by Thomas Brown
It was growing dark when I reached his café. It was nearing closing time and there were just a couple of customers, each huddled over a cup of tea staring into space. Benny was at the counter reading a newspaper. He looked up as I entered, his face registering a mixture of emotions. It was clear that he didn’t know whether he ought to be pleased or dismayed at my appearance.
‘Any chance of tea and toast?’ I said cheerily.
For a few moments Benny still remained uncertain how to react, so I broadened my grin. ‘Today would be good.’
Benny’s face suddenly lit up with pleasure. ‘Today it is. Grab a seat and I’ll have it with you in a trice.’ With a little chuckle, he hurried off to the kitchen.
Five minutes later I was munching toast lavishly smothered with margarine and strawberry jam while Benny sat opposite me, an indulgent grin wreathing his features.
‘So… how have you been?’ he asked gently, testing the water.
‘Miserable. Feeling sorry for myself, but I think I’m starting to crawl out of that particular hole.’
‘That’s good. That’s what we all want: the old Johnny back.’
‘I’m not so sure you’ll get that, but I’ll try not to be a pain in the backside.’
Benny rolled his eyes. ‘The old Johnny was always a pain in the backside.’
I nodded wearily. I reckoned that Benny was right.
Suddenly his features darkened. ‘You should see Peter. He’s been missing you. He comes in here twice a week and mopes. He’s deliberately stayed away from you because he feels you don’t want to see him…’
I shook my head with dismay. ‘That’s not true. It’s just… it’s just…’
Benny touched my arm. ‘I know. But he’s very young still. A tender shrub. Despite his height and long trousers, he’s still just a kid and kids need love and affection.’
‘What about the girlfriend? How’s that going?’
‘Oh, well, I think there has been some cooling off there.’ He grinned. ‘The flames of passion have waned a little. As I say he’s still just a kid. He needs some mature advice.’
‘I’m not sure I’m qualified to offer it. Look at the mess my life is in.’
‘Hey, I thought we had stopped feeling sorry for ourself. Count your blessings, Mr Hawke. There are many folk in this town in a far worse state than you. You lost a loved one. Yes. But there are thousands out there in that same big boat. Remember with fondness and grieve for them but get on with your life. Grieve for them – not for yourself.’
As always, Benny was the source of sound advice.
FIVE
Gingerly Dr Sexton touched the bandages that covered the wounds on the back of his head.
‘I reckon you’ll have a stinker of a headache for quite a few days, sir’ observed Inspector Horace Wisden gravely. He was a big man with a face like a rumpled pillow which housed a pair of kindly brown eyes.
‘Yes. But I suppose I should be grateful that the brute didn’t kill me.’
‘Too true,’ replied the inspector in a distracted fashion as he turned over the pages of his notebook.
They were sitting in a small office in Newfield House. It was here that Sexton had been bandaged by one of the medical orderlies after it had been established that he had suffered only surface wounds. He had then been interviewed by Wisden who had arrived on the scene with a body of men shortly after the alarm was given of Northcote’s escape. The officers were searching the grounds while Sexton gave his statement.
‘Well, I think we’ve got all the information that you can give us at the moment. It may be that we will call on you again, of course.’
‘Does that mean I can go?’
‘Well, yes, but are you sure you’re safe to drive? I mean …a blow to the head.’
‘Oh, I’m perfectly fine apart from the headache. I’m not likely to keel over at the wheel and I can see perfectly well. No double vision.’
Wisden seemed unconvinced. ‘If you’re sure.’
Sexton nodded gently. ‘I’m sure.’ He rose eagerly and made his way to the door but Wisden took hold of his sleeve and held him back. Sexton’s heart skipped a beat.
‘There was just one thing, sir.’
‘Yes.’ Sexton’s voice was dry and tense.
‘Well, I reckon you probably know this Northcote as well as anyone. The workings of his brain, I mean.’
Sexton gazed at the police inspector non-committally and said nothing.
‘In your opinion, what is the fellow likely to do now that’s he’s out, escaped? Where do you think he will go? What will he do?’
