Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  This left Smith at a bit of a loose end so he decided to return to No.2 Railway Terrace in the forlorn hope of finding Herring at home.

  He wasn’t. Neither was his ‘landlady’.

  Despite the fact that Cheadle was clearly not pleased with Best, he was not as acerbic as expected, even though the plan to distract him with involvement in the chase had failed. The leads were not complex enough for that. It was just down to the classic remedy: first find the cabbie.

  ‘They’ll know,’ was all Cheadle had muttered, adding, ‘she’ll have gone back up north.’

  ‘But they’re forewarned up there. She’d realize that.’

  ‘Not to Newcastle, you fool!’ the Chief Inspector had exclaimed. ‘Just somewhere up north where she’ll feel more at ’ome, won’t stand out so much – and that seems a long way from ’ere.’

  The reason for Cheadle’s relative mildness soon became clear.

  ‘We’ve ’ad another letter,’ he admitted.

  Ah, the distraction had been provided for him, Best realized with relief. He’d half guessed as much when he’d seen the chaotic jumble of files spread across the desks in the sergeants’ room. The frantic search for likely Quicksilver suspects continued.

  ‘Littlechild got nowhere at Pentonville Prison,’ Cheadle complained. ‘An’ the rest of ’em can’t come up with nothing about this.’ He shoved a small square of blue-lined paper across the desk. ‘But seeing as ’ow you’re so artistic …’

  His jibe didn’t carry quite the usual bite. Clearly the man was worried. He and Shore remained in charge of operations while Williamson was away. Vincent, as Director of the CID, only covered policy and organization, although – if he got the chance – he liked to dabble in the cases. Something to tell his friends about at his club, no doubt.

  Vincent was a far more educated man then any of them. And he could see why Cheadle had not asked him for his opinion, not wanting him to think that they couldn’t work it out for themselves.

  That was a dangerous game to play. If the delay allowed disaster to happen unchecked … Old man’s pride. Should he be party to it? Did he have a choice?

  The note said:

  WARNING FOR THOSE CLEVER MEN OF SCOTLAND YARD!!! It won’t be so easy for you this time! YOU’LL HAVE TO GUESS THE WHERE AND WHEN OF THE COMING CATASTROPHE!!! But I must be fair – Ha Ha. News from all nations will lead you there. QUICKSILVER

  ‘Littlechild thinks “News from all nations” might be a quote from a poem or something, but he doesn’t know which one,’ confessed Cheadle. ‘We’d better get that ex-lady friend of yours to ’elp us out if you can’t.’

  Oh, had we? thought Best. What a nerve the man had. There had to be other, easier ways to do this. But not, Best suspected, ones which would save Cheadle’s face in the same way.

  ‘I’ll see if I can get hold of her, sir,’ Best acquiesced, casually.

  ‘Go on – you’ve been dying to have a good excuse to see her again.’

  Best shrugged. The man was right of course, as usual, but he wasn’t going to admit that to the old bugger.

  ‘We’ve been racking our brains for anything in the news that might fit. Can’t find nothing “from all nations”. There ain’t no international meetings nor exhibitions in London, or nothing. Just things ’appening abroad.’ He waved his right hand vaguely outwards to indicate the rest of the world.

  Best nodded. ‘The Afghan war and the Irish problem.’

  ‘Yeh. That’s about it.’ Cheadle took a deep breath and pushed himself upright in his chair once more. ‘More than one country in that Afghan business.’

  ‘Us, the Indians, the Afghans and the Russians.’

  ‘But that’s never all nations is it?’ complained Cheadle. ‘Same with the Irish business. There’s us again, of course, the Irish and the Americans – in an outside kind of way.’

  ‘It’s a puzzle,’ Best admitted. ‘Might it be something to do with the newspapers themselves? Where all this news comes to?’

  ‘We thought about that,’ Cheadle admitted. ‘Can’t see it myself. Don’t seem to fit. What’s he goin’ to do? Blow up The Times offices?’

