by Evelyn James
Clara jumped up and hurried to answer the door. The arrival of a constable could only mean that Inspector Park-Coombs had made progress in John Morley’s murder. She opened the door and almost surprised the constable with her sudden appearance.
“Excuse me, miss, but the Inspector wanted me to bring you a message.”
“Go ahead,” Clara said, desperate to know what had happened.
“The Inspector has made an arrest in the murder of John Morley,” the constable continued.
“Oh no, Dr Browning?” Clara asked, fearing that Park-Coombs had been pressured by his superiors into arresting the unfortunate, heavy-sleeping academic.
“No, miss. He has arrested a Mr Harry Beasley. He thought you would want to know.”
Clara’s stomach sank. From the moment she had spoken to Harry Beasley and learned of his dislike for his brother-in-law, which was bordering on hatred, she had been concerned about him being a suspect. You rarely had to look far to find a person’s killer, it was usually someone they knew very well, often a member of their family.
“I think I best come at once,” Clara stepped back into the hallway and collected her handbag and hat. “I can’t think how Mrs Beasley is taking all this.”
“Not well,” the constable confided.
“Clara?” Annie called from the hall.
“I’ll be back later, the Inspector has made an arrest,” Clara answered, then she slipped out the front door and followed the constable back to the station.
It was now late in the afternoon and the station was proving busy. There were a couple of vagrants sitting in the front lobby, complaining about kids throwing stones at them and trying to convince the Desk Sergeant to put them in a cell for the night, so they might at least have somewhere peaceful to sleep. A fraught woman was reporting that her pet tortoise was missing from her garden and wanting a full police search for him, while a couple of girls were puttering in a corner, having been brought to the station for pilfering stockings from the local Woolworths. The constable helped squeeze Clara through the crowd and to the back rooms of the station. Inspector Park-Coombs spotted her as he emerged from one of the offices.
“Sorry affair, Clara,” he said glumly.
“What has happened?” Clara asked him.
“My men have been searching everywhere for the weapon that killed John Morley. They went to the train station and inspected all the mallets used by the workers, they found one with a suspicious substance on the end. It looks like dried blood and hair. Anyway, the handle has the letters H.B. carved into it.”
“Inspector, surely this cannot be accurate?” Clara was amazed. “If Harry Beasley killed his brother-in-law two days ago, why on earth would he not have cleaned the mallet?”
“People act rashly,” Inspector Park-Coombs shrugged. “Anyway, Harry has not been at work these past few days due to taking care of his very ill sister. It looks likely she will be dead before the week is out. The way I see it, Harry Beasley goes with his brother-in-law to smash the display case. John thinks Harry is helping him, but really Harry sees this as a way of killing the man he hates and casting the blame onto someone else, namely Dr Browning. Harry slips away from his work and brings along the mallet he uses at the train station, just as John brings along his own hammer. Once they are inside and John is distracted, Harry clobbers him. He goes down quickly and almost in silence, so Harry can leave without being seen.
“When Dr Browning does wake and finds John Morley’s corpse, he raises the alarm, but there is no sign of the killer and considering the circumstances, suspicion naturally falls on the academic. Meanwhile, Harry heads back to the station and acts as if he was never gone. He doesn’t have time to clean the mallet, so leaves it in his locker, meaning to sort it out later. But then his sister becomes seriously ill and he does not have a chance to retrieve the mallet. He hopes that no one will go there and look at it, but unfortunately he is wrong.”
Inspector Park-Coombs laid the story out so matter-of-factly that it was very convincing, but Clara could see many holes in the scenario.
“Why would John ask Harry to help him? They hated each other. He would not want to split the money with Harry.”
“We only have Beasley’s word that they detested each other,” Park-Coombs pointed out.
“Your arrest relies on the fact Harry would want John dead,” Clara countered. “Therefore, he detested him, and he could not have hidden that from John.”
“Well, maybe John Morley was trying to make amends for all the trouble he had caused him in the past,” Park-Coombs replied. “Really, Clara, the evidence speaks for itself.”
