Death in Albert Park

by Bruce, Leo

  “I retired a good many years ago. I was in shipping. There was no need for me to continue and my wife… we liked to be together. But I thought your questions would be about her tragic death.”

  “I like to get the background. You had only one daughter?”

  “Yes. Isobel. It was to see her that my wife had gone on the night…”

  “You have grandchildren?”

  “Only one. A girl of three. But…”

  “Your wife went often to see your daughter?”

  “Oh yes. Every Thursday. And they came here of course. They … we … were all good friends. Very good. I don’t always see eye to eye with my son-in-law but I’ve no doubt he’s an excellent fellow. Harry Press-ley. He works for a firm selling hearing-aids and similar appliances.”

  “You didn’t accompany your wife?”

  “Not that evening. I drove her over as I always do and arranged to call for her at seven.”

  “Was that your usual time for fetching her?”

  “No. It was usually eight. She wanted to be earlier that night to see a programme on the telly. I feel responsible for her death you know, Mr. Deene. I’m inclined to be vague and it must have been nearly eight when I reached the house. I had come back here, you see, and was lost in a crossword puzzle. The Times, in fact. Perhaps you’re addicted to crosswords?”

  “I am indeed. Have you finished today’s? That one across ‘South to the Cape, winter woollies discarded’…”

  Crabbett became animated.

  “ ‘Shorn’, of course,” he cried. “The only one I couldn’t do was ‘Further outlook 4, 4’ “.

  “ ‘Long view’ “ supplied Carolus. “Funny how you can stare at them, isn’t it? And how easy they look afterwards.”

  “I know. You can understand, then, how I came to be late in fetching my wife? Besides there was the fact that my usual time for picking her up was eight. Still, I blame myself terribly for it.”

  “But you weren’t very late. I should have thought she would have waited for you?”

  “You didn’t know her,” said Crabbett, almost smiling. “She was so punctual herself always. My daughter said she phoned here before she left and got no answer.”

  “But wouldn’t that have suggested you were on your way?”

  “Not to Hermione, I fear. She would return by Blue Line. Quite an easy journey and she knew a bus left at 7:55. No, there is really no excuse for me. I ought to have been there. Especially after those two murders in Crabtree Avenue, quite nearby. It was known there was some kind of maniac at large. If I had left home only a quarter of an hour earlier I should have saved her. You must forgive me for repeating that but it’s very much on my conscience.”

  “I don’t see why it should be. There are many ‘ifs’ by which you might have prevented the crime. If you had gone with her to see your daughter, for instance.”

  Crabbett blinked mildly.

  “Yes, of course. That would have done it, wouldn’t it? Only she particularly wanted to go alone that day. Women do like a chance for a chat between themselves. I always let them have it. You’re not married, Mr. Deene?”

  “No. But I can understand that. Have you a photograph of your wife that I could see?”

  “Of course I have. Several. I’ll go and get one.”

  He returned with a large photograph in an ornate silver frame which matched several other frames on an occasional table. Carolus looked into the strong face of a rather handsome woman elaborately dressed.

  “Taken some years ago,” said Crabbett. “She was a good-looking woman, don’t you think?”

  He was interrupted by dog noises in the other room.

  “Do you mind?” he asked Carolus, and released a spaniel puppy which began to coil and lick and generally demand attention. Carolus reached out a hand to the little creature to be smothered with wet kisses.

  “Had her long?” he asked.

  “It’s a he. I call him Dover—my home town, you see. He’s only been mine a few days though I’ve known his family for some time. They live downstairs.”

  “I’m surprised you can keep dogs in these flats.”

  “Oh it wasn’t that. There’s never been a rule against it.” He paused then said in his shy manner—“I’ve been a bit lonely here since … it happened.”

  “I expect you have. You’re quite alone? No domestic help?”

  “Oh no,” said Crabbett smiling again. “I don’t need any. There’s nothing I can’t do in a house, from cooking to turning out a room.”

