Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  ‘Someone’s happy, anyway,’ said Smith as he and Best set off.

  ‘Oh yes,’ laughed Best, ‘and at least he’ll recognize which of the theatricals are the genuine article.’

  Chapter Three

  The customers were arriving. They looked like ants converging on a bowl of sugar, but grew bigger and more colourful as they climbed the southern and eastern slopes of the park, shedding their outer skins as they went. On the smaller of the species, white patches appeared which were gradually revealed to be wide, flounced collars, smocks and sailor suit trims.

  Larger and faster black shapes overtook the ants. They in turn metamorphosed into ponies and traps and hansom cabs conveying the more well-breeched pleasure seekers and West End artistes who would perform in light comedies that afternoon and evening.

  Lumbering along more sedately were heavily laden hay carts due to take part in the afternoon’s pastoral procession. This year’s theme was English Rustic.

  It was half past eleven. The programme of events proper began at midday. Already a gaudy sprinkling of Morris dancers and fair milkmaids brightened the growing crowds by the maypole on the terrace.

  In sober contrast, a detachment of soldiers from Chelsea Barracks was scheduled to perform hand-to-hand combat and an assault-at-arms employing a fiendish array of swords, bayonets, quarterstaffs and Indian clubs. Such men, Best thought, might well come in handy in an emergency. Unless, of course, they counted Quicksilver within their ranks.

  The view over London was amazing. Just below was Wood Green and to the right, Hornsey village, then it extended for miles and miles till in the far distance one could even see Shooters Hill, near Greenwich.

  Slivers of silver here and there hinted at the serpentine route of the River Thames. Now and then above the river drifted grey-white wisps which then rolled away in tiny, talcum-powder puffs.

  Suddenly, Best realized what they were – steam from the Thames steamboats. He turned away sharply.

  The last thing he wanted on his mind were memories of the worst moments in his life, when he was aboard the Princess Alice pleasure boat as she was rammed by the collier, the Bywell Castle. She’d sunk in a flash with horrific loss of life.

  Beforehand, the passengers had been just like today’s crowds – innocently enjoying themselves on a well-earned day out.

  He lowered his gaze to the sports field in the centre of the palace racetrack, where Chief Inspector Cutbush and his team were busy marking out the ground for putting the shot: the first of the police athletic contests scheduled for that afternoon. No need to worry too much about that area, Best thought.

  These events would attract a great many spectators: proud families cheering on their menfolk and divisional colleagues urging on their favourites. But Cutbush had an eagle eye and was in the know about Quicksilver.

  The detectives moved off again towards the huge Tudor Banqueting Hall squatting low down on the eastern slope facing Wood Green.

  Now this was just the spot to cause maximum mayhem. All those families sitting down to their cold meats or veal and ham pie washed down with Allsops Pale Ale and ginger beer. But somehow Best couldn’t imagine Quicksilver using this for his Domesday gesture. Not spectacular enough, too domestic.

  Best’s eyes were suddenly drawn to a short and stocky man stepping out ahead of them. There was something familiar about the back of his head and his jerky, stiff-legged gait. He nudged Smith and nodded at the man whose pace now appeared to be quickening as though he could sense he was under scrutiny.

  ‘He’s familiar,’ Best hissed. ‘Seen him at Pentonville, I think. Keep him in sight. You go left and I’ll go right.’

  The steepness of the slope hastened their step anyway so they now appeared to be almost running – an impression they would rather avoid.

  Who was that man? Best wracked his brains. Not a policeman, certainly. Too short. But that low balding patch edged by a lower fringe of too-dark hair and the centrally placed mole was very familiar.

  Maybe he had arrested him recently? Or seen him on his last duty visit to Pentonville to inspect the line-up of soon-to-be-released villains? Odd that the man should be wearing such a warm tweedy suit on such a day, but that also seemed familiar.

  Smith was gaining on the man and as he drew alongside he turned his head casually to the right. As he did so his face broke into a grin. He slowed down, fell back, and veered towards Best.

