Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘No, no, I’m safe but I don’t know how long Horsefield will stay there. Johnny needs to get here fast.’

  ‘Are you sure you’re safe? You shouldn’t be involving yourself in such activities.’

  ‘I’m fine, Benny; don’t worry about me.’

  ‘Of course I worry. No more funerals do I want to go to this year.’

  ‘Look this is urgent. Please try and get in touch with Johnny. I’ve rung his office but he’s not there. Maybe you could try the Velvet Cage.’

  ‘Very well.’

  ‘Oh, and could you ring Aunt Edith and Aunt Martha with some excuse of why I won’t be home for tea. I don’t want them to worry.’

  ‘A web of lies.’

  ‘Just a little fib. I’d better go I don’t want to leave Horsefield for too long.’

  ‘Be careful, my boy. Be very careful.’

  Peter replaced the receiver quickly and exited the phone box. The man waiting outside glared at him, but Peter had other things on his mind and did not notice. Breaking into a sprint, he headed back to 23 Commercial Street.

  TWENTY-THREE

  Even before Frances Sexton entered his house, he knew that there was something wrong. It was instinct rather than evidence at first. As he walked up the path, he experienced a strange, irrational sensation as though a shadow had fallen over him and he shivered. When he discovered the front door was unlocked, it was no longer instinct. His heart constricted and a desperate inner panic took hold of him. Flinging down his case in the hall he raced to the cellar, his terror growing with every step. Before he got there, he knew what he would find – the unlocked front door had told him that much. Nevertheless, when he entered the gloomy chamber and saw the empty bed, and the blood-smeared handcuff, his legs grew weak and his body shook with horror. Within seconds of entering the cellar, he found himself leaning against the wall while his stomach retched, attempting to propel his midday meal on to the floor. With Herculean effort, Sexton controlled this powerful reaction, groaning with despair as he did so.

  The repercussions of this nightmare situation that the empty room presented were so frightening and impenetrable that at first Sexton’s mind could not cope with them. He just slithered to the floor and placed his head in his hands and groaned again, while rocking to and fro on his haunches.

  Northcote had escaped. Northcote was free. Now Northcote could destroy him.

  And he had no idea what to do.

  He sat there for some fifteen minutes or so, his mind fixated on that one and only fact: Northcote had escaped. The bastard was free!

  Eventually, he dragged himself to his feet and, like a sleepwalker, made his way back upstairs and to the drinks cabinet where he poured himself an enormous brandy.

  He took a large gulp before slumping down in an armchair, clasping the glass tightly between his two hands.

  He had no idea what he was going to do – or what he could do. His tired, ragged brain revealed to him that there were no options. He certainly couldn’t go to the police. He had no idea what Northcote would do next or where he would go and so there was no hope of recapturing him. And, of course, his dream of using him as a scapegoat was in tatters.

  Or was it?

  Oh, God, he didn’t know. He just couldn’t think straight.

  More brandy might help. He reached out for the bottle.

  * * *

  In the shady environs of Cartwright Gardens, Dr Ralph Northcote waited for the dark. He had found himself cheap lodgings in the King’s Cross area and was now ready – more than ready after years of incarceration – to kill. There would be an extra frisson to the act tonight, not just because it would be the first time in years, although this fact was mightily significant to him, but also because he would fatally wound that traitorous swine, Sexton. Sitting on a bench in the shadow of a large plane tree, he watched the moon as it grew brighter while the blue of the evening sky deepened. Soon it was an eerily yellow orb hanging against an indigo setting. A hunter’s moon and he was a very eager hunter indeed.

  * * *

  There was one stretch of the Caledonian Road, about half a mile from King’s Cross Station, that to Sally Hopkins’s mind was darker than the rest. She knew that the blackout was the blackout, but somehow this section seemed to have an added layer of inky darkness. There was a line of tall, blank featureless commercial buildings which towered above the road, standing like grim sentries which seemed to her vivid imagination, as though they were waiting to pounce on an unsuspecting pedestrian. Every night when she walked home after her stint as a barmaid in one of the public houses up by the station, her pace quickened when she reached this part of her route. She knew she was being illogical, but she couldn’t help her feelings. And tonight strangely she felt more frightened than usual.