  “Lucky man. I wish I could. It must give you a wonderful sense of independence.”

  “Independence? Oh, I see. Yes. I haven’t offered you a drink, by the way. May I?”

  “Thanks. That’s a neat little cabinet.”

  “Like it?” Crabbett seemed delighted. “I found it in a furniture shop yesterday. I think it’s rather neat.”

  “You’ve certainly stocked it. May I have some of that dry sherry?”

  They drank together.

  “If you want to ask me any more about that evening,” said Crabbett, “please don’t feel diffident about it. I’ve gone over it so often now that I don’t mind discussing it.”

  “Right. Then I’ll fill in my picture. How long did you stay at your daughter’s?”

  “Oh, only a few moments. She told me Hermione had been gone about ten minutes and I said I would hurry back to get in before she reached home. I did that, but of course Hermione did not come.”

  “How soon did you start to worry?”

  “Well, quite soon, really. As soon as I realized she couldn’t have been on the bus. I couldn’t think where else she could have gone. We don’t know anyone in Albert Park except my daughter and her family. Then I thought she might have decided to make a call here in Bromley and rang up two friends of hers, a Mrs. Sticer and a family named Vogelman. Neither had seen her. By now it was well past nine.”

  “So?”

  “Then Isobel phoned to ask if Hermione was in and when I said she hadn’t come yet she got rather excited and began talking about the murders in Crabtree Avenue and said I must call the police. Do you know, Mr. Deene, I simply hadn’t thought of those murders till then. It seems odd now, but at the time they never occurred to me. When Hermione did not come I thought of all sorts of things, accidents, illness, even some sudden impulse to go somewhere else, but I never thought of those murders. You see, I don’t read much about that sort of thing and don’t go out a lot. I hadn’t heard them discussed as other people had. So when Isobel began talking about them it occurred to me for the first time that something like that might have happened. So I phoned the police at once. You know what they found,”

  “Yes. You’ve been most explicit, Mr. Crabbett. Now I have a suggestion to make. I would like to go over to Salisbury Gardens and have a chat with your daughter and son-in-law. Also to go over the ground, as it were. If it wouldn’t be too painful for you, would you come with me? We could get some lunch first. I suppose there’s somewhere in Bromley?”

  “Oh yes. We could. As for going with you to Salisbury Gardens I’ll certainly show you where it happened but I’ll leave you to call on my daughter alone. I think she will tell you more if I’m not there.”

  “Just as you like.”

  “I must just feed Dover, if you’ll hold on a minute.”

  Over lunch Carolus confided in Crabbett a few of the conclusions or half-conclusions he was drawing.

  “I haven’t asked any questions about the second murder,” he said, “but I know something about the first. It has been said that the victims had nothing in common, but that’s not quite true. All three, for instance, were small women, or at least short in stature.”

  “So they were,” said Crabbett. “Does that indicate anything?”

  “It suggests, but doesn’t really indicate. The murderer might have had a grudge against small women. Or he might have been a small man himself, incapable of that particular knife-stroke on someone tall.”

 
“Hermione was not remarkably short,” said Crabbett. “I mean, no one would call her that. Just under the average, that’s all. What else had they in common?”

  “Well, your wife and Hester Starkey were both women of character.”

  “Hermione was that, I suppose. What else?”

  “Nothing, that occurs to me. Your wife wasn’t acquainted with either of the others, was she?”

  “Not that I know of.”

  “No. There are no links between the three murders— except the murderer.”

  “What were you looking for? A common motive?”

  “You can’t discount motive,” said Carolus defensively.

  “Oh, I thought you could with a madman.”

  “Not even then,” said Carolus.

  They drove to the suburb of Albert Park in a few minutes and Crabbett suggested that Carolus should park his car some way from his daughter’s house.

  “I don’t want her to see me or she’ll wonder why I don’t come in. Besides she has a very inquisitive neighbour, she tells me. She’s rather sensitive about it. Anyhow, this is about opposite the garden in which Hermione was found. One of those.”

