Four British Mysteries

by Thomas Brown

  ‘I’m a police officer,’ said Llewellyn drawing out his warrant card. ‘I need to know.’

  ‘Oh,’ responded the fireman, a little nonplussed. ‘Well, I can’t tell you much. A neighbour called us when she saw the flames. We think there’s a body in there but we couldn’t reach it. The heat was too intense by the time we arrived. We’ve got it under control now, but there won’t be much left of the house when it’s over. Now if you’ll excuse me.’ He moved forward and began issuing orders to a group of men wielding one of the hoses.

  Llewellyn passed a knowing glance at his colleague. ‘This is a funny business. If there is a body in there, I’d like to know whose it is.’

  ‘Well, if it’s Sexton, that saves us a lot of work.’

  ‘Indeed. That might be too convenient though.’ He gave a harsh laugh. ‘Still, I’m a cynical old bastard.’

  Slapping Sunderland on the back, he turned to go. ‘Come on. We can’t do anything here for the moment. I have an appointment with a pillow.’

  The two men began walking back to the car. They were oblivious of a tall, bulky man standing amid the throng of onlookers who studied their every movement.

  It was Dr Ralph Northcote, who had stayed behind to watch the resulting finale of his handiwork. He had been shocked to see Llewellyn turn up on the scene. David Llewellyn, the man responsible for his foul years of imprisonment in Newfield House. He had forgotten about him. Something in his psyche had blanked this cursed policeman from his consciousness. He had not thought of Llewellyn for years. But now, seeing him again, suddenly all his anger and hatred for the man welled up inside him once more. If ever anyone in his life deserved to die, Llewellyn did. He had been the one that had done for him. Had exposed him. Had consigned him to a life of ignominy and imprisonment.

  Northcote had to control himself from rushing forward then and there and grabbing the bastard by the neck, throttling the life out of him. He could feel his fingers sink into the soft flesh of the policeman’s throat. He saw the eyes bulge in terror as he tightened his grip. He could hear that strange thin reedy death whistle as Llewellyn’s lungs gave up the ghost. He felt the body slump against him, the dead mouth damp with spittle…

  But Northcote didn’t move. Some instinct of self-preservation stopped him. It can wait, a voice told him. He can wait. The anticipation would add further pleasure to the deed. But Northcote knew that the death of David Llewellyn was to be his next project.

  * * *

  Northcote waited until the two policemen had returned to their car and driven away before he moved. Giving one more glance to the glowing ruins of Sexton’s house, he turned and walked with slow deliberation back down the road, away from the blaze that he had started, the furnace in which lay the blackened remains of the man whom he had thought was his saviour but who turned out to be his cruellest enemy. Now he just regretted that he didn’t have the time and opportunity to take a piece of Sexton’s flesh as a tasty souvenir. But this was not a time for regrets or for dwelling on the past. He was free – the shackles of Newfield House and Sexton’s cellar had been severed. He really was free now – and he had a new passion to make his pulses race. The destruction of Detective Inspector David Llewellyn.

  * * *

  Sheila Llewellyn heard her husband climb the stairs and sigh heavily as he reached the landing. She glanced at the phosphorescent numbers on the alarm clock on her tiny bedside table. It was nearly three in the morning. David’s shadowy figure appeared in the bedroom.

  ‘Are you all right?’ she murmured.

  ‘I’m fine,’ came the weary unconvincing response from the darkness.

  ‘Do you want a cup of tea or anything?’

  ‘No, love. You don’t disturb yourself. Get back to sleep.’

  ‘Aren’t you coming to bed?’

  ‘In a while. I need to calm down a bit.’

  ‘Bad night?’

  He did not reply but bent over the bed and gave her a kiss on the cheek. ‘Nothing for you to worry about, love. You get your beauty sleep.’

  Sheila knew it was David’s way. When he was really depressed about a case, he would keep it all to himself. He would not bother her with his troubles. It was part of his chivalrous nature. She had learned to live with it. Matters would not be improved if she started to probe. From very early on in their relationship she had realised that he compartmentalised his police work, never letting the detail of it spill over into his private life. It was his way of protecting her from the darkness in his life.

