by Thomas Brown
Father Sanderson ran a bony hand through his thick crop of grey hair. ‘I can see that I seriously underestimated you, Johnny.’
‘It’s easily done. Usually with just cause – but not in this instant. Anyway, now it’s time to come clean and tell me all. Why was Annie Salter murdered? What was her dangerous secret?
‘I cannot tell you what she told me in the confessional. You know that. It is against the strict laws of my calling. It is between her and God.’
‘So where do you fit into this relationship? As an errant eavesdropper? I am sure God would approve of you helping me catch a murderer.’
Father Sanderson shook his head and placed his hand on his heart. ‘I would like to, my son, but I just cannot.’
With a great effort – and it was a great effort – I contained my anger for the moment. My instinct was to grab the old cleric and shake him violently until he spilled the beans, but what stopped me was my respect for a man of the church and, more particularly, the belief that even if I shook the fellow until his teeth fell out, he still wouldn’t tell me.
‘You are right,’ he said slowly. ‘I was the first to find Annie and I did write the note before I went round to see the police. I thought that if I convinced them that the note was written by someone else, they’d believe it was a murder and investigate. In this way I wasn’t betraying any of Annie’s confidences.’
‘Isn’t it a sin to let the murderer go free?’
‘I don’t know who the murderer is, Johnny. Please believe me. I just knew that Annie was fearful of something from her past.’
She had good reason to be, I thought. ‘There are things you know that are vital to this case. You must help me.’
Sanderson simply shook his head gently in reply.
I don’t know whether it was tiredness combined with a mixture of the remaining fragments of my own grief and blind frustration, but I exploded with anger. A fierce fury took hold of me, rippling through my body like an alien possession. All my previous restraint shot out of the window. I jumped up, grabbed hold of the cleric’s shoulders and gripped them tightly, dragging him to his feet. ‘Tell me,’ I roared. ‘Tell me what you know, you stupid old fool.’ I bellowed the words as though I was reciting someone else’s script. It wasn’t me who had turned into this ranting bully: I had become another person who was inhabiting my skin. For a few fleeting moments Sanderson looked terrified and then a kind of strange serenity settled on his features. He offered no resistance to my violence and made no attempt to wrench himself from my grasp.
‘I can’t, Johnny,’ he said, his voice a frail whisper. ‘I can’t.’ His lips trembled with emotion. As he gazed at me with his sad and serene eyes, my anger subsided. It went as quickly as it had arrived. I could feel the heat and tension leaving my body. I felt weak and ashamed. With a sigh, I released Father Sanderson from my grip and he slumped back down in a chair, while I stood before him, disheartened and embarrassed.
Neither of us spoke for quite some time and then slowly Sanderson moved to a cupboard by the door and retrieved an item from within.
‘There is something I can give you that may help.’ In his hand he held a key. ‘It is Annie’s house key,’ he said. ‘She gave me a spare when she had that attack of influenza some years back. She was frightened that she might be trapped in the house too ill to move… Her house is empty now and will be for a few weeks. Maybe you could go there and investigate. There may be a clue, something to help...’ His words trailed away and he held out the key to me.
‘Maybe…’ I said quietly. I took the key and left. There were no further words to say. Only I wish I had said them. I wish I had apologised for my threatening behaviour. But I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw Father Sanderson alive.
SEVEN
Patience was a virtue. Francis Sexton knew that. It was one of those clichés that actually had a basis in truth. Indeed, he was well aware that it was not only a virtue, but in his case, it was essential. However tempted he was to begin his operations, he must not give way to such desires. Oh, yes, he longed to be out there in the darkness seeking victims, seeking to satiate his appetite for blood.
But he must wait.
He had waited this long. A few more nights would not hurt. His plan, carefully plotted and executed, had taken months to reach fruition: to spoil it all now with rash and ill-prepared actions would be foolish and possibly ruinous.
Two more nights and then the feasting could begin.
EIGHT
The cleaner found Father Sanderson the next morning. His body lay sprawled on his back on the kitchen floor amidst a scattered array of broken crockery. His eyes were wide open, bulging from their sockets and his tongue lolled out of the side of his mouth.
He had been strangled.
The cleaner did not know this was the cause of death. It was the police pathologist who established this fact and informed Detective Inspector David Llewellyn who in turn informed me.
‘Why are you telling me?’ I asked casually as I lit a cigarette, just managing to conceal the shock I felt at learning that my client had been brutally murdered. I was immediately reminded of my unreasonable treatment of the old priest the previous evening. How I had shouted at him and shook him. An icy wave of remorse surged through my body, but I fought hard to retain my poise. I knew all too well that in situations like this guilt and regret were futile emotions.
It was round ten o’clock in the morning and I had been slow to get my act together that day. I’d had a restless night and then as dawn began to break, I slipped into a deep sleep, only surfacing well after my usual get-up time. I had only just shaved and breakfasted – a grand phrase for coffee and the stale doughnut I had snared creeping out of the larder cupboard – when my old copper buddy came a calling.
I knew this would not be a purely social call. It never was with David. Hence my question.
