Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘I won’t keep you,’ said Bradshaw, eyeing David’s nervous hands twitching with the sheets of paper. He was well aware what effect his presence was having on the inspector. Such reactions came automatically with the post. He was used to it and often turned it to his benefit. But he liked Llewellyn and had no need or desire perturb him more than necessary.

  ‘I have some disturbing news, I’m afraid,’ he said, getting to the point. ‘Ralph Northcote. He’s escaped.’

  At the mention of the name, David Llewellyn’s stomach churned. Ralph Northcote. Those two words brought back so many dark memories: the cellar, the blood, the poor mutilated girl and that mad face with the raw flesh dangling from its grinning mouth. The stuff of his nightmares.

  He ran his fingers through his hair. ‘How? I thought that place was supposed to be secure,’ he found himself saying, while his mind refused to eliminate those dreadful images.

  ‘He’s been playing a long game, it seems. Over the last few months he’s been visited by a psychiatrist who is writing a book on the criminal mind. A fellow called Sexton, Dr Francis Sexton. All seemed quite innocent enough but a few days ago, Northcote attacked this Sexton in his cell and slipped on his hat and coat as a disguise and managed to do a bunk.’

  David shook his head in disbelief. ‘What bloody incompetence,’ he snapped.

  Bradshaw nodded. ‘I have to agree with you there. It’s easy to understand how complacency takes root in these madhouses, but there is no excuse for such slackness. Anyway, it’s no good crying over spilt milk. The devil is out and on the loose. Because of your close connection with the case, I thought you ought to know.’

  Close connection? I should bloody well say so, thought David, bitterly. I was the one who trapped the bastard, brought him to justice and got him locked away for life. Except he isn’t locked away now, so all my efforts have been in vain. And some poor girl will pay the price, sure as eggs is eggs – powdered or not. With a grimace, he allowed these thoughts to simmer but remain unspoken.

  ‘Have we any notion where he went? Have his old haunts been checked?’

  ‘Of course; checked and double checked. Nothing. For the moment it seems he has gone to ground – biding his time. But leopards do not change their spots, I’m afraid. I do not think it will be long before he will be on the hunt again.’

  David nodded in agreement. ‘We should have hung the bugger.’

  ‘Spilt milk, Inspector.’

  ‘Please, sir, do keep me informed. If he does kill again, I want to be in on the investigation. I must be.’

  ‘Of course. Your previous experience with him would be invaluable. In the meantime, we keep searching and…’

  ‘Holding our breath?’

  Bradshaw gave David a bleak smile. ‘Yes, I’m afraid so.’

  The Deputy Commissioner rose from his chair and made for the door.

  ‘Thank you, sir. I appreciate the visit,’ said David.

  Bradshaw gave the inspector a brief tight smile and left.

  David slumped back in his chair and swore softly. Whatever wind had been in his sails, on this brisk spring day, had been removed. In his career, the case which he had been most proud of, the arrest that had given him the greatest satisfaction had just been screwed up and dumped in the rubbish bin. It was enough to make a copper throw in the towel. He wouldn’t, of course. That wasn’t his style. Like Johnny Hawke, he was a terrier and would worry at a problem until it was dealt with. But, nevertheless, the news had stabbed him through the heart and he was infused with a mood of desolation.

  After a few moments, he turned his attention once more to the papers on his desk. The top sheets formed the statement of the cleaner who discovered the dead body of Father Sanderson at St Saviour’s Church. This matter seemed small beer compared with the escape of the madman Northcote. ‘Come on, boyo,’ he muttered to himself, ‘focus.’ But his self-chiding was to no avail: his mind was filled with the vision of Ralph Northcote’s horrible bloodstained face.

  TEN

  I read a lot as a youth, especially at the orphanage. Books were my escape from the unpleasant day-to-day reality. Indiscriminately, I gobbled them up: Dickens, Sapper, Conan Doyle, Rider Haggard, Trollope and Edgar Wallace. Other lives, other worlds, other adventures provided a welcome escape route from my dreary institutionalised life. I continued reading avidly until the outbreak of war when events seemed to rob me of my appetite for fiction. And losing an eye did not help. But in my late teens and early twenties I was a habitué of the Marylebone Library, snatching books off their shelves at least once a week. It felt strange, like a sentimental homecoming, to step back through the portals of this building again after a gap of three or four years.

