by Michelle Cox
“Just routine, Mr. Howard,” said the inspector from where he and Clive stood by the ancient front doors, studded with iron bolts. “Just a few questions.”
When they got inside, the constable led them to a small, cramped cross-examining room, which, Clive noticed, seemed ancient compared to the one at his old station in Chicago. That had been nothing glamorous, of course, but this seemed positively medieval with its thick stone walls, resembling more a dungeon than a modern police unit. Wallace slumped in a chair next to him, and Hartle, with careful, exacting movements, took the seat across from them. He sat back and looked at Wallace, as if deciding his guilt then and there simply by his observations, letting the silence build. Finally he reached into his pocket and took out a package of cigarettes and, after methodically tapping the pack against his palm, pulled one out and slowly lit it with some matches that already lay on the table, still watching Wallace as he took a drag and exhaled.
“Well, let’s get on with it, shall we?” Wallace asked impatiently. “I’d like to get home if you’ve nothing really to say.”
Despite Wallace’s angry demeanor, Clive could read his distress. Doubtless Hartle could, too.
“Why don’t you tell me where you were last night?” the inspector said calmly, his eyes narrowing as he took another drag.
“You already know this! I was at the Horse and Coach. And, yes, I saw the dead man. I didn’t say two words to him.”
“What can you tell us about him?”
“Nothing!”
“Come, come, Mr. Howard, think. Several people saw you talking with him.”
“Jesus! I don’t know. Idle chitchat. He … he was up from London.”
“What was he doing up here?”
“I don’t bloody know!” He was silent then, thinking. “Said he was an estate agent,” he finally added, blearily. “Up here to look at property, I think he said. Bit of a git, if you must know.”
“Why’s that?” Hartle asked, inhaling again.
“One of those types that are just asking for a good seeing to, I guess you’d say. Very superior. That type.”
“What time did he leave?”
“I don’t know!”
“Roughly?”
“I don’t know … eleven? Eleven thirty?”
“And when did you leave?”
Wallace grimaced, trying to think. “A little after, I suppose.”
“Did you see him outside?”
“No.”
“Any idea where he was going?”
“No! Wait,” he said, his brow furrowed with the effort of remembering. “Said he was going on to Matlock, I think.”
“At that hour?”
Wallace shrugged.
“Did he have a car?”
“I don’t bloody know!” Wallace shouted now.
Inspector Hartle gave a slight nod to the constable standing by the door, who promptly disappeared and came back in carrying a walking stick. He held it carefully at the bottom, his hand encased in a handkerchief, and carefully laid it on the table.
“Recognize that?” the inspector asked, snuffing his cigarette now.
“Yes, that’s mine,” Wallace said nervously.
“That was found about a few hundred feet from the body, thrown into the woods. One of my men found it this morning. Blood on the end,” he said, pointing to the silver knob at the top. “Matches the head wound. We’ve sent samples to see if the blood is a match. We’d like your fingerprints, Mr. Howard.”
Wallace was thrown into a panic now. “Well, obviously my fingerprints are on it! It’s mine! But there’s been some mistake!” he said hurriedly, looking at Clive now, who shifted in his chair as he examined the walking stick. “I didn’t kill this chap! Look. I left, and I didn’t see him. I … I do remember not being able to find my stick, but I’m always leaving it.”
The inspector was unruffled and reached for another cigarette. “Where’d you go after you left the pub?” he said, lighting it. “The truth,” he said, pointing at him, the cigarette held tight between his two forefingers.
Wallace’s face blanched. “I … I can’t say.”
“Can’t or won’t?” he said, looking at him, and, to Clive’s surprise, Wallace’s face became stubbornly resolute. Clive thought Wallace would have crumbled by now.
“Wallace,” Clive said, leaning toward him, knowing what Hartle would do next. “Best tell him. It could go very bad for you if you don’t.”
Wallace gave an almost imperceptible shake of his head, closing his eyes as he did so.