David raised an eyebrow in a whimsical fashion at my query and smirked.
I smirked back. ‘You don’t usually call in and give me the low-down on your latest investigation – the new corpse in view – without an ulterior motive.’
‘You know the victim.’
I nodded. ‘Yes, he conducted Max’s funeral. You were there. You saw him.’
‘You know him better than that.’
I frowned. ‘I’m sorry. Am I missing something?’
‘Your name and telephone number were on a piece of paper found in the dead man’s pocket.’
‘So…’
‘So, indeed. Tell me about it.’
I ran my fingers through my hair and sighed. I knew this was no time for subterfuge. ‘I was doing a little job for him,’ I admitted reluctantly.
David sat in a chair opposite me, his trilby nestling neatly in his lap. ‘I think you’re going to have to be a bit more explicit, boyo.’
‘I was afraid of that.’
David grinned. ‘A cup of tea is a fine accompaniment to a good yarn. You still got a kettle or do you suck the tea leaves through your teeth?’ He chuckled at his own joke.
I brewed up a tarry cuppa for us both and told him my story.
‘So,’ said David slowly, when I had finished, drawing out the preposition to infinity, ‘he was killed because he knew something. He was silenced. Whoever murdered him was worried that the old priest’s conscience would override his religious convictions and that he would blab.’
I could not fault David’s logic and I confirmed this with a nod.
‘Any ideas?’ he asked.
‘At this moment, no.’
‘But you will have?’
Possibly.’
‘Probably – in fact knowing you, definitely.’
‘You have more faith in me that I have.’
‘I know you, Johnny Hawke. You are a terrier. Tenacious and impudent. You’ll worry at this until something happens. You don’t like to be beaten. Unfortunately, you also like to play the solitary game, but that is something you cannot do in this case. It may
have started out as a private investigation, but now the Yard is involved it is a police matter with all the ramifications that phrase holds. Murder. Police matter. Understand, Johnny? Any information relevant to this investigation that you dig up or stumble over must be passed on to me.’
I saluted. ‘Sir.’
‘Yes, very funny. But I mean it. We’re pals. Let’s stay that way.’
‘Of course,’ I said, slipping my right hand out of view beneath my desk where I crossed my fingers. ‘I’ll share everything with you.’
David drained his mug of tea and slapping his trilby back on his head, sighed heavily in such a way that clearly indicated that he thought he was wasting his time with me.
‘I’ll be seeing you,’ he said as made for the door.
‘Of course, you will,’ I grinned.
* * *
Within ten minutes of David’s departure, I was leaving my office also. I had a house to search.
Annie Salter’s terrace cottage was in a row up a narrow pathway at right angles to the main road. Her tiny garden which had obviously been tended with care was showing signs of neglect. The new growths of spring, bulbs and daffodils were in contention with weeds and hay grass. When entering a property illegally, one should always do so with confidence as though what you are doing is natural and official. Never skulk or look around nervously. Those are my rules, anyway.
As it happened on this bright March day, the coast was apparently clear: there wasn’t a soul in sight.
Passing through the front door one was immediately in a small hallway and before you knew it, you found yourself in the parlour. It was tidy but cramped and smelt of damp. There was an ancient three piece suite, a mahogany sideboard bulky radio. A large mirror hung over the fireplace which caught my reflection and for a split second sent my blood racing because I thought I had company. I indulged in a quick rummage through the drawers of the sideboard but there didn’t seem anything there of relevance to the case. Of course, I was searching blind. I really didn’t know what I was looking for and as a consequence I had not an inkling what would be useful. I just hoped that something would jump out at me.
Annie had a secret, a secret that someone was prepared to kill for. Two people had died in order for the secret to remain. Would it be something obvious, if one knew where to look or would it be hidden – this mysterious something?
I moved into the kitchen. It was dark with only one small window by the sink to give illumination. There was a rough wooden table and two chairs. One still lay turned on its side. The one used in her hanging. I shuddered at the thought. How had he done it? (I assume it was a man). How had he persuaded Annie – or forced her up onto the chair and put the noose around her neck? Was the poor woman too terrified to resist or was she resigned to her fate? Seeing the scene of her demise brought the horror of the situation with great force. Surely there was some sign that there was another presence in the room, in the house? I examined every dusty surface, every drawer in the room but it seemed a fruitless task. And then I found something under the sink. An empty cigarette packet. Ten Capstan Full Strength. It may be nothing, but I seemed to remember that Father Sanderson saying that Annie neither drank nor smoked. And, besides, Capstan Full Strength was very much a man’s fag.
I went up the stairs and found an even more exciting discovery. There were two small bedrooms and a bathroom. The main bedroom was a tidy affair with various religious artefacts adorning the walls, but the other room, a tiny cramped chamber, contained a zed bed which had recently been occupied. And by the side of it was a saucer that had been used as an ashtray containing several stubs of cigarettes – Capstan Full Strength. It seems that Annie had a lodger. Someone had stayed with her one night at least. Now who would that be? Well, whoever it was, he’d long gone. There were no clothes or other personal possessions. No suitcase and no other signs of his occupation. Or so I thought at first, but then I noticed something sticking out from under the mattress; a little flap of paper. Pulling the mattress back, I revealed a crumpled old newspaper: the Evening Standard. Three weeks old to be precise. It was folded over at the accommodation section and there was a portion torn off. This little discovery brought a smile to my weary face.
