Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘Deaf bastard!’ snarled the cabbie and leaned out of his window. ‘Shift your arse, mate,’ he yelled.

  The driver of the cart was indeed deaf or impervious to such urging and maintained his snail-like pace.

  With a grunt of anger, the cabbie wrenched the wheel to the right and mounted the pavement, while at the same time stabbing his hand down firmly on the horn to produce a loud and continuous blare of warning. Pedestrians scattered, but the cart trotted on calmly. With an extra surge of speed, the cab rocketed past the cart and we shuddered back down onto the road and continued our journey at speed.

  The cabbie said nothing to me, but I could hear him chuckling to himself.

  Soon the great edifice of Victoria Station hove into view. What, I wondered, would I find inside.

  EIGHTEEN

  He was used to pain. He could handle pain. In many ways pain was pleasurable. And in this instance it was necessary. He tugged even harder but forced himself not to wince, despite the fierce sharp electric shock waves that shot up his arm. The flesh was scraping off now. Shredding like thin slices of uncooked beef.

  He tugged again and this time, he could not suppress a cry and a curse. But as he cursed, he tugged even harder, the blood welling over the cold metal of the handcuff.

  Now he was wracked with pain and wanted to curl up in a ball and sob. But he knew he couldn’t. He had gone this far. He had to go all the way. All the excruciating way. Before making another almighty effort, he gazed down at his damaged hand. It was almost down to the bone by the knuckles and the rest was raw flesh which glistened in the shadowy light.

  Taking a deep breath, he bellowed loudly, bellowed until his lungs hurt, hoping the noise and the discomfort would help to mask the pain of one more violent effort. Contracting his fingers as much as he could, he wrenched his damaged hand further through the metal hoop of the handcuff. Without waiting for the full extent of the agony this caused to register in his brain, he did it again. Flames shot up before his eyes, bright red and yellow and his whole body rippled with agony.

  But he was free.

  He was free.

  He looked down at the bloody mess that was his hand and tied to flex his fingers. Reluctantly they obeyed. Ralph Northcote smiled and then fell back on the bed in a dead faint.

  When he awoke some twenty minutes later, he first became conscious of the throbbing ache in his right hand. Memory of his actions seem to aid the pain and as he sat up, it grew in intensity. Strangely, he smiled, his dry lips pulling back across his teeth in a feral grin. He could cope. The pain would lessen in time. The main thing was that he had not damaged the function of the hand – and that he was free. He swung his legs over the side of the bed and tried to stand up. He did so for a few moments and then collapsed back down again. He was very weak and a little light headed due to a lack of sustenance. After a few moments, he tried again and remained upright this time. His first tasks were to bandage his hand and obtain some food and water. Then he could prepare to make good his escape.

  Haltingly at first, he walked to the cellar door and with his good hand, he managed to pull it open. He sneered. Sexton had been so confident that his prisoner could not escape he hadn’t even bothered to lock the door.

  Slowly in a shambling manner he made his way upstairs into the main body of the house and located the kitchen. In the larder he found a pork pie and a few sausages. He devoured them savagely, washed down with water. Then he attended to his hand, running it gently under the tap before using a tea towel as a makeshift bandage. In the sitting room, he found Sexton’s cigarette case on the mantelpiece, the initials F S engraved on the top. Extracting a cigarette, he sat in one of the armchairs and enjoyed a smoke. As he stubbed the tab end out on the arm of the chair, he smiled again. From now on things were going to go his way.

  For hours, while he had lain on that filthy bed in the cellar, he had planned in meticulous detail what he would do when he got free and now he set about doing it. Only the strange geography of the house hindered him slightly. Upstairs, in the bathroom, he found a medicine cabinet and he treated his wound, dabbing Dettol onto it, and crying out in pain as he did so, and then dressing it with a crèpe bandage. The cabinet also offered up a treasure: a small neat case containing a set of surgical instruments. He opened the case and admired the bright metal tools of his trade and his hobby. They glistened pleasingly in the natural light.

  ‘Excellent,’ murmured Northcote, stroking the leather case. ‘That eliminates one of my perceived hurdles.’