‘I am sorry but I can’t really help you there. You see there’s no logic in a mind like his. A mind without reason is unfathomable. We can sometimes discover what stimulates such violent and anti-social behaviour but one cannot predict what such a creature will do. It’s a cliché, Inspector, but I’m afraid your guess is as good as mine.’
‘Do you think he will try to kill again?’
Sexton gave a bleak smile. ‘Oh, yes. I am quite sure of that.’
* * *
Dr Sexton stood on the steps by the main door of Newfield House and breathed in the cold night air. Already the frost was forming on the bushes and exposed rooftops of the outbuildings and his breath escaped in little white clouds. A number of police officers, their torches like mini-searchlights, were roaming the grounds in search of the fugitive.
It was a futile task.
Sexton made his way to his car. On reaching it, he tapped three times on the boot lid, paused and tapped three times again. After a brief pause, he heard the same set of taps repeated by the resident within the boot. Sexton beamed and swung himself into the driver’s seat. Within minutes he had passed through the gates of the institution and was out on the open road.
* * *
Just over an hour later, he pulled into the drive of his detached house. Unlocking the garage, he drove the car inside and then closed the doors before pulling open the boot of the car. The occupant within, who had been hunched into a ball slowly unfurled himself with a groan. With the help of Sexton he managed to clamber out of the boot. With a further groan, he stood erect. For some moments neither man spoke.
Northcote eventually stretched, his arms reaching above his head and grinned. ‘That feels good,’ he said at length, almost to himself.
‘Let’s go into the house and get you settled in your quarters,’ said Sexton with some eagerness. He was anxious to have the fugitive out of sight.
‘Lead on,’ replied Northcote easily. He was enjoying himself.
Once inside the house, Sexton drew the curtains in the sitting room before switching on the lights. Northcote slumped down in an arm chair, his feet splaying out before him. ‘This is grand,’ he said, still grinning. ‘After what I’ve been used to it’s like the Ritz.’
‘A cup of tea or something stronger?’
‘Tea will do just fine for now. I reckon I need to find my sea legs before I get onto the liquor with not having had a drop for eight years.’
‘O.K. I won’t be a moment. Then we can talk.’ Sexton bustled off into the kitchen.
Left alone Northcote sat back, closed his eyes and relaxed. He couldn’t remember the last time he felt so contented. He could hear the rattling of tea cups and the gush of water into the kettle and the popping of the gas ring in the kitchen – ordinary domestic noises that were music to his ears. He had almost fallen asleep by the time Sexton returned with a tea tray.
The tea was dark brown and strong. Northcote gulped it down. ‘Not your normal brew, is it?’
‘Earl Grey. Very refreshing. Would you care for another cup?’
‘Yes, I think I will.’
Sexton poured him another cup. He himself had settled for a gin and tonic.
‘Smooth as a baby’s bottom, eh?’ said Northcote as he sipped his second cup of tea, his voice heavy and tired.
Sexton nodded. Automatically his fingers reached for his bandaged scalp. As he press
ed gently, he felt a small twinge of pain. ‘You certainly gave me a bit of a headache,’ he observed drily. There was no humour in his voice.
Northcote gave a lazy grin. ‘Sorry about that but we needed some authenticity.’
He stumbled over the word ‘authenticity’ and shook his head slowly as if to dislodge the overpowering sensation of tiredness that was creeping over him. It was as if all the life in his body was being drained from him.
‘Authenticity,’ he repeated in the same clumsy manner before allowing the cup and saucer to fall from his grasp. His eyes widened momentarily in dreamy surprise as the room swirled about him, he slumped backwards unconscious in the chair.
‘Sweet dreams,’ said Sexton, smiling at last. ‘Time to escort you to your new home.’
* * *
When Ralph Northcote regained consciousness, he found that he was lying on a camp bed in a darkened chamber, illuminated by one dim electric light bulb dangling above his head. As the clouds of the drug slowly dissolved and his vision and mind stumbled back into focus, gradually he was able to take stock of his new surroundings. He saw that he was in a vaulted cellar, the limed walls of which were grubby and blemished with patches of green mould at irregular intervals. Confused as to where he was and why he was here, he tried to drag his body into a sitting position but had great difficulty in doing so. In fact he failed. Something was preventing him. It took his hazy mind a few seconds to realise why. His left hand was handcuffed to the metal bed head.