  ‘It’s Dr Roper, the divisional surgeon,’ he laughed. ‘The one the blokes call Stompy.’

  ‘Oh, blimey. I am getting twitchy,’ Best laughed, pausing to get his breath. ‘Fit little bugger, isn’t he?’

  ‘Must take his own medicine.’

  They stood for a while, watching the children enjoying themselves on the funfair rides and pestering their parents for penny-lick ice creams and coloured balloons.

  ‘He’s not got the flick of the wrist right,’ said Smith nodding towards the Mister Hokey-Pokey ice-cream cart. Both men laughed. Smith had been obliged to master the flick when he posed as a penny-poke man in Islington on a baby farming case a couple of years ago.

  A harassed father was trying to marshal his family to pose for the photographer while others began to queue up for their souvenir picture which would freeze the image of this day for all time.

  Showing off to pretty girls in pale dresses were young swells with centrally-parted hair, high stiff collars, starched cuffs and gorgeous socks. Some carried straw boaters jauntily under their arms – quite the latest fashion.

  The pace was hotting up and it all looked very jolly – and harmless, Best thought.

  As he turned back to the fairground his eyes lit upon the gusts of steam belching from the chimney in the centre of the merry-go-round.

  Riding on the carved and gilded horses below, laughing parents clutched giggling children as they swept up and down, up and down – such a new sensation; Three-Abreast Gallopers were a new invention.

  They waved and shouted excitedly to their friends as they passed by again and again, but their voices were drowned by the roundabout’s thumping traction engine.

  Best went cold. Of course, that would be just the place that Quicksilver would choose. There, where the fun and noise and laughter rang loudest in the sunshine. There, for all to see …

  He began running towards the merry-go-round, a puzzled Sergeant Smith at his heels.

  People turned to look at them, surprised at first by the sudden movement then startled by the urgency on their faces.

  ‘It’s steam operated,’ panted Best. ‘Why didn’t I think of it before …’

  It was then that a scream rent the air. Then another, and another. Soon there was pandemonium and panic as others joined them in their run.

  Chapter Four

  The gilding on the magnificent Three-Abreast Galloper glinted in the sun as the ride continued turning merrily to the jangling accompaniment of ‘Polly Perkins of Paddington Green’.

  But all eyes were riveted not on its splendid carved wooden horses with flaring nostrils, but on the rider on the centre row. She was hanging down over her gaily painted horse’s neck. As the creature dipped in the very latest fashion, her head smashed on to the wooden platform. When it rose again the bloodied result was jerked back for all to see. Small wonder people were screaming.

  The woman’s body was slipping further down, Best realized, as she disappeared from view once again, and was becoming entangled with the poles of the adjacent horses. People mounted on these horses were trying to climb off but were frightened to put their feet on the platform. They, too, were screaming and shouting.

  One of the showmen by the booth on the far side, his back to the roundabout, began to look round, puzzled. Another, younger roustabout, wearing a jaunty red cap, was casually making his way around the far edge of the platform – the noise of the music drowning out the screams. His attention was finally captured by the onrushing gesticulating crowd headed by Best and Smith.

  ‘Stop the ride! Stop th
e ride!’ yelled Best, waving his arms at the startled young man and pointing to the other side of the ride. The lad looked about, confused, but began to work his way in the direction Best had pointed.

  The body was now almost fully on the floor, held in place only by her right foot caught behind a pole.

  ‘Now! Switch it off!’ Best shouted as the grotesque show moved out of sight once more. He made a turning motion with his hand and at the same time shouted again, ‘Switch off!’ mouthing the words in an exaggerated manner. The boy finally grasped the message and nodded.

  At last, the huge steam roundabout began to slow and the awful tableaux crept into view again as the ride came to a halt. The body of the woman was now slumped fully at an angle across the floor and was beginning to roll towards the platform edge.

  Best jumped on board shouting, ‘Keep people back!’ to a tall policeman. He beckoned two colleagues. Between them they ushered off the distressed customers, then formed a circular barricade behind which Best and Smith could assess the situation.