John Hartle blew out a deep sigh accompanied by a cloud of smoke and snuffed out his cigarette. “You leave me no choice,” he said grimly, as he wearily stood up. “Wallace Howard, I’m arresting you on suspicion of murder. You do not have to say anything, but it may harm your defense if you do not mention when questioned something that you later rely on in court. Anything you do say may be given as evidence. Do you understand?” Not waiting for an answer, he gave a nod to the constable, who reached to stand him up, but Wallace swaggered unsteadily to his feet himself, almost overturning the chair from under him.
“You swine!” he shouted. “I didn’t kill him! You bastard, Clive! You lied! This is your doing, isn’t it?”
Two constables took hold of him, then, and secured him, pulling him back. Wallace struggled to get loose. “You said it was just questioning!” he shouted, looking wildly at Clive. “I’m Wallace Howard!” he said, turning his attention back to the inspector. “You can’t do this! When my father hears of this, he won’t take kindly to it!”
“Happy enough to claim your lineage now, aren’t you?” the inspector said calmly, still seated. “Last chance,” he said with a shrug.
“Sod off!”
Hartle gave another nod then, and the constables pulled him back toward the cells.
“I’ll do what I can, Wallace,” Clive offered loudly over the noise of the struggle, feeling Wallace’s accusation and blame very deeply. But how could he have foreseen that this would happen? He hadn’t known about the new evidence.
“Don’t bother!” Wallace shouted from somewhere outside the room now.
Clive felt unreasonably irritated with Hartle, as if he had been tricked as well, but he knew he would have done the same in the inspector’s place. “A word?” Clive asked him crisply.
Hartle inclined his head. “Come on,” he said, and he led him down the hallway to what was presumably his private office.
It was a tiny, plain room with no ornaments of any sort. Just a desk littered with papers, a chair, and a telephone. Two rickety chairs sat opposite the desk. Hartle tossed his jacket onto one and pointed at the other one, indicating that Clive should sit. On a shelf behind his desk stood a bottle of whiskey and a few glasses, which the inspector took down now, pouring each of them a large glass full.
“You don’t seriously suspect him, do you?” Clive asked as he took a large drink.
“I haven’t ruled it out. It’s the best lead I have at the moment,” the inspector said, following suit with his drink.
“Can’t you at least let me take him back home until the samples come back?” Clive asked, though he already knew the answer.
“The law’s the law, Howard. You know that.”
“You could argue it’s circumstantial,” Clive said, raising an eyebrow hopefully.
“Barely.” The inspector lit another cigarette. “No alibi.” He shrugged. “Listen, I’ll do what I can. But I have people watching me, too, Howard. I have to at least make a show of it. Until I can dig up something more plausible, this will have to do for an explanation. I’m under scrutiny right now myself, and I can’t afford to make mistakes.”
Clive exhaled thoughtfully. That was one part of his former occupation that he didn’t miss—having to be under the scrutiny of various authorities and even political figures at any given time. And he knew what it was to have to follow commands, sometimes seemingly illogical ones, from his days in the war. He wondered how he
would fare in the private sector, running Linley Standard, his father’s company, being master of the ship, as it were. Wearily he rubbed his forehead. He knew he was not going to sway Hartle to release Wallace, but what was he to tell Lord and Lady Linley?
“Any idea who he’s shielding?” Hartle asked, his eyes flicking to Clive.
“None.”
“Well, I’ve been doing a little digging. Seems Wallace has made several trips abroad in the last couple of years. Once to Berlin and once to Leningrad and several to France. Odd, is it not?” The inspector stared at him. “Six months ago,” he went on, “a fight broke out at the mill in Matlock. Six foreign nationalists were locked up. Wallace was reportedly on the scene.” The inspector took another drag of his cigarette while he looked for Clive’s reaction.
“So?” Clive said, wanting to shift his body but forcing it to remain frozen, not wanting to make any suggestive movements, something he himself was always watching for. “Doesn’t mean he murdered this man, Jacobs. Surely you must have other leads, other people in the Horse and Coach that night.”