  ‘He might,’ said Best, but agreed it didn’t seem to fit. The police wouldn’t be sufficiently embarrassed, which seemed to be what Quicksilver wanted. That, and to kill a lot of people.

  ‘So, what we’re doin’ is trying to find the culprit in those files – and more about that quote.’

  Cheadle reached over and retrieved the letter, held it up at arm’s length and contemplated it with contempt, as if this might produce the answer or frighten off the perpetrator. ‘So you go off and see this Helen woman. But before you does, see Inspector Littlechild. ’E wants a word.’

  Herring’s neighbours at Railway Terrace described how the ‘landlady’ had left, carrying a carpet bag, just after Smith and Best had paid their call.

  Smith kicked the wall in frustration as he left. They had allowed another bird to fly the coop!

  Still, it cleared up one question. No doubt now that Herring was involved.

  His landlady had left the cottage on foot and, so far, they had failed to discover who had conveyed Alice away from Chilton House.

  At least, Smith thought that was the case, but he could not be sure. One of the local detectives might already be on to something, but either not be sharing his knowledge, or had failed to report back yet.

  It was at times like these that Smith longed for the invention of a portable telegraph machine so that fellow officers could pass on information as soon as it was acquired.

  Failing that, it would help if they would just equip all police stations with telegraph machines. That would be particularly helpful to Scotland Yard detectives, who had a great need to keep in touch with headquarters, as well as each other.

  Smith knew that he’d be even more out of touch if he left Wood Green Police Station now, but he couldn’t sit there doing nothing. He decided to try the next, obligatory port of call when chasing suspects; after cab ranks – railway stations.

  The photograph of Maud and Alice was still being reproduced by the High Street photographer. But tucked away in the desk at Chilton House, they had discovered a much smaller rather indistinct picture of the pair when younger. It showed a pensive Maud and a laughing Alice in front of a seaside backdrop.

  Wood Green’s fussy little ticket collector did not recall seeing anyone resembling the laughing Alice, accompanied with heavy luggage, either earlier that day or the evening before. Neither did the grizzled old stationmaster.

  But, as they both pointed out, it was such a busy station. Smith could appreciate what they meant. Wood Green catered not only for local line traffic but main line as well.

  He soldiered on, determinedly. Wood Green was also home to Palace Gates Railway Station which served the new line taking clerks and dockers (on special cheap workmen’s trains) to the City and the docks in the mornings and brought them back again in the evenings. In between, it ferried its pleasure-bound Ally Pally customers. But he had no luck there – nor further down the line at Green Lanes Station.

  So, what next? Go back and look around Chilton House again? Return to Railway Terrace and ask the neighbours some more questions? Neither prospect seemed promising.

  He perched fretfully on a bench on Green Lanes’ downline platform and proceeded to have a good, quiet think.

  But it was no good. Nothing emerged. No instant answer, no dawning realization, no flash of inspiration.

  Dusk melted into darkness and the air grew chilly. He chaffed his hands together and slapped his arms to warm them.

  Ask yourself, Best always said, just what you would do if you were the villain? He’d tried that. Covered every possibility. But it was no good. He was useless.

  His mind began to drift. Trains came and went on the opposite platform, each disgorging rushes of eager, home-bound workers, set against the background of a poster advertising the endless delights of a day out at the Alexandra Palace. Even their
numbers began to dwindle.

  The lighted disc of the palace’s rose window hovered like a new moon on the hill beyond. Marching along below were the line of lamps marking the edges of the south terrace. He must take Betsy and the kids to the palace for a day out – when he had saved enough money.

  The answer to the question of what he should do next slid suddenly into Smith’s mind like a brightly lit slide at one of the lectures at his uncle’s working men’s club. It was not heralded by trumpets. Indeed, there was no warning whatsoever. It was just there.

  He grinned delightedly to himself. Best always insisted that if you thought hard enough, then had a little rest to give your brain a chance to sort everything out, something useful would pop up of its own accord.

  And pop up it had. It was obvious! The Ally Pally! Back where they started.