I returned to Annie’s bedroom and gave that further scrutiny. There was nothing of any real significance but I discovered a photograph album at the back of the wardrobe which I decided to take with me for further study.
I reckoned my job here was done. I’d hardly made giant strides in the investigation but it was clear that things were not as cut and dried as the police had believed them to be. Annie had had a man staying in the house and he may have been responsible for her death and even if he wasn’t, he must know something about it. And maybe, the Evening Standard may help me track this fellow down.
* * *
I was just locking the front door when a lanky fellow with a wild bush of grey hair came up the neighbouring garden path. He was dressed in a smart oatmeal coloured overcoat with a garish painted tie at his neck. He grinned at me and gave a friendly wave.
‘Are you going to be my new neighbour?’ he said in a breezy fashion. This I assumed was the artist Archie Dawson.
I shook my head. ‘No. I’ve just been doing an inventory of Mrs Salter’s effects.’ The lie came easily and smoothly. I’ve had years of practice at the art of dissembling.
‘Oh, yes, very sad business,’ he said, his features darkening. ‘Lovely woman.’
‘You knew her well?’
‘Not really. Just to pass the time of day with really, but she often did me little kindnesses, like looking after my cat when I had to go away and letting me borrow some milk or tea when I forgot to stock up. I’m awfully absent minded.’ The smile returned. ‘A very Christian soul.’
I nodded sympathetically and then I tested the waters. ‘She had someone staying with her just before… just before she died…’
‘Yes. A friend of her son’s I gather. He died you know, her son.’
‘What was this friend’s name?’
‘Frank, I think. He was only here a short time. He’d been gone a week before Annie met her sad end.’
‘What did he look like? You’re an artist, aren’t you? Could you draw him?’
Archie Dawson pursed his lips and furrowed his brow. ‘Well, I could I suppose. But why? What’s your interest in him?’
Good question, chum, I thought.
‘It’s a legal matter concerning Annie’s estate. We may need to talk to this fellow.’
Mr Dawson did not seem convinced. I could tell he was about to refuse.
‘It would be a great help,’ I said. ‘I could pay you for your efforts.’
His eyes flickered brightly at this news. ‘Oh, very well, but it will only be a sketch.’
‘That’s fine,’ I grinned.
‘You better come in then,’ he said, producing his front door key
Half an hour later I was ten bob poorer, but in possession of a nicely detailed drawing of Annie Salter’s mysterious lodger.
NINE
He looked down at the street through the grimy window. The outside world carried on in its mundane fashion while he watched on with envy. People passed by, muffled against the chill wind, the odd motorcar purred past and even stray dogs roamed freely. He groaned softly as though suffering from some grinding abdominal pain. But the agony was in his mind rather than a physical ache. He was going crazy cooped up in the attic room like a bloody prisoner. Part of him wished that Marshall would find him and the whole business was over. In essence, he was living on borrowed time as it was. He was dead really. To die again – properly this time – might be for the best. It couldn’t be worse than hiding away indoors during the daylight hours, frightened of noises, shadows, men in black felt hats. This was no life.
He’d even thought about giving himself up to the authorities, but he knew that Marshall could still get to him, even in police custody. The devil had ways and means, contacts and favours and his tentacles w
ere long and deadly. He knew Marshall would not rest until he was six feet under.
Perhaps if he got away from London. Into the country somewhere. He’d need money though, more than he had now. Instinctively his hand strayed to his wallet. He knew exactly how much money he had in there. Not much and the rent was already overdue. He’d have to do another flit. It had better be tonight.
Of course, he had plenty of money. But he didn’t want to touch it. Not just yet. He was too frightened to. He reckoned as soon as he got his hands on it, Marshall would turn up like a bad smell.
He sighed heavily, left the window and dropped on his back onto the bed. The rusty springs groaned at the pressure he put them under. He didn’t even have a fag to ease his nerves. What he wouldn’t give for a drag on a Capstan Full Strength. He stared at the cracked ceiling, eyeing the brown damp stains in a mindless fashion, waiting for the darkness of night to arrive.
* * *
The door of Inspector David Llewellyn’s office opened silently and the visitor, who had not knocked, entered. David glanced up from his paperwork, an irritated frown creasing his forehead. He hadn’t wanted to be interrupted, especially by some ignoramus who hadn’t the courtesy to knock before entering.
He was about to express these thoughts when he observed that his visitor was Deputy Commissioner Bradshaw.
‘Sorry to interrupt, David,’ he said with great charm, sitting in the chair opposite his desk.
‘That’s all right, sir,’ said David, shuffling the papers on his desk in a nervous fashion. A visit from such a senior officer like Bradshaw was a rarity and more than a little daunting. It usually indicated that some form of telling off was imminent. Suddenly, David felt like a naughty schoolboy facing his headmaster.