, speaking for the first time: ‘They’re not from round these parts, they talk lah-di-dah. Swanky.’

  Then what were they doing here, living in Henrietta Street? Where the houses were not yet wired for electricity and the lav was outside at the back? Joe was beginning to get a tingle. ‘Presumably you have a spare key?’

  After several moments’ hesitation, Wilfred Smith went into the back premises and returned with one, which he reluctantly handed over. ‘I want it back, mind.’

  ‘Thanks, I’ll see you’ll get it,’ Joe said, leaving the shop, not forgetting to turn the sign back to ‘Open’ again as he did so.

  On reflection, he decided not to go into number eighteen before letting Reardon know this further development, and was relieved to find he had already returned when he got back to the station. However, having listened to what Joe had to report, he said rather disappointingly that there was no rush to go back there that day. ‘We’ll get over there first thing tomorrow. I’d like to have a look-see for myself.’

  This time, they went to Arms Green in the car, with Stringer as chauffeur, but at least Reardon’s presence in the back ensured a merciful silence from him. When they reached Henrietta Street he was forced to settle his resentful presence with a newspaper when told to wait for them.

  Number eighteen had a musty, unpleasant and airless smell when they pushed open the front door. Smith hadn’t been wrong in saying he would have had to pay someone to get rid of the furniture in the front room: you could see at a glance it was the sort of stuff nobody wanted today – heavy, dark mahogany Victorian pieces in the front room, probably passed down by the parents of Old Dick, the previous tenant; never expensive, even when new, but solid and well made, though overwhelming and oppressive for present-day tastes. A thick film of dust lay over everything, dead flies littered the windowsill, and a fly paper descending from the gas light was loathsomely black with insect corpses. The kitchen was worse, the smell disgusting. Reardon muttered, ‘Bloody hell!’ Joe thought the same idea might be crossing both their minds.

  With mounting apprehension at what they might find, they began a search of the rest of the house, the two bedrooms, where the wardrobe and drawers were empty of clothes – or anything else – the small, bare attic and the smaller coal cellar. They found absolutely nothing. All signs of occupation had disappeared and it seemed obvious that the house had not just been temporarily vacated, it had been abandoned, most likely in a hurry. A half-eaten and now fossilized sandwich, possibly ham, had been left by the kitchen sink, which might account for the flies. Another fly paper, this time drawing-pinned to the ceiling, hung in here, too. Cobwebs swung across the corners. There was a sour smell of mice. But no dead body, as Joe had half-expected.

  ‘Seems like a wild goose chase.’ They had better call it a day.

  Joe was already at the front door when he was halted by a call from the kitchen. He returned and saw that Reardon, in a last look around, had spotted a small drawer set underneath the unscrubbed deal top of the kitchen table. He had pulled it open and was rifling through what looked like decades-old, might-one-day-come-in-useful detritus – a miscellany of old keys, bits of wound-up string, odd screws, a broken comb; some thrifty soul had even saved a few old paper bags …

  He had unearthed what appeared to be a rent book lying amongst the paper bags. On the front cover Joe saw the name Morris: the paid-up rent book, a final confirmation that the tenants had not intended to return. A used envelope with a shopping list on the back fell out as it was opened. He turned it over and pointed to the stamp on the envelope. It was South African, and the postmark was Cape Town.

  Joe gave a low whistle, then took a look at the scrawled address. He stared at it for several moments before realizing what he was seeing. Wilfred Smith had obviously heard the name ‘Morris’ when making out the rent book and his new tenant hadn’t corrected the spelling when he had written it down. The envelope was addressed to Wm. Mauritz.

  Yet looking even more closely, he saw it was not Wm., as he’d first thought, the usual abbreviation for William, but Wim – though that could possibly be an abbreviation for the same name. For a moment or two longer, he stared. Wim. WIM.

  ‘That’s what Aston wrote against all those dates, sir. Not initials for something, it was a name.’

  His mind was racing. Wim Mauritz. Foreign. Continental sounding. Dutch? There were a lot of families of Dutch origin in South Africa. The original Boers had been Dutch. Would anyone around here have recognized a South African accent? Probably not. Joe knew he wouldn’t. Anyone originating from outside the radius of the Black Country was regarded as ‘a foreigner’ and their accents as posh. Maybe theirs hadn’t sounded that different to British upper class – ‘lah-di-dah’, as Eva
Smith had described it.

  Reardon listened in silence. ‘Well, we won’t start counting chickens just yet, but it’s possible we might have a breakthrough. Could be we’ve found your Snowman. We need to talk this through.’ He looked at the table, stained and sticky with God knew what, and the two dusty chairs drawn up to it, and glanced further round the room, but not for long. His eyes coming to rest on the unsavoury remains of the sandwich, green with mould, the obscene fly paper, he made a moue of disgust. ‘But not here. This place is only short of Miss Havisham in her wedding veil. Let’s get somewhere we can breathe, for God’s sake.’

  Was the body of the Snowman that of Wim Mauritz? It was hard to believe now that it could be anyone else. The evidence was mounting, the ‘coincidences’ becoming too many to ignore: an unidentified dead man found with a South African shilling in his pocket and brass swarf embedded in his boot soles; a South African, now missing, who had been living in Henrietta Street with Aston’s machine shop only a few strides away …

  The cumbersome business of tracing this Wim Mauritz through the South African Police would have to be set in motion, Reardon reminded himself, to provide the final proof. Meanwhile …

  ‘Three dead men,’ he said.

  ‘Three?’

  He had drawn his triangle again, this time with Osbert Rees-Talbot at the top. ‘I’m not suggesting that he – Rees-Talbot – was murdered,’ he said, digging his pencil on the name, ‘but we can’t rule him out of the equation. Those loans to Aston. Can you believe his gratitude would extend to paying out for the rest of his natural? Once, maybe, to help him start his business. But then, to start again, after so many years – cash payments, plus the Hadley Piece premises?’

  ‘Which all started after the arrival of Mauritz.’

  ‘Or at any rate after he rented Henrietta Street.’ Reardon fell silent. He kept coming back to that strange conversation he had had with Deborah Rees-Talbot about her brother. Sins of omission! It wasn’t a concept he’d ever had reason to consider, and he wasn’t sure whether to put much credence to it, yet now he kept wondering. Omission, commission. They said, didn’t they, that it wasn’t the things you had done in your youth that you’d regret in later life, but those you hadn’t. On the other hand, Reardon could think of a few things he’d done that he’d prefer to forget. The thought of Miss Rees-Talbot reminded him that he hadn’t yet asked her niece if he could see what her father had been working on just before he died.