  It still smelt the same, that aroma of old damp books and polish assailed my nostrils as of old. I stood in the entrance lobby, breathed in deeply and let the nostalgia engage my senses and entrance me for a while. Briefly I allowed it to take my back to a time when the world was kinder and my life less damaged. With a sigh, I shook off my melancholy and made my way to the reference section. Low and behold, the little stout lady with the straw-coloured hair wrapped in a tight bun who used to serve me was still on duty behind the counter. She looked exactly the same, her large tortoiseshell glasses perched precariously on her nose and her brow puckered in a permanent state of concentration. I was tempted to greet her like an old friend with a cheery smile and a warm handshake, but I knew she wouldn’t remember me. Nevertheless her presence behind the desk was somehow comforting and reassuring. In these dreadful changing times, there were some things that stayed the same.

  ‘How can I help you?’ she said, the voice was brisk and efficient but tinged with friendliness.

  I pulled the copy of the Evening Standard from my pocket. ‘Have you got this edition in your files?’

  Pushing her spectacles up her nose, she examined the paper and then nodded. ‘We should have. It’s quite recent. Just a moment.’ She disappeared through a frosted glass-fronted door which bore the word PRIVATE in green lettering. While I waited, I gazed around the room, at the desks, some which were occupied by static silhouettes pouring over various volumes and periodicals. They were like figures in a still life that was beginning to fade with age.

  In less than five minutes, Miss Tight Bun returned bearing a large cardboard box which she placed on the counter between us.

  ‘This contains the last six weeks’ editions of the Standard. You’ll have to search for it, but the one you require should be there,’ she announced and allowed herself the briefest of smile.

  I thanked her and took the box away to one of the desks, becoming another static figure in the landscape.

  It did not take me long to find the issue of the Standard I was after and to hone in on the page I needed: the page that had been disfigured by Annie’s mysterious lodger. I could see now that the missing portion from the Accommodation Available section contained details of a bed and breakfast establishment at Aldbridge Street off the Old Kent Road: ‘Reasonable Rates. Discounts for ex-servicemen. Mrs Booth, Windsor House’.

  Cheap lodgings, in other words.

  I grinned. Rarely had the following up of a clue resulted in such a perfect result. Perhaps I was a fairly good detective after all.

  I made a note of the address and returned the box to Miss Tight Bun.

  ‘Did you find what you were after?’ she asked, stroking the box as though it was some beloved pet.

  ‘I did. Thank you.’

  This seemed to please her greatly. Reluctantly, I bid her farewell. A figure from my past, my more settled times. I suspected that I would never see her again. It was a sad parting.

  * * *

  The Old Kent Road runs parallel with the Thames on the borders of Bermondsey and Rotherhithe. I made my way on foot across Tower Bridge and down this dusty and shabby part of London. It was shabby before the bombing, but now the rubble and shattered structures added further distress to its features. Travelling east, I encountered Aldbr
idge Street running off to the right. It was a narrow thoroughfare of down at heel houses with small overgrown gardens. It was a ghost street: there wasn’t a soul in sight, not even an errant child playing out in the gutter or a stray dog or cat loping around. The place was dead and now I was haunting it.

  Windsor House was about halfway along. It stood out from the rest because the door was clean and was not caked in grime and the steps appeared to have been swept. I knocked heartily using the great black knocker in the shape of some unidentifiable animal. I could hear the results of my efforts booming inside the building. I had not long to wait before the door opened and I found myself facing a pretty woman, dressed in a fairaisle sweater and slacks. She wore a turban but wisps of hair escaped the tight wrapping giving the effect of an auburn halo. She was short, not much over five feet, but her stance and demeanour suggested she was a bright and lively soul. She greeted me with a smile.

  ‘Hello. Can I help you?’