  ‘If you’re sure,’ she murmured sleepily.

  He kissed her again. ‘I’m sure, my lovely.’

  ‘O.K.’ Within minutes Sheila Llewellyn was fast asleep again, while her husband sat in his favourite armchair downstairs, with only a small table lamp for illumination, puffing discontentedly on a series of cigarettes.

  TWENTY-EIGHT

  Peter and I stood in the shadows on the opposite side of the road from Bruce Horsefield’s mother’s house. Like all other dwellings in the road it seemed to be in total darkness. This was a result of the blackout curtains or shutters which not only deceived the Hun, but a weary private detective and his eager young assistant also. The problem was how to ascertain whether Horsefield was inside the building, resting his wounded leg and receiving succour from his mother without alerting the occupants of the place – whoever they may be.

  ‘I could go and listen by the front room window and at the kitchen round the back,’ said Peter. ‘I might be able to hear voices.’

  ‘You might hear voices, but it’s unlikely you’ll hear what’s being said and whether Horsefield is one of the speakers or not.’

  Peter shrugged in response. ‘Well, have you a better idea?’ he said with an air of petulance.

  He had me there. In truth, I really didn’t want Peter with me. He was too young – and to be frank – too inexperienced to be involved in such a job. He was more likely to be an encumbrance than a help and I was concerned for his safety. But I was stuck with him.

  ‘Let’s make our way around to the back of the house and see if there is anyway of getting inside without being detected.

  Peter’s eyes lit up. ‘Great,’ he said.

  To approach the rear of the building we had to make our way down a narrow track which cut between the row of houses three doors down. This gave us access to the lane that ran behind all the dwellings along that stretch.

  Once we had reached the rear of the Horsefield dwelling, I pulled Peter to me and whispered harshly in his ear: ‘You are to stay here on guard…’ I held up my hand and placed it over his mouth before he could protest. ‘No ifs or buts, my boy. This is important. Listen! I am going to try and gain entry and see if I can locate Mr Horsefield. You are to stay here and wait. If I am not out of there within fifteen minutes, you must go for the police. Do not, I repeat, do not attempt to come in after me. Do you understand?’

  In the dim starlight, I could see the disappointed look on Peter’s face deepen. He wanted adventure and excitement; standing guard outside did not quite fit in with his concept of thrilling detective work.

  ‘Don’t let me down. It’s very important that you do as I ask. Understood?’

  He gave me a reluctant mute nod.

  I had to trust him – but I knew that he could be reckless and impulsive.

  ‘Now hand over that little torch of yours. I reckon that’ll be very useful.’

  He did so without a word.

  Good lad,’ I said. ‘Fifteen minutes,’ I repeated, as I slipped over the garden wall and made my way to the back door.

  With the small pencil torch, I examined the lock. It was old and rusty. And easily dealt with. Within a minute, I had manipulated the fragile workings with my nail file and gained entry. The beam of the torch informed me that I was in some kind of laundry room. The finger of feeble light picked out a large sink, a tub and posser, and a mangle, while a drying cradle laden with damp greying garments hung menacingly over my head like some giant surreal
spider waiting to pounce. I stood in the darkness and listened. A muffled sound from some far room came to my ears. It sounded like a radio playing.

  Pulling my gun from my coat pocket – my fingers clasping the cold handle was a real comfort to me – I opened the inner door and quietly moved into a darkened corridor at the end of which was the room where the radio was playing. The door of the room was slightly ajar and a thin yellow strip of light fell onto the dusty linoleum on the floor. As I stood and listened, I could clearly hear the voice of Jack Warner. The occupant or occupants were obviously listening to Garrison Theatre. At that moment I wished I were at home in front of my own hearth doing the same thing.

  Stealthily I moved down the corridor towards the lighted room. On my left was the staircase leading upstairs. I heard the laughter of the radio audience supplemented by a hoarse chuckle which I deduced must belong to Bruce Horsefield. Or at least I hoped so. At this thought, my heartbeat quickened.