  She had good reason.

  Suddenly a dark shape stepped out in front of her, causing her to collide with it. Sally Hopkins gave out a little scream but her attention was immediately taken by the sudden pain in her abdomen. She pulled away from the figure, the pain increasing, but the man – she now recognised the shape as a man – came towards her again and thrust something towards her stomach. She moaned with pain and sank to the floor. Feeling dizzy and faint, she gazed up at her assailant and saw that he was holding what appeared to be a knife. As consciousness faded, she became aware of the wetness that was seeping through the material of her coat.

  Blood.

  The man knelt down beside her and without a word, stabbed her again, this time twisting the knife in the wound. She hadn’t the energy to cry out. Her mouth opened, spittle dripped down her chin and then her head fell back on the pavement.

  Within seconds Sally Hopkins was dead.

  With a satisfied murmur, Ralph Northcote dragged the body down a narrow opening between two buildings, to a small area hidden from the road where the dustbins were kept. Here, he lit a candle, placed it on one of the dustbin lids and then undressed the girl. In the pale shimmering light, he extracted the instruments he needed from the bag he had left there and began work.

  * * *

  Half an hour later, he had completed his task, having removed the heart, liver and a section of the left thigh and wrapped them in newspaper before stowing them in his case. For a moment he gazed down at the girl’s face, now gently laced with blood, the eyes and mouth still wide with shock and horror. He felt nothing for her. No emotion touched his heart or mind. She was just dead meat to him.

  He was ready to go, but he still had one task to perform. Taking Francis Sexton’s silver cigarette case from his pocket, he placed it on the ground near the body. This action did prompt a reaction: a gentle, unstable giggle.

  TWENTY-FOUR

  When Inspector Bernard Sullivan had departed, I intended to do the same. I reckoned I needed a drink and some thinking time. And, boy, did I have something to think about. However, when I swung my legs around on the camp bed and attempted to stand up, the room began to bend and sway. With a groan, I slumped back staring at the ceiling waiting for it to settle down. Then into my field of vision appeared the face of nurse Ivana.

  ‘You are a naughty man,’ she said in her rich Russian voice, making it sound like an invitation to an orgy. ‘You cannot move just yet. You must rest for a couple of hours at least. Your system has had a very big shock. You lie back. I will bring you a cup of sweet tea.’

  ‘You couldn’t make that a double whisky, could you?’ I grinned, in spite of my discomfort.

  She returned my smile. ‘You really are a naughty man.’

  ‘No ice,’ I added with a chuckle as she disappeared around the screen. She returned a few minutes later with a mug of hot, sweet tea.

  ‘Just as you ordered: no ice,’ she beamed, as she handed it to me. ‘Now drink that and rest for a while.’

  ‘Yes, ma’am.’

  The tea was good despite the sweetness and I did feel as though it revived me a little, but I still hadn’t the energy or the sureness of foot to get up and leave and so I obeyed n
urse’s orders and lay back and stared at the gently shimmering ceiling. In the distance I could hear station noises, the echoing hiss of steam, speaker announcements, the shrill screech of a guard’s whistle and the muted cacophony of the sea of travellers as they ebbed and flowed up and down the concourse and the various platforms. So many lives, so many journeys. It seemed that despite the drama I was involved in, the world was getting on with its mundane business.

  I closed my eyes and ran through the events of the day. It struck me that I’d been lucky. I could be lying on a slab in the morgue now instead of a fairly comfy camp bed being nursed by a very pleasant Russian girl. The mystery surrounding Annie Salter’s death had been cleared up once and for all, but unfortunately the real villain of the piece, her murderer, had escaped. Strangely I felt sorry for Malcolm Salter. I knew he had been a deserter and an armed robber, (past tense) but I didn’t think he deserved to die in such a manner. Some leopards can change their spots and I’m a strong believer in giving a chap a chance at reforming himself. Well, there was no chance for Malcolm now.