  I raised my hat and returned the smile. It was the only polite thing to do.

  ‘Miss…?’ I saw the ring and remembered the ‘Mrs’ bit in the ad, but a spot of flattery never goes amiss.

  ‘Mrs. Mrs Booth. Cora Booth. Are you after a room?’

  ‘Actually I’m looking for someone and I believe he may be one of your guests.’

  ‘Oh?’ The smile had faded now and she looked at me warily. ‘Why are you looking for this person? Are you from the police?’

  This was a situation I found myself in many times: the ‘who the hell are you?’ query. I was never quite sure what was the best way to respond. Admitting that I was a private detective often caused suspicion or fear or resentment – or all three. On the other hand, if I made up some cock-and-bull story about being a relative or an insurance agent with good news to impart, I was often asked questions that I couldn’t answer and my cover story would be blown apart. In this instance I didn’t even know the name of the person I was looking for. Taking a chance, I avoided replying to the lady’s question. Instead I pulled out the sketch Archie Dawson had drawn for me of Annie’s mysterious lodger.

  ‘It’s this fellow,’ I said.

  There was no mistaking the sense of recognition that passed over the woman’s features on seeing the drawing.

  ‘Mr Bristow,’ she said. It was an unguarded, automatic response.

  I nodded. ‘So he is staying here.’

  Mrs Booth could hardly deny it, but she didn’t admit to it either. ‘What do you want with the gentleman?’

  ‘It’s a private matter concerning his poor brother,’ I said softly, adopting what I hoped was a mournful expression ‘He passed away quite recently in rather sad circumstances.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘It was all rather upsetting. I wanted to pass on the news to him quietly.’ I was virtually mouthing the words now in a soft unctuous whisper. They seemed to have their desired effect. Mrs Booth nodded sympathetically.

  ‘Well, yes, Mr Bristow is one of my paying guests. How awful for him.’

  ‘Yes,’ I agreed. ‘Is he at home now?’

  ‘I believe he is. He rarely goes out during the day.’

  ‘Well if I might see him, I can pass on the sad tidings and give him some comfort.’

  ‘Yes, yes, of course.’

  My performance had completely won over Mrs Booth who seemed as upset at the bereavement of Mr Bristow’s phantom brother as though he were her own.

  ‘Come in, Mr…?’

  ‘Hawke. John Hawke.’ I saw no reason to give a false name.

  ‘He’s on the top floor.’

  It was a very tidy house which smelt of polish and disinfectant. Mrs Booth led me up three flights of stairs to the top of the building.

  ‘This is Mr Bristow’s room,’ she announced in hushed tones and then tapped gently on the door. ‘Mr Bristow,’ she called. ‘Mr Bristow, you have a visitor.’

  There was no response. Mrs Booth threw me a puzzled glance. ‘I felt sure he was in. I certainly haven’t seen him go out today.

  She knocked again – louder this time. Still there was no answer.

  ‘Do you think he’ll be all right?’ I said. ‘Perhaps he’s ill?’

  ‘Mr Bristow,’ she called loudly, ‘It’s about your brother.’

  Silence.

  I stepped forward and tried the door. It was locked. This action did not please Mrs Booth.

  ‘Mr Hawke,’ she snapped. ‘I’ll remind you that this is my establishment. I can’t have you rattling my guest’s doors carte blanche.’

  I looked suitably chastised. ‘I’m sorry. Do you have a key? I mean the poor man may be laid out in there, too ill to respond.’

  I could see that Mrs Booth considered my idea as arrant nonsense, but none the less she pulled out a bunch of keys from her trouser pocket and applied one to the lock of Bristow’s room. She turned the handle and opened the door a few inches and called out her lodger’s name once again. And once again there was silence.

  Gingerly, she entered the room and I followed directly behind her.

  The room was occupied.

  A man stood by the far wall in the shadows. I couldn’t see his face properly, but I did observe that he was holding a gun.

  ‘Oh, Mr Bristow,’ said Mrs Booth, seeing the shadowy figure and then added, ‘Oh, Mr Bristow,’ an octave higher when she saw the gun.