“What does Harry Beasley say about all this?” Clara asked.
“He denies it all, says he was never at the town hall or with John that night.”
“And the mallet?”
“He says he used it to smack a big rat that was down by the train tracks. It was at the end of his shift and he was too tired to clean the mallet before he went home.”
“Can Dr Deáth find out if the blood came from a rat?” Clara asked.
“I’ve sent him the mallet, we shall soon find out,” Park-Coombs answered. “Honestly, Clara, sometimes people are just careless. They don’t think things through.”
Clara still could not quite believe it, even though she too had pondered on how Harry had access to a mallet, it seemed uneasily convenient to find it covered with blood and hair. Maybe, she said to herself, she also did not want the murderer to be Harry Beasley. It broke her heart a little to imagine him murdering his brother-in-law, even thought she could understand why he might want to.
“Can I speak to him?” Clara asked.
Park-Coombs looked at her with a serious frown.
“I didn’t think this was your case,” he pointed out.
Clara sighed. No, it was not her case. She was stepping on the inspector’s toes for no reason other than her own curiosity.
“I suppose I have become rather caught up in this all,” she said to him. “I keep forgetting that John Morley is not my concern. I am supposed to be hunting down whoever is behind those threats to the exhibition.”
“Any success on that front?” Park-Coombs asked, his expression lightening.
“Not really,” Clara laughed. “I visited the League for Christians Against Evolution and spoke to their leader, Reverend Parker.”
“I’ve heard of him,” Park-Coombs grumbled. “He was one of the names I was given to look out for in Brighton. Full of himself, that one. Had a chat with him, told him the protests were one thing, but if he started to disrupt the exhibition or stopped people entering, he was in trouble.”
“He denies making threats against the exhibition.”
“He would,” Park-Coombs snorted. “That sort of fellow lies through his teeth. He’ll be behind it, no doubt.”
“And what if he isn’t?” Clara pointed out. “What if the real culprit is banking on us assuming the League for Christians Against Evolution is behind it all?”
“Come on Clara, who else would be behind this?” Park-Coombs shook his head. “Sometimes it really is the obvious blighters. Not everything has to be a double-bluff.”
“I would be happier reporting back to Dr Browning with solid evidence that it is the Reverend Parker he has to concern himself with,” Clara said, feeling slightly affronted by Park-Coombs dismissal of her doubts. Maybe she was being too generous to Reverend Parker, but he did not strike her as a man who would sink to petty letters, it would be against his calling as a man of God.
“You can look at the letters received in Brighton, if you like,” Park-Coombs shrugged, clearly thinking it was a waste of time. “We kept them for the purposes of thoroughness. Truth is, there’s not much we can do with them. Now, if something actually happened at the exhibition, we might start considering them evidence. So far, the letters are just a nuisance.”
Park-Coombs walked her to a desk where a constable was filling out reports on dangerous cycling incidents. The inspec
tor leaned down and pulled out a drawer.
“We put them here,” he said, producing a bundle of five letters.
He set them on the desk before Clara. She thumbed through them, noting first the thickness of the paper they had been written on. It was very heavy paper and not the sort people typically used for stationary. Secondly, she saw that each of them had been written in large capital letters, to disguise the writer’s hand. The first one read – THE HAND OF GOD DESCEND ON YE! WICKED SINNERS THAT DENY OUR LORD! Clara placed the paper to one side and read the next.
BEHOLD, HE SHALL STRIKE DOWN THOSE WHO SPREAD WICKED LIES AND DETEST HIS NAME!
“I’m detecting a pattern,” Clara said sarcastically to Park-Coombs.
He grinned.
“The writer is not afraid to stick to his theme and milk it for all its worth,” he chuckled.
The third letter read –
JUST AS THE WALLS OF JERICHO FELL, SO SHALL FALL ALL FOLLIES OF MAN THAT DENY THE CREATOR AND MASTER! BE AFRAID, FOR HE IS COMING!
“Slightly more threatening, that one,” Clara nodded. “The others were rather vague.”