  With gritted teeth, I swung the door open gently and surveyed the interior. It was a shabby but nonetheless cosy sitting room. Bruce Horsefield was sitting by an electric fire with his injured leg up on a stool and a glass of beer in his hand smirking away at the radio banter. So enamoured was he by the radio show that he did not at first realise another person had entered the room. Then some sixth sense made him twitch and he turned awkwardly and saw me. I held my gun clearly in view.

  ‘Don’t do anything foolish, Bruce. I want to deliver you breathing in one piece to our friends at Scotland Yard.’

  Horsefield was shocked by my sudden appearance and he dropped his glass of beer, the liquid spilling on to the hearth rug. However, he soon recovered his equilibrium and shifted his wounded leg off the stool as if he intended to rise from the chair.

  ‘Stay put,’ I barked.

  His eyes flamed and for a moment I thought he was going to ignore my order and that I was going to have to use my gun. My stomach juddered. I didn’t want to shoot him. I didn’t want to shoot any man. It’s not my way.

  But then strangely, he relaxed and I could almost swear that a ghost of a smile touched his lips. The odd flickering of his eyes, as though he were watching something over my shoulder, should have warned me that there was danger but it all happened so quickly that I really had no time to react.

  There was a sudden violent cry worthy of a weird horror film harpy and then someone jumped on my back and clamped their scrawny arms around my neck. It did not take me long to realise that this was Mrs Horsefield – the mother.

  She screamed obscenities as I swung myself round in a desperate attempt to dislodge this creature who like some fearsome piggy-backing child clung on tenaciously. Meanwhile Horsefield had risen from his chair and was advancing on me. I raised the gun.

  ‘Stop now or I will shoot,’ I cried. But as I did so, the screeching gargoyle on my back, released one of her arms and brought it down hard on my wrist. The gun spun from my grip and clattered to the floor by the hearth.

  Horsefield dived for it. Within seconds the tables had turned. Now I was the one who could easily end up in the morgue.

  With a grin worthy of the Cheshire cat, Horsefield rose to his feet, the gun in his hand, pointing in my direction. I could see from the cold glint in his eyes that he meant to pull the trigger. In essence, I had only seconds to live.

  With a concerted effort, I swung my whole body round, heaving my shoulders upwards as far as I could push them in one enormous shrug. This violent revolution caused Mrs Horsefield to billow out, her legs swinging free. As I spun round like a whirling Dervish, her body collided heavily with her son’s, knocking him to the floor. The collision caused my passenger to give a great whoop of horror. Her confusion made her release her grip and thus dislodged, she ricocheted into her son, landing on top of him.

  While Bruce still held the gun, he was now flat on his back with his spindly mother spread-eagled across his frame. It was a slapstick routine worthy of Abbott and Costello. Quickly regaining my composure after my bizarre fairground ride, I stepped forward and stamped on Horsefield’s wrist. He gave a yelp of pain and his fingers uncurled from around the handle of my gun.

  I snatched it up and pointed it at Horsefield’s head. I fired but aimed to miss. The gunshot reverberated round the room like a clap of thunder, the bullet lodging in the skirting board. My little demonstration had its desired effect. Both mother and son stopped moving and lay still, staring with apprehension at me and more particularly at the weapon I held in my hand.

  ‘Now if either of you wish to live long enough to have another breakfast, albeit in a cell at Scotland Yard, I suggest you do exactly what I say. Understood?’

  Mute nods came slowly in response.

  ‘Right, sit together on the sofa and please, no funny business, eh? Bullets cost money, you know.’

  They did as I asked like chastened children.

  I knew that I would not have long to wait. I was certain that the gunshot would assure me of that.

  Indeed, a couple of minutes later, I heard a frantic muffled voice calling my name and seconds later Peter burst into the room.

  ‘Johnny,’ he cried, ‘are you all right. I heard a gunshot.’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. Just a little target practice’.

  Then he saw the two characters on the sofa and grinned. ‘You got him!’ he cried, his face breaking into a broad grin.