  ‘We’ve decided,’ announced Littlechild, ‘not to confine ourselves to villains who’ve shown an interest in literature and poetry. Partly –’ he grinned ruefully, looking over the mess of files on his desk – ‘because we can’t find any except for the poor dead, departed Grimes.’

  The inspector was looking less than his usual sprightly self, probably because he was a man of action, and was being corralled. ‘So we are concentrating on anyone who seems to be quite educated – that’s for the poetry – and who has a reason for resentment against the police.’

  ‘Or thinks he has,’ said Best.

  ‘Exactly.’

  ‘A wide brief.’

  ‘And this fellow, being a more intelligent rogue, might keep up with the news,’ Littlechild went on firmly. He was clutching two files.

  He has the air, thought Best, of someone about to land me with something I’m not going to like.

  ‘We wondered about this one.’ He thrust a file at Best. ‘It’s one of yours.’

  Best glanced at the name on the cover: Farley Anderson case? Vaguely familiar. But only vaguely.

  ‘Whitehall civil servant who was embezzling funds?’ offered the inspector helpfully.

  ‘Oh, one of those.’

  Their proximity to government offices caused officials to think they could use the Scotland Yard detectives as their own private police – and often did.

  ‘All right. I’ll have a look at this on my way,’ he said, tucking the file under his arm.

  ‘Not sure you should take it out of the office,’ said Littlechild, with uncharacteristic timidity. His new Fenian responsibilities must be going to his head.

  ‘Cheadle won’t mind,’ said Best. ‘He’s desperate.’ Anyway, he thought, the way they’re kept here – piled up on desks, on the floor and stairs – anyone could steal them.

  ‘Then, old boy, I’d like to see what you think of this one.’ He waved a well-handled blue folder at Best. ‘Got a minute for me to run through it?’

  He hadn’t but Littlechild could be so persuasive in his boyish way.

  ‘Make it quick then.’

  ‘I’ll paraphrase it for you.’

  Chapter Twenty

  The ticket clerk at the Alexandra Palace Railway Station was not being helpful.

  He stared at Smith through the window of his little booth and exclaimed, ‘’Ow would I know if a woman ’ad a lot of luggage?’

  ‘It must be unusual at a station like this,’ Smith persisted patiently, ‘seeing as how most of your passengers are just here for the day out?’

  ‘No, it ain’t,’ the clerk muttered petulantly. He leaned forward so that his pockmarked face almost touched the glass. ‘We get all sorts. People with hampers, prams and baby carriages. Sometimes even invalid carriages!’

  Smith sighed inwardly, recognizing the symptoms of determined non-cooperation with police.

  He had hoped that the unlikeliness of someone boarding at the Alexandra Palace Station, with trunks and boxes, would quickly prove his supposition right, that this had been the route taken by Alice and Herring on the assumption that police would not expect them to go that way. In his imagination, he had pictured Best being bowled over by his cleverness at recognizing the possibility.

  ‘Well then, isn’t it unusual for you to sell many one-way tickets here?’

  The ticket clerk straightened up and looked affronted.

  Smith was aware that most passengers bought a shilling return ticket to Alexandra Palace from King’s Cross, a price which included entrance. Others did board en route at Finsbury Park, Stroud Green, Highgate, Crouch End, Cranley Gardens and Muswell Hill, but they also would want return tickets.

  ‘We ’ave people buying tickets ’ere! Course we do! People who lives round ’ere.’

  Smith glanced out over the acres of park to the nearby farmland. Fat lot of locals up there, he thought, and Wood Green residents would use their own railway station, as would the inhabitants of the hamlet of Muswell Hill on the outskirts to the west. But the ticket clerk seemed to imagine that Smith had been suggesting his job was a sinecure.

  It probably was, but there was no point in getting officious with the man. He couldn’t prove he was being obstructive.

  Smith nodded and murmured equably, ‘Well, if you think of anything, let me know.’

  For a moment the young sergeant had contemplated using a ruse he’d seen Best employ when facing a belligerently unhelpful ironmonger.

  ‘Oh dear, is something wrong?’ Best had exclaimed with a concerned expression on his face.