  This lucky find seemed to increase his energy levels. With enthusiasm, he washed, combed his hair and shaved using Sexton’s razor, an act that gave him great pleasure.

  Moving into the main bedroom, he raided the wardrobe, taking a smart brown suit and a cream shirt and tie. Then came the shoes. He chose a nice pair of sturdy brogues. Sexton had small feet, but cramped toes were small inconvenience compared with the throbbing discomfort of his injured hand. Every time he thought of it, he moved his fingers to reassure himself that they were still working. He also found a small stash of notes and coins in the bedside drawer – around fifteen pounds. Northcote scooped it up and slipped it in his pocket.

  He selected a smart overcoat, something dark and discreet, and checked himself out in the wardrobe mirror. He looked almost human. The face was ghostly white and haggard, the eyes bloodshot and the posture a little hunched, but he reckoned he would pass unnoticed in a crowd.

  He was prepared to face the world once more, but before he did, there was just one more thing he had to do.

  He moved back into the sitting room and picked up the cigarette case and slipped it into his pocket.

  Now he was ready.

  Within minutes, he was walking down the street, away from Sexton’s house and towards freedom and the city of London.

  NINETEEN

  I paid off the cabbie with a healthy tip. His kerb-mounting routine was beyond the call of duty, and without his ingenuity and bravado, I would, no doubt, be still stuck behind that crawling horse and cart.

  I entered the portals of Victoria Station, not really knowing what was going to happen to me here. A wave of noise washed over me: a multitude of echoey voices floating round the great domed structure, built like some great industrial cathedral. The place was crowded, passengers of all sizes, shapes and ages criss-crossed and interwove with each other like a moving canvas of drab colours.

  I knew where the left luggage lockers were situated, down the side of Platform One, and headed in that direction. I moved as quickly as I could, fighting against a tide of folk rolling the other way. The whole of London seemed to be squeezing their way past me. At last I reached Platform One, my hand clasped firmly on my revolver. I peered down towards the lockers and the various individuals hovering around them like expectant bees around the proverbial honey pot. I’d come face to face with Salter in the flesh, so I thought that I would recognise him, but Horsefield was only a face on an old sepia photograph. There was, of course, his hat, the large grey felt fedora.

  And there it was! Large as life, bobbing towards me.

  My heart began to race. I knew now that a confrontation was inevitable and certainly one of us would get hurt. I just had to make sure that it was not me. I pushed forward towards the hat, while at the same time trying to see if Malcolm Salter was accompanying it. It did not seem so.

  The jostling crowd seemed to coagulate as I neared that distinctive titfer and then suddenly there was a gap into which I was propelled and faced the owner of the hat. It wasn’t him. It wasn’t Horsefield. It was a gentle-faced fellow well into his seventies who was having great trouble hauling a large brown case along the platform. Under normal circumstances I would have stopped and offered assistance, but these were not normal circumstances.

  I squeezed past the old fellow and moved further down the platform, feeling that now I was on a fool’s errand. The row of green metal lockers stretched for about twelve feet and about half a dozen passengers were ins
talling or extracting luggage or parcels when I arrived. None of them was Salter or Horsefield. It looked like I was too late and my hopes of bringing this investigation to a swift conclusion were well and truly dashed. With sloping shoulders of defeat, I loitered by the lockers for a few minutes and turned to make my way back up the platform.

  And then I saw it again. That hat! But it wasn’t the same one. Not unless the old chap with the big case had turned around and was making his way up the platform now. But no, this hat certainly belonged to Horsefield for there was his thin sallow face beneath the brim and at his side was my old sparring partner, Malcolm Salter who looked as cheerful as a fat turkey on Christmas Eve. He was almost being dragged along by Felt Hat Horsefield, whose face was set in a ferocious scowl, his hand thrust deep in his raincoat pocket. Unless I was mistaken that unpleasant bulge indicated there was a gun in there, a sinister little persuader.

  As soon as I’d clocked them, I turned around to hide my face and moved to the side of the platform by the Gentlemen’s lavatories, and waited until they had passed me. Then I turned and followed them.