  ‘Get away from the door,’ he snapped, taking a step forward.

  We did as he asked.

  ‘You’re not going to use that, are you, Mr Bristow?’ asked Mrs Booth.

  ‘As long as you don’t interfere with me. Now get right over there. I’m leaving.’ So saying he moved swiftly towards the door. I wasn’t about to let this fellow slip though my grasp so easily, gun or no gun. I stuck my leg out and he stumbled. I was on him in an instant. I jumped on his back and had my arms around his neck as he staggered forward, carrying me piggy-back style on to the landing.

  With a gruff cry, he reversed with great force, ramming me against the wall, smashing my right elbow into the plaster. An electric shock of pain ran up my arm and I released my grip sufficiently for Bristow to pull away.

  He now swung round and beat me on the head with the gun. Luckily, I had kept my hat on which softened the blow a little, but nevertheless I did see stars and my legs wobbled and gave way. With a grim reluctance I slumped down to the floor.

  He swung back his leg with the intention of booting me in the face, but I managed to grab hold of the speeding limb as it approached me and yanked it upwards, causing his owner to lose his balance. With a yell of surprise, Bristow flew backwards, towards the edge of the staircase where he tottered briefly at the top of the landing before crashing down the flight of stairs to the floor below.

  I pulled myself to my feet and peered over the banister. Bristow looked dazed and dishevelled, but was already pulling himself to his feet. On seeing me gaze down upon him, he aimed the pistol in my direction and fired two shots. I dodged down and heard the fierce missiles whiz past me and lodge in the plaster behind me. At this point, Mrs Booth, who had been strangely silent through the shenanigans, began to whimper and shake.

  Bristow let off two more shots, keeping me well away from the top of the stairs and then there was silence apart from the bleatings emanating from the distressed landlady.

  At length, I peered down to the floor below but, as I suspected, there was no sign of my quarry. He had bolted. I ran down the stairs, along the hallway and out into the street, but there was no sign of Bristow in either direction. He had carried out a very effective disappearing act.

  * * *

  Twenty minutes later I was sitting in Mrs Booth’s parlour, administering a large glass of brandy to the shaken lady. She had stopped whimpering and the tears had ceased, but she still shivered as though she were sitting on a block of ice.

  ‘You are from the police, aren’t you?’ were the first coherent words she spoke since entering the room.

  ‘Not quite,’ I said, lighting a ciga
rette in an attempt to calm my nerves. Despite my occupation, I wasn’t used to being shot at in the afternoon in a respectable boarding house.

  ‘What does ‘not quite’ mean?’

  ‘I am a private detective.’

  ‘Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you warn me?’

  ‘To be honest, I didn’t realise there was anything to warn you about. I didn’t realise this chap would be violent – that he had a gun.’

  ‘Who is he?’

  I shrugged my shoulders. ‘I don’t know. Yet. He’s involved in a mysterious death I’m investigating, but at the moment I don’t know how he’s involved.’

  ‘Well, he was certainly determined you weren’t going to catch up with him.’

  I nodded. ‘I reckon he was more frightened than aggressive. He didn’t use his gun until the last moment.’

  Mrs Booth gave me one of her whimpers. ‘But he did use it. In my house. My respectable house.’ The tears began again and I placed my hand on her shoulder in a feeble attempt to comfort her. I felt guilty at having put the poor creature through this ordeal, for having placed her in danger. I never thought my visit would turn out in such a dramatic fashion, but perhaps I should have considered the possibility.

  ‘Shouldn’t we call the police?’

  ‘I don’t think that would be wise. It might get your place a bad reputation: harbouring gunmen and such…’

  Her look told me she needed little persuading in this matter.

  ‘You don’t think he’ll come back, do you?’

  I gave her a grim smile. ‘That’s the last thing he will do. He’s off to pastures new – wherever they may be.’

  This seemed to reassure her and she took another swig of brandy. ‘And he owed me back rent,’ she said softly as though she was speaking to herself.

  So my friend Bristow – if that was his real name, which I doubted – was short of the readies.