  I suppose my part in the case was effectively over. I had carried out Father Sanderson’s wishes and discovered the truth of poor old Annie’s death. However, I knew I couldn’t let it rest there. I had to find Horsefield and bring him to justice. If only in revenge for the gargantuan headache he’d given me. And besides, surely it is what the old priest would have expected me to do. Well, I was going to do it. Or at least try.

  Mind you, I had no idea how I was going to do it. I reckoned that I would have a go at formulating some sort of plan after a good night’s sleep when I hoped the blitzkrieg in my head had ceased.

  I gave a shrug, closed my eyes and, before I knew it, I had fallen into a gentle sleep.

  I was woken sometime later by my Russian nightingale. She had her raincoat on and seemed to be ready to go somewhere.

  ‘I’ve just come to say goodbye,’ she said with a smile. ‘My shift is over and Nurse Kerry is taking over.’

  I glanced at my watch. It was just after six in the evening: I had been asleep for over three hours.

  ‘You can stay here until you feel fit enough to leave.’

  ‘Oh, that’s now,’ I said, pulling myself up more quickly than I should. My head throbbed as though a small road drill were digging deep into the convolutions of cerebral cortex but my vision, though not perfect, was much better. Every-thing seemed to have a fine double edge.

  Ivana caught my arm. ‘Whoa,’ she said, with a half smile. ‘Are you sure you’re ready for this?’

  Certainly am,’ I said with more confidence than I felt, as I pulled myself to my feet. Thankfully the room stayed where it was, but the drills were still pounding away. ‘Perhaps you could walk with me a while, just until I get my sea legs, as it were.’

  Nurse Kerry, whose rosy red features had been peering around the screen, gave me an old-fashioned look.

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Ivana.

  Breathing deeply, I stepped forward and took her arm. I needed it for my legs were still weak and unsure of themselves. We left the first aid room with me clinging to Ivana like some over attentive boyfriend. She seemed to take this strange perambulation in her own confident stride. Once outside the confines of the station, I began to breathe in the cool night air. It filled my lungs and began to clear away the cobwebs in my brain. Like some magic rejuvenating elixir, it coursed through my body giving me strength. After we had gone a hundred yards or so, I was walking normally again and my vision was clear, but I was reluctant to release my grip on Ivana’s arm. It was good to be close to a woman again.

  ‘I don’t suppose you’d allow me to buy you a drink?’ I said as casually as I could.

  ‘Now why do you suppose that? I’d love a drink.’

  I grinned back sheepishly. ‘I know just the place.’

  * * *

  It was around seven o’clock by the time we arrived at The Velvet Cage, my favourite watering hole. We had walked part of the way and then taken a taxi. It was quiet in the club, with very few customers and the musicians were only just setting up for their first set that evening.

  We sat in a booth. Ivana asked for a sweet sherry – I grimaced at this but ordered the drink all the same while I settled for a whisky. For some time we sat in awkward silence. We seemed to have run out of conversation. We had chatted merrily on our journey, she telling me that she shared a small flat in Earl’s Court with another nurse called Mildred and how she liked to read in her spare time ‘the great British writers like Charles Dickens and Emily Bronté.’ I had told her about my accident when I lost an eye and why I was a detective. ‘So you get beaten up a lot,’ she had observed wryly.

  ‘I try not to be,’ I said.

  But now we seemed to have run out of steam. My supply of small talk was very limited at the best of times but now it seemed as though it had disappeared altogether.

  Suddenly she turned to me and placed her hand on mine. ‘You seem sad. I know you joke and smile, but I think you are a sad man. Why is that?’

  I gave a non-committal smile.

  ‘You perhaps have lost someone?’

  ‘In this war, hasn’t everyone? You, your parents.’

  ‘Yes, that’s true. But I hide my pain. I see yours in your face.’

  ‘Look lady, I’ve just been bopped very hard on the head. No wonder you see pain in my face. Ouch!’

  She grinned. ‘Yes, you cover it up with a joke. Let me see your hands – your right hand.’

  I held it up and wiggled my fingers. She took it gently and laid it palm upwards on the table and stared intently at it.