  Best turned the woman over and felt for her pulse. There was none. He put his face to her mouth but could feel no breath. Her skin was icy.

  ‘I think she’s dead,’ he announced, glancing up at one of the young policemen. ‘Get the hand ambulance from the police office and inform Chief Inspector Billings that we need more help here. But be discreet – we don’t want panic.’

  The climb back up the slope alongside the hand ambulance had caused something of a sensation despite the fact that Best had pulled up the hood to conceal the woman’s face and bloody head, and instructed the policeman pushing the wheeled stretcher to adopt his best matter-of-fact expression. People began to run alongside, trying to look in. Onlookers pushed each other out of the way. One woman fell, another tripped over her. This was becoming dangerous.

  ‘Go faster,’ ordered Best.

  The increasing pace made the crowd more excited and eager. Thankfully, more off-duty policemen saw what was happening and also began to run alongside, arms outstretched, forming a barrier which helped hold the curious at bay.

  Nonetheless, thought Best, as he got his breath back in the police office, it had been an unedifying experience.

  The dead woman was middle-aged verging on elderly. Her gown was of grey and cream striped cotton, cream-fringed and piped at the neckline, wrists and hem. It appeared well-made but, like her once chestnut hair, a little faded. At the waistline there was a tiny, empty, watch pocket.

  Her tight bun had been loosened as her head bumped up and down on the platform. Strands of hair straggled across her face and some were caught and held in the congealing blood on her temple. Her pinky-grey summer straw hat resembled a squashed teacake – either by design or from the treatment it had received being hung from the side of her head with the aid of a tenacious hat pin. It gave her lifeless face an unseemingly rakish air.

  Best removed it.

  ‘Find that divisional surgeon, will you,’ he said to Smith. ‘Too late to do anything for her but I’d like him here just the same. See what he can tell me.’

  Evans, the palace’s young acting manager, stood to one side wringing his hands and looking even more aggrieved than when told earlier about Quicksilver.

  ‘It’ll be a heart attack,’ he announced.

  ‘I didn’t realize you were a doctor,’ murmured Best.

  ‘No, of course I’m not,’ said Evans huffily.

  ‘Ah.’

  A sensible older woman from the children’s nursery was helping him to undo the buttons and underwear tapes so that they could inspect the body for any other obvious signs of injury. They found none.

  Best undid the tapes which supported the inner pocket of the dress, placed it on a polished mahogany sidetable and tipped out the contents.

  They were sparse: a one shilling all-inclusive Police Fête entry ticket, a penny programme, a plain white pocket handkerchief, two hair pins, a pair of steel-rimmed half-spectacles, a black comb, a packet of Morson’s Pepsine capsules and a purse containing five pounds in notes and coins. Not poor, then.

  ‘It’s happened before,’ Evans insisted sulkily, staring at the inert body with an accusatory expression.

  ‘What’s happened before?’

  ‘These old people come here, forget their age and do all kinds of silly things they wouldn’t do at home …’

  ‘I thought that was the idea of the place,’ Best murmured half to himself. His patience was wearing thin.

  While he examined the items more closely, Felix, the office’s jet black cat, leaped on to the table and knocked the purse and half its contents on to the ground. Best ground his teeth as they all scrabbled around retrieving them.

  ‘It’s a good job I’d taken note of these contents,’ he exclaimed crossly and glared at Evans.

  The man’s distracting whingeing was becoming a hindrance.

  ‘I believe you are needed outside,’ he said to Evans eventually. ‘Your calm demeanour will reassure everyone that, as you say, this is nothing unusual. And,’ he added wickedly, ‘it might prevent the press getting hold of the story and making it into something it’s not.’

  That made the acting manager sit up.

  ‘Make a short announcement about a lady falling ill while on the roundabout – something to do with the heat,’ Best suggested. ‘But tell them that everything is all right now and she is being attended by a doctor.’

  Evans dashed out of the room. His presence among the lingering crowd might well, Best guessed, make things worse rather than better, but at least it got him out of his hair.