“They do become less subtle over the course of time. I’ve seen some of the ones sent to the exhibition at the very start of the tour, and they are quite bland in comparison.”
The fourth letter was where things started to get nasty –
AND THE BLOOD OF THE WICKED SHALL POUR FORTH. YOU SHALL BE CURSED AND YOUR CHILDREN CURSED, AND YOUR CHILDREN’S CHILDREN CURSED. AND ALL SHALL CRUMBLE AS THE REDEEMER STRIKES YOU DOWN!
“Sounds like Reverend Parker, doesn’t it?” Park-Coombs nudged Clara. “It’s the sort of evangelical stuff he spouts.”
“He did not strike me as a man who would express his views so violently,” Clara replied. “I attended one of his meetings and the theme was understanding and not judging those who supported Darwin. He described them as misguided rather than wicked.”
“Easier to get vicious on paper,” Park-Coombs winked. “Read the fifth letter, it came the day before John Morley entered the exhibition.”
HE WILL COME WIELDING A HAMMER OF JUSTICE. HE WILL CRACK THE SKULLS OF THE IGNORANT AND BLASPHEMOUS AND REDUCE TO ASHES THEIR SIGNS AND SIGILS. BEWARE, FOR THE END COMES TO THE WICKED!
“If that does not describe John Morley entering the town hall to smash the Archaeopteryx case, I don’t know what does,” Park-Coombs said triumphantly.
“But, Inspector,” Clara placed the fifth letter with the others, “we know that John Morley was hired by Sam Gutenberg, not by Reverend Parker. And, as far as I am aware, Mr Gutenberg had not seen these letters. Therefore, the appearance of John Morley with a hammer has to be pure coincidence.”
Park-Coombs froze as this realisation struck him. He had obviously allowed the connection between Sam Gutenberg and John Morley to slip his mind.
“That complicates things,” Park-Coombs scratched his moustache, a sure-sign he was worried. “But, no, that does not stop these letters from being written by Reverend Parker.”
“It does not stop them being written by someone else either,” Clara observed. “In fact, we could argue that they might have been written by the Golden Archaeopteryx Society, since Sam Gutenberg hired John Morley to do exactly what this last letter states.”
“That would be nonsensical,” Park-Coombs huffed. “At least we can agree on why Dr Browning was so worried about the exhibition and why seeing John Morley with a hammer would have scared the living daylights out of him. If I did not have good evidence against Harry Beasley, Dr Browning would still be the most likely culprit for the crime.”
“About Harry Beasley…” Clara started.
“He is not your case. Usually I would allow you some leeway, but there are a lot of eyes watching me. I have my superiors breathing down my neck,” Park-Coombs looked genuinely sorry. “This time Clara, I have to say no. I’m sorry about it, but there is nothing I can do.”
Chapter Twenty-One
The next morning, Tommy received a message from Captain O’Harris stating that Victor wanted to express his thanks to them and was going to come to the Home to speak with them in person. Tommy felt relieved as he looked at the note. At least now he might be able to solve the problem he had first been charged with and Clara may not be so disappointed with him. Annie came into the hallway as he was picking up his umbrella; rain was threatening in the deep purple sky.
“Not going to get yourself into trouble again?” She teased.
Tommy blushed just a little.
“I’m going to find out once and for all who this Victor Darling is and prove to Clara I can make a worthwhile accomplice in her detective business,” Tommy answered.
Annie crossed her arms and smiled.
“Why not be blunt with the fellow, instead of pussy-footing around? Ask him straight out, who are you really Mr Darling and should Miss Holbein’s friends be concerned?”
“If you had met Miss Holbein, you would know that it is Victor’s friends who should be worried,” Tommy paused just before opening the front door. “You know, I think he genuinely loves her. Isn’t that remarkable?”
“It takes all sorts,” Annie said wisely. “Be home for lunch, I bought some pressed ox tongue.”
Tommy promised he would be, then hastened outdoors.