  “It was number 27,” said Carolus.

  “Then that’s it. Just opposite.”

  “Yes, I see. So the murderer must have been waiting about here somewhere.”

  “I suppose so.”

  “May we walk down by the route that she would have taken to the bus-stop?”

  “Certainly. It’s not very far.”

  They reached the bottom of Salisbury Gardens and turned left along Inverness Road. In about twenty yards Oaktree Avenue, which ran up the west side of the park, turned off to their left and on its corner was the lodge gates. A man in uniform who was standing beside them greeted Crabbett.

  “Afternoon, Mr. Crabbett,” he called cheerfully.

  Crabbett gave him a friendly reply and walked on.

  “Slatter,” he explained to Carolus. “The park-keeper. Avery good chap.”

  “Known him long?”

  “To tell you the truth I met him in the bar of the Mitre some months ago. The Mitre’s on the next corner. I was waiting to pick up Hermione …”

  “You’ll forgive me asking this,” said Carolus. “But did you never accompany your wife on her visits to your daughter?”

  “Of course you can ask it. The answer is, not more often than I could help. I’m very fond of my daughter and little grandchild, but to tell you the truth I don’t get on with Pressley. He’s a self-opinionated fellow and in the end it came to an open dispute between us. That’s why I scarcely ever went to the house.”

  “Of course. I see,” said Carolus. Didn’t he know these family situations?

  “This is where Hermione would have taken the bus. So you see she hadn’t very far to come on foot. I’m going from here myself.”

  “You’ve been very kind and helpful.”

  “Not a bit. Let me know if there’s anything more I can do. I have a feeling you’ll find your man, though.”

  Carolus rang the bell at Number 12, the Pressleys’ home, and waited a long time for an answer. At last a woman with bright red hair and a toothy smile answered him.

  “Oh yes,” she said, “I’ve heard about you. Not supposed to tell you anything, are we? Or so I heard from one of the police. But I don’t take any notice of them. Come in.”

  Carolus followed her into a drawing-room furnished with rather expensive modern pieces arranged with stereotyped good taste.

  “You’ve seen my father, I suppose? Not that he could tell you much. Just like him to be late that night.”

  “Was it?”

  “Dad? He’s always late. Or has been for the last two years. Seems to have gone sort of dreamy though I can remember him when he was very wide awake. I’m sorry for him, really.”

  “Your mother’s death was a tragedy for both of you.”

  “Oh, I didn’t mean that. I meant—his life. He doesn’t seem to take an interest in anything.”

  Carolus did not contradict this, though he had formed a very different impression.

  “He has a dog to take an interest in now.”

  “A dog?” Isobel Pressley looked quite startled. “Has he really? Mother would turn in her grave. She couldn’t bear dogs. Of course I don’t see much of dad. He and my husband don’t get on, really. They had a little difference some time ago and haven’t spoken since. Dad’s like that, very quiet and sort of shy, but, if he takes a dislike to someone he can’t hide it. It made things very awkward sometimes. I suppose I get that from him, really.”

  Carolus turned the conversation back to more relevant matters.

  “So when your father failed to come for your mother that evening it was nothing unusual?”

  “I wouldn’t say that. He’d never failed her like that before though he was often late. But we all knew dad.”

  “Your mother would not wait any longer?”

  “No. I think she wanted to teach him a lesson. She knew he’d be very upset when he heard she’d had to go by bus.”

  “She was angry?”

  “Well. Mother was a downright sort of person. When dad didn’t come for her she just said ‘I shall walk, then’, and I couldn’t persuade her. Though I must say we never thought of those murders at the time.”

  “Pity.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. It wouldn’t have made much difference, if I knew mother. If she’d made up her mind wild horses wouldn’t change her, let alone the Stabber. She’d have gone just the same. We haven’t a car or we’d have run her home.”

  “It was just before eight?”

  “Yes, and he was supposed to have come at seven. You can’t blame her for being a bit annoyed, can you? It isn’t as though dad …”

  “What were you going to say?”