He was a prisoner.
Again.
He could not move from the confines of the bed.
Panic and distress overwhelmed him in an instant and he screamed. His utterance was loud and inarticulate, like a wounded animal caught in a trap – which in essence he was. Strangely he found some comfort and solace in screaming, so he continued. With his eyes screwed tight and his fingers clenched, he bellowed at the top of his voice.
Suddenly a door at the end of the dank chamber opened and a figure in a white coat entered. Northcote ceased yelling and, opening his eyes, he stared at the figure in disbelief as it approached the bed.
It was Francis Sexton.
‘Ah, you’ve returned to the land of the living, eh?’ he said smoothly, moving towards the bed, a self-satisfied grin touching his shadowy features. ‘Strong stuff that tea.’
Northcote shook his head in a desperate attempt to dislodge this hallucination from his sight. This mad vision. Was he dreaming? Was this really happening? Or was he going crazy?
‘What… what the hell is going on?’ he asked, his voice tired from all his screaming, now reduced to a hoarse whisper.
‘Welcome to your new home.’ Sexton threw his arms out in a theatrical gesture to encompass the gloom.
Northcote shook his head miserably. ‘I don’t understand.’
‘There’s not a lot to understand. Simply, you’re my prisoner now.’
‘Prisoner? Why?’ Northcote tugged on the handcuff. ‘Why have you done this?’
‘Because it suits my purposes, my plans.’
‘What plans?’
‘Oh, I don’t think you need concern yourself with those for the moment. They do not require your active participation. Let us just say that you are simply my insurance, my alibi.’
Northcote felt a wave of despair crash over him. He didn’t know what Sexton meant but he knew that he was in deep trouble. ‘You can’t do this to me,’ he wailed. ‘You and I were going to be partners…’
‘Were we? In your dreams, my dear fellow. Why should I associate myself with an insane murderer?’
‘You know I’m not insane.’
Sexton gave a little shrug as a wry smile touched his features briefly. ‘Maybe I do, but that’s not what the authorities think and will continue to think once I set to work.’
Northcote shook his head in confusion. The effects of the drug were still fogging his mind. ‘What are you going to do?’
Sexton chuckled. ‘Couldn’t possibly tell you. Don’t you know careless talk costs lives?’ His laugh grew louder, echoing loudly inside Northcote’s brain.
‘Sweet dreams,’ added Sexton softly as he made to leave. ‘Don’t let the bed bugs bite.’ He switched out the light and closed the door. In the pitch darkness, Northcote could hear the key turning in the lock.
SIX
The vicarage of St Saviour’s was a run down affair. The crumbling Victorian edifice had been an impressive adjunct to the church in its day but now it was in serious need of repair with damp and mould making a major invasion both inside and out. Father James Sanderson used only a few of the rooms, the rest were closed up and left for the insidious decay to take possession. It crossed my mind that it would almost be a blessing if the building received a direct hit on a Nazi bombing raid – providing no one was hurt – so that the place could be put out of its misery.
When I called that evening, Father Sanderson was just washing up a few dishes from his evening meal. He bade me take a seat by the meagre fire and offered me a cup of tea. Soon I would be awash with the stuff.
‘I didn’t expect to see you so soon,’ he said, sitting opposite me. ‘Don’t tell me that you’ve made some progress already.’
‘I won’t tell you, because I haven’t, but I realise that I need to know more about Annie Salter so I can start building up some theories. It’s all a bit vague at the moment.’
This was a soft start to the questioning. I had decided to bide my time for the moment.
Sanderson shrugged his shoulders. ‘I don’t think I’m going to be much help to you. I doubt if I can tell you any more that I have already. I didn’t know the woman’s background all that well.’
‘Who did?’
He shrugged again. ‘I’m not sure.’