He had to catch a couple of buses to get to O’Harris’ house on the outskirts of Brighton. By the time he descended from the second bus the heavens had opened and heavy rain splattered down on his black umbrella. Tommy hurried along, avoiding the great puddles rapidly forming on the dry ground. The tall gates of the convalescence home were open, as always, and he dashed inside thinking what a marked change it was from the other day when he, Victor and the captain had strolled in the gardens in the sunshine, feeling rather hot and remarking on the dryness of the grass. Tommy had said then that they were due some rain.
He made it to the front steps of the house with only getting a little damp and let himself in.
“Hello?”
A young man appeared from the library, holding a book in his hand. He had a grey, sombre face and Tommy recognised him as Private Peterson, the one guest who was causing O’Harris sleepless nights. He had a morose expression at the best of times, and it was hard to know what would raise the young man’s spirits sufficiently to get him to smile.
“If you are looking for the Captain, he is out at the old orangery. We now know where that stray cricket ball went last week. Smashed a pane of the glass roof and there is water flooding in,” Peterson explained.
“Oh no, on the parquet flooring?” Tommy grimaced. “That will take some clearing up.”
“Lucky one of the gardeners went past and saw there was water pouring out from under the doors,” Peterson nodded.
Tommy picked up his umbrella, having just put it into a nearby holder.
“Any sign of Victor Darling?” He asked Peterson.
“No, you are the only person to have walked in this morning,” the private answered. “The fellow is some sort of genius with car engines, I understand?”
“Something like that,” Tommy agreed, not really sure how to otherwise describe Victor. The man was too cagey about who he really was. “If you see him, tell him where we are.”
“Will do,” Peterson wandered back into the library, hunched up like an old man.
Tommy wondered what the future held for the lad and shuddered a little to think that he had not been so far removed from ending up the same way. The depression that hung over Peterson, along with his far more alarming symptoms, echoed with Tommy. It was not something he cared to dwell on.
He headed outside and found O’Harris with his shirtsleeves rolled up, hammering a piece of wood over the broken pane in the orangery roof. It was remarkable how much water had tumbled in, in such a short space of time. A gardener with a broom was trying to sweep out the worst, but the floor was probably ruined, along with a cushioned sofa that had been directly under the leak.
“It never rains but it pours!
” O’Harris grinned at him. “Any sign of Victor?”
“Not yet,” Tommy answered. “Need a hand?”
“Nope, nearly done,” O’Harris hammered in a last nail and then stepped off the ladder he had been using to see if there were any further leaks. “I think we have stopped it for the moment.”
He accompanied Tommy back to the house, unrolling his shirtsleeves as they walked.
“We need to find out the truth from Victor today,” Tommy said as they walked. “No more beating about the bush. We need answers.”
“Who he really is, you mean?”
“Exactly,” Tommy said.
“On that I do have a little news,” O’Harris looked pleased with himself. “I rang up Red Lion Engineering, spun them a line about testing an engine I was working on. Said I had heard of an engineer by the name of Victor Darling and that he was supposed to be one of the best for testing engines.”
Tommy was impressed by his duplicity.
“What did they say?”
“They said, ‘yes, Victor worked for them but was currently on his annual leave. If I wanted to make an appointment for when he was back they would ensure he was involved in the tests on my engine.’ I said I would get back to them.”
“He is using his real name,” Tommy said in amazement. “I thought he would be using a pseudonym.”
“Well, that would complicate things, wouldn’t it?” O’Harris pointed out. “How much more do you need to know?”
“I suppose what his intentions are,” Tommy shrugged his shoulders. “I doubt Mrs Wilton will be much impressed that a car engineer is courting Miss Holbein, but if his intentions are genuine, maybe we shouldn’t judge.”
“You mean if he loves her?”
“I mean he is a braver man than I to dive into that lion’s den. Whether it’s for the money or real feelings…” Tommy tailed off, because the man in question had just appeared.
Victor waved to them. He had no umbrella and was getting wet as he hurried towards them.
“I am glad to catch you both,” he smiled at them, his eyes alive. “I wanted to say thank you in person, and to give you a gift each.”