  ‘Well,’ she said, ‘you will be pleased to know that you have a very healthy life line. You should live into an old age.’

  ‘Goodness, you’re not going to read my palm?’

  ‘Of course. All my family have the gift. The God-given lines on your hands tell many secrets about your character and your life. See, your heart line is strong and straight.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘You are idealistic and sometimes you let your heart rule your head.’

  I took a drink of whisky. Can’t argue with that, I thought, but said nothing.

  ‘You are complex man, Johnny. Some of your lines do the oddest things.’

  ‘Do they tell you whether I’m going to capture the fellow who tried to break my skull?’

  She smiled and shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  I was about to make some flippant remark when I was conscious of a shadow falling over us and the heavy wheezing breathing of its owner.

  I looked up and saw Benny, his face shiny with sweat and his eyes bulging from the exertions he had obviously just undergone. He mopped his brow with a handkerchief before he spoke. ‘Johnny, thank heavens I’ve found you.’

  ‘What is it, Benny? You look done in.’

  ‘That’s because I am. I ran most of the way. I’m so relieved you’re here. Peter said you might be.’

  ‘Peter? What about him?’

  Benny shook his head. ‘Such a foolish boy. Apparently, he’s been trailing one of your villains – the bank robber.’

  ‘Horsefield!’

  Benny nodded. ‘I think that was his name. Well, Peter’s traced him to an address in Houndsditch’. He paused to drag a scrap of paper from his pocket. ‘23 Commercial Street. He said he’d wait for you there, somewhere outside in the street.’

  ‘The idiot. How long ago was this?’

  ‘About twenty minute… half an hour ago.’

  I turned abruptly to Ivana. ‘I’m sorry, I have to go.’

  ‘Of course.’ She squeezed my hand. ‘Be careful.’

  ‘I’ll try,’ I said giving her a quick kiss on the cheek.

  Without another word, I left the two of them staring after me as I dashed for the exit.

  * * *

  After a rather hectic and bumpy taxi ride, I arrived in Houndsditch. I asked the cabbie to drop me a few blocks away from Commercial Stre
et. On the journey my mind had been trying to work out how Peter had ended up trailing Horsefield. He’d studied those bloody newspaper reports he’d shown me, hadn’t he? No doubt on a hunch he’d gone down to Houndsditch and somehow by some fluke found where the fellow was hiding. I doubted if he realised how dangerous Horsefield was – especially now he was wounded and had managed to retrieve the cash from the bank robbery.

  I suppose it was my fault that Peter fancied himself as a super sleuth, trying to impress me, and if he got hurt or worse, it would be on my conscience for life and possibly longer.

  It was now quite dark as I turned into Commercial Street. The place was quiet and empty. There were no pedestrians and no traffic. An eerie silence seemed to inhabit the place. Casually, I lit a cigarette and strolled along the pavement noting the house numbers as I did so. Eventually I came to number 23. It was cloaked in total darkness which, of course, was not unusual in these days of the blackout. I looked around for Peter. There was no sign of the scamp.

  Where the hell was he? What was he up to now? I called out his name, hoping that he would emerge from the shadows and greet me. But he didn’t.

  My heart sank.

  What was I going to do now?

  TWENTY-FIVE

  David Llewellyn was cleaning his teeth prior to donning his pyjamas for an early night when the telephone rang.

  ‘You’d better get that,’ his wife Sylvia called from the bedroom. ‘It’s bound to be for you.’

  She was right of course. He knew as he lifted the receiver that he could wave goodbye to the early appointment with his pillow.

  ‘Sunderland, here, sir,’ announced the tinny voice at the other end. ‘There’s been another murder. A young woman. Cut about something shocking. Looks like it’s Northcote’s work all right. She was found on Copenhagen Street, just off the Caledonian Road down by King’s Cross. One of the local tarts stumbled over the body.’

  Llewellyn gave a little groan as he felt the chill hand of fear grip him. It was happening all over again. The same nightmare, but this time somehow it was worse. The killer had turned into a phantom of the night. He had no idea where he was or where and when he would strike next.