The inspector scrutinized him carefully, one eye involuntarily twitching. “I really shouldn’t be discussing the case with you,” he said, taking a deep drag, during which Clive knew better than to say anything. “I’ll make an exception with you, however,” the inspector said, neatly blowing out smoke. “Though there’s not much to relate.”
Clive felt his body relax.
“It seems the victim was indeed a London man,” Hartle began, as if Clive had always been his confident. “One Ernest Jacobs. Chelsea address. Wife says he was coming up to Matlock on business. Didn’t say what. No enemies that she knows of. Solicitor confirms that a large amount of cash was drawn out, by Mr. Jacobs himself, from his account not three days ago.”
“How much?”
“A little over five thousand pounds.”
Clive whistled. “Where’d he get that kind of money?”
“Apparently it was the wife’s. Got a little inheritance when her father died a while back.”
Clive mused over this. “Occupation?”
“Estate agent.”
“Spoken to the employer?”
“Not yet.”
“Any idea who he was meeting?”
The inspector held out his hands emptily. “Not yet. No one’s come forward, which throws a potentially shady light on the whole thing. If it really was a simple property sale, why wouldn’t the other party have come forward by now?”
“Maybe they haven’t heard yet.”
“Unlikely in this part of the world.”
“Any more information from the innkeeper besides his initial statement?”
Hartle nodded. “Says this Jacobs had a bit of a swagger to him. Itching to let it out that he was a big man up from London to make a deal. Couldn’t hold his drink all that well. Said it was obvious that he was carrying something valuable in the case by the way he held on to it.”
“This seems more and more like a simple case of robbery to me.”
“More than likely.”
“Then why hold Wallace? It could have been anyone in that pub.”
“True, or anyone who happened upon him on the road. But we have the rather disagreeable problem of the walking stick.”
“He could easily have left it and someone else picked it up.”
“Then why not explain his whereabouts?” the inspector said with a shrug. “We’re back at the beginning now,” he said and poured them another round.
“Does the innkeeper recall any exchange between him and Wallace?” Clive asked.
The inspector sighed, his eye twitching again. “Nothing more than the usual. Said Wallace is pretty quiet if he does stop in from time to time, which isn’t all that much, apparently.”
Clive’s attention was aroused. “That’s odd,” he said, absently taking a drink. “His valet says he goes down to the Horse and Coach quite often.”
“Or he thinks he does. Sounds like he’s actually frequenting the Merry Bells.”
“Bit far to go, isn’t it?” Clive suggested.
“Must be some sort of attraction in Matlock, I’d say. Why else would he go all that way?”
“Maybe he prefers the company?”
The inspector snorted. “Not really a gentleman’s pub.”
“Is there such a thing?” he asked dubiously.
“I suppose you’re right there, Howard. But look, we know he’s involved with these socialists …”
“Do we?” Clive asked evenly.
“We’ve at least one man says Wallace has held several meetings in which unionizing was one of the topics,” Hartle countered heatedly.
“But not social unrest?”
“Isn’t unionizing a form of social unrest?”
“I’d have thought you’d think differently, Inspector,” Clive said coolly as he sipped his whiskey, having already guessed Hartle’s common roots.
“What I think doesn’t come into it,” Hartle replied.
Clive set his whiskey down. “Okay, let’s assume for a minute that Wallace is a socialist … stirring up trouble and the like, urging men to unionize—against his own father, I might add.”
“Stranger things have happened,” Hartle interrupted.
“Even so, what does that have to do with murdering Ernest Jacobs?”
“Opportunity?” the inspector offered up. “They need funds perhaps?”
“Wallace Howard?”
The inspector shrugged.
“I admit he’s up to something secretive, perhaps something socialistic, but he wouldn’t murder a man for money.”
“Maybe he was desperate.” The inspector seemed reluctant to let his theory go. “Maybe he’s being blackmailed, needed some ready cash.”