  “It’s not very nice to talk about it, but it was mother who had the money. Dad retired ages ago, without much of a pension.”

  “Why did he do that?”

  “Oh mother wanted him to. She had ideas for them, you see. Mother was always a bit… well, a bit grande dame, I suppose. It seems dreadful to say that now, but you know what I mean.”

  “I think so. I wonder whether I shall have an opportunity for a few words with your husband?”

  “Harry. Why not? He can tell you more than I can. He’s got a better memory. Only it’s his late evening this evening. He’ll be home quite early tomorrow. Why not come then? I suppose you’re going to see that old bitch opposite? I thought so. You could call in afterwards, or before. She’ll be dying to know who you are now. She’ll guess you’re not Press or police. Still. Never mind. You come in tomorrow and we’ll tell you anything we can.

  “Thanks. Your father tells me he sometimes has a drink at the Mitre so I suppose your husband uses another pub?”

  “Well yes, he does when he has a drink which isn’t very often. He goes to the King’s Head. Mother was teetotal, by the way.”

  “Oh, was she?”

  “I’m not, though. There were a lot of things mum was that I’m not, I’m afraid.”

  “Yet you all seem to have been very fond of her,” pondered Carolus.

  “Oh yes, we were. Even Harry, my husband, though he had his differences with her. I’ve known him swear he’ll never be here again on a Thursday which was her evening for coming over. But he always got over it. Well, you couldn’t help liking mum, even if she did put it on a bit.”

  “Thank you for all your information, Mrs. Pressley.”

  “I’ve told you nothing, really. But you come and see Harry tomorrow.”

  Eight

  IN one way this case differed from others which Carolus had tackled—here everyone was willing, and some were eager, to talk. It rather shook his confidence in his own method. Naturally since each of these women had been the chance-chosen innocent victim of a madman, their relatives had nothing to hide and were only too willing to chatter about Hester and her high-handed contempt for men or Hermione and her small-to
wn grandeur, or doubtless, when he came to it, of Joyce and her idiosyncrasies. In most cases of murder there were connections between victim and murderer, between the circumstances and the act, which gave those left behind fears, anxieties and shames, and caused them to be evasive. Here everyone talked most willingly and generally, Carolus thought, truthfully.

  Was it wrong then to apply his usual method of disingenuously questioning those connected with the victim? Was he wasting time? If so, if this case was to be his first failure, so be it. He could go about it no other way. The police with their resources and experience were able to attack by more direct methods, and perhaps the only ones that would succeed. They could use patrols, follow investigations of a well-organized kind, perhaps even use a policewoman out of uniform in an attempt to make the murderer break cover. For Carolus there was only his own time-honoured way—and the chance, by no means to be counted out—of a piece of luck. He must, he thought on the morning after he had seen Crabbett, bash on regardless, and his next inevitable interview must be with Miss Pilkin.

  He waited, however, until the afternoon before ringing the bell of the house opposite the Pressleys’.

  The door was opened by a bright young woman who called “Someone for you, Miss Pilkin,” when Carolus had said what he wanted.

  “I’ll come down,” called a voice from above.

  “She’ll be down in a minute,” said the young woman unnecessarily. “She’s just come in from her walk.”

  “Thank you.”

  “I better wait. She may not want to see you. She’s had a lot come to call on her lately. She’s very funny, you know.”

  “Funny?”

  “You know what I mean. She’s getting on. And living all alone like that. It’s her house, really, only she lets us the ground floor and we look after her a bit. It’s all that dog with her. Here she comes.”

  Miss Pilkin descended the stairs with some deliberation. She was a big bony woman with high cheek-bones and large weak eyes. Her clothes were untidy and she was festooned with beads and bangles.

  “Gentleman to see you,” said the young woman cheerfully.

  “Turn to the light,” Miss Pilkin commanded Carolus. “Let me see your face.” She scrutinized him hungrily. “Ah yes, you have a good face. You may come up.”