  On reaching the lockers, I could see Horsefield snapping instructions to Salter, who very slowly retrieved a key from his wallet and passed it to his companion. Horsefield refused to take it and made Salter open the locker himself. Obviously he was taking no chances for Salter to do a bunk. Slowly, he opened the locker door and withdrew a dark maroon holdall. Horsefield snatched it from him and uttered some instructions and the two of them turned and began to retrace their steps. I turned sideways and appeared to be reading one of the railway notices on the wall as they went by me. They turned and disappeared into the gents’ lavatories. I reckoned that Horsefield was just going to check that the money was indeed in the maroon holdall. And then what? It seemed to me there was only one likely outcome. He would shoot Salter.

  * * *

  Taking a deep breath, I entered the lavatories a few moments later. At first sight, it was empty. There was no one there at all. It was as though the two men had disappeared into thin air. Had I been tricked? Had it all been a performance for my benefit? But no. I head a rustling noise from one of the cubicles and bending down I could see two sets of feet visible below the door. I pressed the door gently; it was locked. Without hesitation, I stood back and lifting up my leg I rammed it hard with my size nines. It sprang open and there were cries from within and to my horror the sound of a gun shot.

  Horsefield spilled out, clasping the holdall to his chest with one hand and holding the smoking gun with the other. Behind him I could see the body of Malclom Salter. He was slumped on the lavatory, his head down on his chest.

  On seeing me, Horsefield thrust the gun in my direction. I could tell from his distracted glances that things had evolved too fast for him to realise exactly what was happening. He had no idea who I was or what I wanted. For all he knew, I could be a chap in desperate need of a lavatory cubicle. I took advantage of his hesitation. With the gun still in my raincoat pocket, I shot him in the leg. He went down immediately with a cry. For some reason, I glanced down at my coat and saw the awful hole and scorchmarks that disfigured it. Damn!

  I should not have been so lax. A bullet whistled past my ear and I stumbled backward in surprise. Horsefield had staggered to his feet and was edging his way to the exit. His leg was bleeding through his trousers, but I reckoned he was not badly hurt. Probably the bullet had skimmed the flesh causing only a slight wound. Well, I hadn’t exactly been in a position to aim with any great accuracy. He paused in his flight and I could see that he was ready to fire again. I knew that this time he wouldn’t miss. With a speed I didn’t know I possessed, I dived into the cubicle, almost landing on Malcolm Salter’s lap. He sighed and his body shifted sideways. He wasn’t dead then, I thought. And neither was I.

  I waited a moment before I and my gun appeared around the edge of the cubicle. There was no reaction. Horsefield had gone.

  I ran out onto the platform, glancing both ways. A wild array of jostling passengers met my gaze both ways. But again, the hat caught my eye. There he was. There was Horsefield. I spied him some hundred yards ahead of me, racing – well, hobbling – in a speedy fashion down towards the end of the platform, away from the main concourse. I set out after him.

  TWENTY

  Peter should have been at school and he did feel a slight pang of guilt about playing truant, but he reckoned that his bunking off was in a good cause. At least, he had convinced himself this was the case. He was determined to follow in Johnny’s footsteps and become a detective when he started work and his plan today was in a sense a trial excursion to see how successful he would be in this pursuit. With a bit of luck he may well help Johnny to bring his case to a close. That would be a real feather in his cap and convince Johnny of his talents as an investigator. Well, it was worth a try anyway.

  And he had dressed for the part. He had adapted his school clothes – ditching the cap and tie and slipping on his scruffy playing out trousers – while messing his hair and smearing a little dirt on his face so that he looked like a scruffy urchin of whom no one would take any notice. A scruffy urchin of the type, he assumed, would be roaming around the streets of Houndsditch. So successful was his ‘disguise’ that the conductor wouldn’t let him board the bus until he had provided evidence of his ability to pay. He was not in the least bit embarrassed by this challenge as the ‘real’ Peter would have been.