Suddenly an image of Foley came into Clive’s mind. He shifted slightly despite trying to control his body movements. “Look, you must have some other leads, surely? Who else was in the pub that night?”
Hartle looked at him intensely before continuing. “As a matter of fact, there were two others in the pub that left around that same time. A bloke named Crawford, who left a little after Jacobs and Wallace did. Lives with his brother and sister-in-law, and they tell us he took off for York last night. Said he planned it a long time ago, they say, to visit relatives, and that he popped down to the Horse and Coach to have a farewell drink with the lads before he left. We’re still looking for him in York.”
“And the other?”
“The innkeeper says he remembers another man, by the name of O’Brien, works at the Cromford Mills, left about a half hour before Jacobs left.”
“But it would have been hard to leave with Wallace’s walking stick if Wallace was still sitting there.”
“Exactly.”
“He could have taken it, though,” Clive mused.
“Maybe …” Hartle seemed doubtful.
“Did Jacobs speak to Crawford or O’Brien, do you know?”
The inspector smiled. “First-rate procedure, Howard. Yes, I asked the same. Not that the innkeeper can recall.”
“Hmmm. Did you pick O’Brien up?”
“We did indeed. Says he left early and was home with his mother.”
“Did she confirm the time?”
“Didn’t get in to see her. Happened to be indisposed at the moment we turned up.”
“Convenient.”
“Quite.”
“So not much to go on,” Clive mused and sat silent for a few moments. “I still don’t think it’s Wallace,” he said finally. “Something’s not adding up.”
Hartle snuffed his cigarette now and shifted in his chair. “I’ll see if I can get him out on bail in the morning, but I can’t promise.”
Clive recognized his cue to leave and stood. “Thanks, Inspector. I’ll do what I can on my end.”
“I appreciate your help, quite honestly, what with my sergeant down in London. He should be back by tomorrow, though,” he said, which Clive understood to be his dismi
ssal from further duties. The inspector looked at him closely. “Why’d you give it up? If I may ask.”
“I’m my father’s only son, so I felt obliged to behave as such and take over the family business, as it were,” Clive answered with a regretful smile.
“The local gold mine, eh?” he put in, reminding Clive again that they were from two different classes. He thought he detected a bit of resentment on John Hartle’s part, which surprised him, as Clive wouldn’t have thought it of him, and which Clive had not experienced with his own chief in Chicago.
“Something like that,” Clive said quietly as he walked out of the room and down the now-darkened hallway. A sleepy constable sat at the front desk. The inspector walked across the tiny lobby behind Clive, who paused at the door and held out his hand to him.
“You should think about PI work, Howard. You’d be good at it,” he said, grasping his outstretched hand.
“Discovering if Mrs. Jones’s husband is cheating on her or finding the neighborhood vandal?” Clive laughed. “Not quite my cup of tea,” he said ruefully, “but thanks just the same.”
Clive hurried down the steps, then, easily dismissing the inspector’s suggestion as he slid into the Bentley. He instead chose to turn over the facts regarding the murder as he navigated the curving narrow road back to Castle Linley, trying to decide just how to tell Lord and Lady Linley that Wallace had indeed been found but that he was now being held in the local gaol on suspicion of murder.
Chapter 19
By the time Clive made his way into the front hall of Castle Linley, he found he was exhausted from the long day’s events and did not relish the task ahead. Stevens met him and informed him that he had missed dinner and that the family and most of the guests could presently be found in the drawing room. Should he like to join them, or would he prefer to have something brought up to his room, perhaps?
Clive was horribly in need of a bath and something to eat, but he was equally desirous of seeing Henrietta. His first duty, however, he knew, was to speak privately with Lord Linley. He sighed as he handed his hat and coat to Stevens and adjusted his tie, trying to think of how best to explain what had happened.
“I’ll just step in for a moment, Stevens,” he said to the immovable butler. “I’ll have something to eat in my room later.”