‘What about neighbours?’
‘Well, Annie was a very private person, she kept herself to herself but I believe she was quite friendly with the chap next door. Archie Dawson. He’s an artist, cartoonist. He does a strip in one of the kids’ comic cuts. He’s at number 14. I got the impression from what she said that he kept a kindly eye on her.’
‘Anyone else?’
‘Not that I know of.’
‘What about Annie’s son?’
Sanderson screwed up his face as though he were in pain. ‘He was a little devil. Got himself into trouble with the law before the war. I reckon if he hadn’t gone into the army, he’d be back in gaol now.’
‘Did he have any friends locally?’
‘Malcolm made enemies not friends. You’re not thinking that there’s someone who might have a grudge against Malcolm who’d take it out on his mother?’
It was my turn to shrug. ‘Not really. It would be a little convoluted and as the boy is dead there’d be little point. But, I suppose, stranger things have happened. I’m not ruling anything out yet.’
‘You know best. You’re the detective.’
These words did not cheer me. They just reminded me of the burden I was carrying. I remembered that earlier in the day I had regarded this case as a challenge. In a few short hours it had become a burden. Oh dear!
‘What regiment was Malcolm assigned to?’
‘The London Regiment, I think.’
‘And there was no other member of the congregation that Annie was friendly with?’
Father Sanderson thought for a moment. ‘Well, she shared the flower rota for the church with Mrs Dewhurst, Rita Dewhurst. I don’t think the two women had much in common but they did sort of work together.’
Father Sanderson gave me her address and I made notes of all these names in my little notebook, although this procedure did not fill me with much hope. All they promised were a series of bland conversations à la Mrs Coulson. I reckoned it was time to grasp the nettle. If I was to get anywhere with this case, there was no room for holding back or pussy-footing around.
‘Well,’ I said, rising from my chair, ‘thanks for your help, but no thanks for your hindrance.’
To my great s
atisfaction Sanderson’s jaw dropped. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said, his voice full of uncertainty.
‘And so am I. To be honest Father, I am puzzled. Do you really want me to find the murderer of Annie Salter?’
‘Why bless you, of course I do.’
‘Then I must ask you to stop prevaricating. You know more than you’ve told me. You have given me only half a tale and expect me to work with that. If Annie Salter was murdered, you know why. She has been distressed for some time. There was no one closer to her than you. She must have unburdened herself to you. But, for some reason, you and God were unable to help her. It was your guilt that led you to engage me, wasn’t it?’
The priest turned from me, his body shaking with emotion. He muttered something but I did not catch what he said.
‘Tell me,’ I said, my voice rising in frustration. ‘Help me.’
‘I cannot,’ he muttered, swinging around in the chair to face me once more, his eyes moist with tears.
‘She told you something, didn’t she? In confessional? That’s what the box is for, after all, isn’t it? For people to tell you their horrid truths. I reckon that she told you something that made you aware that she was in great danger. Greater than you realised.’
Father Sanderson said nothing but I could see from his expression and the haunted look in his damp eyes that I was on the right track.
‘So when you found her hanging there, murdered, you wrote a suicide note in a strange hand to help convince the police that it was murder. But, unfortunately for you, they weren’t having any of it.’
‘You are a clever detective, after all,’ said Father Sanderson, allowing himself a slight smile. ‘How do you know?’
‘Because you are not such a clever deceiver.’ I fished the suicide note out of my pocket. ‘This paper was torn out of a notebook. It is the identical kind of notepaper, in fact, on which you wrote Mrs Frances Coulson’s address for me.’ With a flourish I now produced this sheet and matched the two together.
‘Careless, but not conclusive,’ I continued. ‘However, although you tried to disguise your handwriting in the note, you could not quite eradicate some of your own stylistics. The squashed ‘e’ and the little flourish on top of the ‘o’, for example. There is much personality in an individual’s handwriting and like certain facial features, they are difficult to disguise. To be fair, you did quite well, but not well enough. On top of all that there was a small red stain in the bottom left corner. Communion wine, I suspect’.