  The man had been startled.

  ‘What d’you mean?’

  ‘Well, you seem so, so unhappy. Upset.’ The inspector had sought the man’s eye. ‘A bereavement, perhaps?’

  ‘No, no …’ The ironmonger had glanced about confusedly, unable to show his usual recalcitrance in the face of such concern for his well-being.

  Best had leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘Well, if there is anything we can do …’

  After that, the bewildered man had been putty in Best’s hands, even managing to assume an almost pleasant expression and regaining a remarkable recall about the matter in hand.

  But it was no good. Smith was unable to keep the distaste for the ticket clerk’s attitude from his face. He had not, he had to admit, Best’s talent to deceive, and probably never would have. ‘Extremely honest John’, Best called him.

  ‘I’ll be with the stationmaster, if you remember anything,’ he said, curtly.

  Ah, that had the man sitting up. Memory could be stirred in many different ways, Smith reminded himself.

  ‘I was wrong to blame you for Joseph’s death,’ Best admitted, quietly.

  There, it was said. Now it was done, almost as a means of justifying further consultation with Helen, but he realized how true it was and how sorry he was.

  Helen said nothing for a moment, then shrugged and murmured, ‘You were heartbroken.’

  She was right there. He had been devastated by the death of little Joseph, whom he had lifted from the arms of his drowning grandfather after the sinking of the Princess Alice pleasure steamer.

  ‘That was no excuse.’

  ‘You imagined that I just wanted rid of him.’

  He nodded ruefully.

  ‘That wasn’t true.’

  ‘No.’

  Joseph had caught scarlet fever from Helen’s nephew after she’d sent him to stay with her sister’s family. But he had known that Helen didn’t want to keep him. She saw children as a trap for a female painter.

  Now, they sat looking glumly at each other, silently remembering.

  ‘The whole thing was all so unbearably sad, Ernest,’ Helen said eventually. She leaned forward and patted his hand. ‘We can only console ourselves that he was so much happier before he died than he had been since the loss of his family.’

  Ever since seeing Helen again at Alexandra Palace, Best had realized how much he had missed her. She was not beautiful like Mary Jane; but, somehow, although worlds apart in background, Helen and he had always felt as though they belonged together, spoke the same language.

  ‘But I expect by now you
have a child of your own?’ she said, glancing at the ring on his finger.

  He shook his head. ‘No, not yet. Mary Jane and I are getting married in the spring.’ He grinned ruefully. ‘We have to save up first.’

  ‘Ah yes, a policeman’s pay and a detective’s outrageous expensives. Never the twain …’

  He nodded. ‘I need a few more rewards.’

  Rewards were the only thing which helped bridge the gap.

  ‘An Italian girl?’

  He shook his head. ‘Half-Irish.’ He paused. ‘She’s Joe Collins’s daughter.’

  ‘Oh.’ Helen was startled. She knitted her brows in puzzlement. ‘You do mean that lovely, lively child who was so besotted with you and told everyone she was going to marry you?’

  ‘Yes.’ He grinned sheepishly and blushed. ‘She’s grown up now,’ he insisted. ‘She’s almost nineteen.’

  Why did he feel the need to justify himself. Ridiculous.

  Helen smiled and clapped her hand to her head. ‘I suppose she has. It always comes as a surprise when you haven’t seen a child for some time, doesn’t it? They grow up!’

  She gazed at him thoughtfully. He knew what she must be thinking. Someone nice and uncomplicated after me. Easily moulded – from his own world – would suit him better. In a way she was right. But it wasn’t quite so simple really.

  ‘That’s wonderful,’ she said and smiled again. ‘You must let me paint a double portrait as a wedding gift.

  He inclined his head in thanks but thought, how Mary Jane would hate that!

  It was strange to be sitting in her cosy parlour once again, but this time warmed only by fire in the grate. No smouldering glances or passionate kisses.

  Almost as though she read his thoughts, she sat up and said in a businesslike manner, ‘Right, now what can I do for you, Ernest?’

  She laughed suddenly, surprising him.