  Peter had never been to Houndsditch before, but as a student of crime he knew that it wasn’t very far from Whitechapel, the scene of the Jack the Ripper murders and the violent Sydney Street Siege in 1911. It was a scruffy down at heel district, but most places in London were these days: the dust and débris of war invaded all areas of the city. Peter was well aware that this was a bit of a wild goose chase but he reasoned even wild geese get caught sometimes. He had studied the picture of Bruce Horsefield from the paper and his description. He knew from Johnny that this fellow was in the habit of wearing a grey felt hat, almost like the cowboys wore in the films. Houndsditch was his home territory. Of course it had been reported in the papers that the police had visited his mother and she claimed that she hadn’t seen ‘neither hide nor hair of the blighter since he joined up.’ They had searched her house and, of course, found nothing; but that was not to say that Marshall hadn’t been waiting until the police went away. Of course, Peter realised that they would probably have put a man on to watch the house, but a clever criminal should be able to enter and leave his old home without being seen. But what brought Peter to Houndsditch was not just this thin possibility but his belief that if Horsefield was in hiding, what better place to do it than in his old manor. There would be cronies here who would help him, shelter him and keep the rozzers off his back.

  Peter’s plan was to patrol the streets hoping to pick up a clue or, better still, catch sight of Horsefield.

  But first he had to indulge in a little dramatic interlude.

  He made his way to 25 Napier Grove. The home of Mrs Horsefield.

  Old Mother Riley opened the door. Or so it seemed to Peter. Standing on the threshold was a bony old woman with high cheekbones, a prominent nose and fierce eyes which were fixed permanently in the accusative mode. This vision before him was the epitome of the music hall character he’d seen in a few films and had a two-page spread in one of his favourite comics. Her arms from the elbow down were bare and flapped like a trapped seagull in true Mother Riley fashion. The impression that this harridan was indeed the famous comic washerwoman was completed by the tartan shawl draped around her shoulders.

  ‘Yes?’ she bleated without ceremony.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Mrs, but could you let me have a glass of water? I’ve sort of come over a bit faint. I… er... didn’t have no breakfast. Sort of dizzy.’ He rocked backwards and forwards on his heels as if to demonstrate his ‘dizzy’ state.

  The woman peered over his shoulder into the street beyond as though she expected to see others there all wanting
a glass of water – or perhaps something more sinister.

  ‘You’re not from round here?’ she croaked.

  ‘No, Mrs, I’m on my way to visit my grandad. Just a glass of water, please.’ He rocked on his feet once more and rolled his eyes to add further icing to his little dramatic cake. He had carefully rehearsed this performance the night before.

  ‘Don’t you go passing out on my doorstep,’ the old crone said.

  ‘I’ll try not to,’ he replied faintly and gave an extra roll of the eyes.

  ‘All right. A glass of water. Then you get off to your grandad’s.’

  ‘Thank you.’ He made a move to step inside, but a bony hand on his chest held him back.

  ‘You wait here. I’ll bring a glass out to you.’

  Peter hadn’t expected this. He had thought that he would be invited in to the kitchen. He wanted to case the joint. The plan was failing. The woman, who Peter assumed was Mrs Horsefield, retreated down the hall and disappeared. He took a few steps into the house and gazed down the hallway, hoping some clue would leap out at him. There was a coat rack at the far end with several items of clothing hanging from it. Sadly they all appeared to be those worn by ladies. There was no grey felt hat dangling from one of the hooks.

  ‘Hey, I told you to stay where you were.’

  Old Mother Riley had appeared again carrying a glass of water.

  ‘Sorry.’ Peter retreated on to the top step.

  ‘Get this down you and then be off with you. I ain’t no bleedin’ hospital.’ She thrust the glass at Peter, spilling some of the contents down his jacket.

  Without a word, he drank the water. It was cold and salty.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said, as the bony hand snatched the glass from him. Then the door slammed in his face.

  Wiping away the drips of water from around his mouth with his sleeve, Peter walked away from 25 Napier Grove hugely disappointed. His dramatic ploy had produced nothing at all – no evidence that Bruce Horsefield was hiding out at home or, indeed, any clue as to where he might be. The plan, for which he had such high hopes, had been a failure.