  They ought to have taken the body to the police office as he had wanted to in the first place, but the only available space had been in a cell, and that was thought unsuitable.

  Chief Inspector Billings put his head around the door. ‘How are things?’

  ‘No clue about her identity yet,’ sighed Best who was keen to get back out to look for Quicksilver.

  ‘Oh, dear, that’s a nuisance.’ He paused. ‘Look, do you mind carrying on with this for a while? I’ve got an emergency over by the triple lakes.’

  ‘Some idiot fallen in?’

  ‘No, a pickpocket they think – or maybe just a bustle-bumper.’

  Best shook his head. ‘How they have the nerve with all these coppers around!’

  ‘Bigger challenge, I suppose,’ Billings shrugged. ‘Anyway, they’re not supposed to be able to stop themselves are they – with all these lovely ladies about?’ He smiled dryly. ‘We’ve closed the ride down and secured the scene. If you like, you can go back and have a look at it and bring the operators to my office for interview. We’ve taken the names and addresses from others on the roundabout – those we could trace anyway. I’ve told them to pop in here at around six this evening, just in case you need to speak to them.’

  ‘Right.’

  Best was torn. This wasn’t quite what he was there for, to deal with an everyday sudden death – or what certainly looked like an everyday sudden death. He was loath to agree with Evans but he was probably right. A heart attack after too much unaccustomed activity and excitement.

  Then again it might be a suspicious death. Possibly even something to do with Quicksilver. In any case, he and Smith had been the first officers on the scene which, technically in one sense, made it theirs. But suspicious? He looked at the body again; no, certainly not.

  ‘Oh, and I’ve telegraphed Wood Green and told them to get a hearse up here – but to make it discreet.’

  Best wondered how they were going to manage that apart from garlanding it with daisies, mounting jolly haymakers on the roof and pretending it was part of the rustic procession.

  ‘I think,’ said Best decisively, ‘that Sergeant Smith can handle this small matter while I continue the hunt for Quicksilver.’

  Chapter Five

  Joe and Jack Hare looked out of place even in such a simple indoor venue as a police office.

  Father and son were both strong, square-shaped men with sh
ort legs, barrel chests, red-gold crinkly hair and fair skin burnished by their outdoor life.

  They sat uncomfortably before the plain desk overlooked by a filing cabinet and a dour portrait of Queen Victoria, Empress of India.

  The older man’s chest rattled noisily as he breathed. The constant fresh air seemed to have done little to alleviate his asthma. Neither, Smith assumed, had the anxiety caused by the recent drama on their fairground ride. He must be wanting to get back to his roundabout to recoup some of the money paid out for such an expensive new machine, not to mention worried about his Alexandra Palace concession.

  Despite feeling he should have kept a better eye on his customers, Smith took pity on the man, interviewing him first and in a conciliatory manner. No need to rub it in. Anyway, you got nothing out of people by doing that.

  ‘What can you tell me about this lady customer, Mr Hare?’ he began.

  Joe Hare shifted uneasily in his seat, took a deep and noisy breath and said, ‘Er, nowt much, to be ’onest.’

  ‘You don’t remember seeing her get on?’

  ‘Er …’ His eyes looked hunted as he sought about for words, then he pleaded, ‘There’s so many y’see and they comes and goes …’

  ‘So you don’t remember her at all?’

  He shook his head, sighed and admitted, ‘Na. To be honest, I doesn’t.’

  That was a blow for Smith but he could understand the difficulty. A familiar one for policemen in fact – trying to recall one person from the many who came into their orbit. Joe Hare saw his customers only for a moment, and there were so many of them coming and going. Why should one middle-aged lady stand out?

  The man’s anxious eyes reminded him of his father’s, always at a little bit of a loss with the world.

  ‘Don’t worry –’ he patted Joe’s freckled fist – ‘as you say, there are so many. You might remember something later.’ Mr Hare’s breathing slowed a little. ‘Just let us know if you do.’

  He nodded wordlessly but was clearly unconvinced that such a thing was possible. If he didn’t remember now – right after the event – how could he remember at all?