  ‘Now that you’ve answered my summons…’ I held up the gun. ‘Off you go to that phone box and call the police. ‘Tell them, we’ve got a thief and a murderer for them.’

  ‘You bastard,’ sneered Mrs Horsefield.

  I shrugged. ‘Everyone’s a critic.’

  * * *

  I got to bed very late that night, but as I lay my head on my pillow, I had a smile on my lips. Horsefield and his mother were in custody at Scotland Yard. Inspector Sullivan had organised a search of the derelict house for the morning and I had deposited the grinning Peter back at home with the Horner sisters who had been reasonably forgiving about his late arrival. A successful conclusion to my case. I hoped Father Sanderson approved.

  Strangely, sleep did not come easily that night. In the darkness, my mood of gentle euphoria faded quite quickly to be replaced with an unnerving sense of disquiet. I felt as though some dark cloud was louring over me. Tired as I was, I lay awake for some time wondering why I felt so apprehensive.

  TWENTY-NINE

  Sheila Llewellyn played idly with her toast. She really didn’t want it, but out of habit she had grilled two slices of bread and smeared them with a thin coating of margarine. Now, as she sat alone at the kitchen table, she had no desire to eat them. Her mind was far from food. She was thinking about her husband. Worrying about her husband. Well, it was part of her ‘job’ she supposed. When you are married to a policeman, you cannot expect to have an easy life. There were the terrible hours and the danger. The job was like a third person in the relationship. And she could read David like a barometer. He rarely discussed his work, his investigations, but she could tell by his demeanour, however much he tried to disguise it, whether things were going well or not. If the smiles were not quite as frequent and the charming worry lines on his forehead deepened, she knew David was dealing with a real stinker. When these came along, she worried all the more, as she was doing this morning.

  For the last few days, David had been really low. He had hardly made any real attempt to hide it. For him that was rare, if not unique. At the thought of his tired and worried face, Sheila felt a dark cloud descend upon her. Absentmindedly she picked up one of the slices of toast, held it for a moment and then dropped it back on the plate.

  ‘Come on,’ she said softly, chiding herself. ‘This will not do.’ She knew she had to be strong for the man she loved. If she showed that she was down in the dumps too, that would be an extra burden for him to carry. No, she must remain bright, cheerful and supportive whatever she was feeling inside. Surely, whatever was bringing David down would pass and he would return to his usual ch
eerful self. Surely?

  Scooping up the pieces of toast, she dropped then into the waste bin under the sink and set about washing up. While she was drying the few items, left by herself and those much earlier by David before he had set off at dawn for the Yard, the door bell rang.

  With a little puzzled frown, she dried her hands and went through to the hall to answer the door. Through the pane of frosted glass she saw the dark frame of a tall man. As she undid the latch, she wondered if it was one of David’s colleagues. At this thought, a slight tremor of fear ran through her. She hoped to God that it wasn’t bad news.

  As soon as she opened the door she knew two things. It wasn’t one of David’s colleagues and she should not have opened the door.

  The man who stood before her was unkempt, his shoulders hunched in a strange menacing fashion, but what was really unnerving was his rather twisted grin and the fierce malevolence in his eyes.

  ‘Mrs Llewellyn,’ he said, his voice gruff but polite.

  ‘Yes,’ she replied hesitantly.

  ‘That’s good,’ he grinned, the eyes widening in pleasure and he stepped forward as if to enter the house.

  Instinctively Sheila made a move to close the door on him, but she was not quick or strong enough. He forced the door back and pushed her inside.

  Her instinct was to scream, but she knew that this would achieve nothing. There was no one near to come to her rescue. She did not know who this creature was or what he wanted, but she knew he was dangerous and a threat. She turned to run, but he caught her by the throat and held her.

  ‘Please don’t struggle, Mrs Llewellyn. I really don’t want to hurt you. Not yet, anyway. It would be best for you and your husband if you did as I tell you.’

  ‘My husband,’ she croaked. ‘What about my husband?’

  ‘He and I have a little unfinished business to conduct.’

  ‘What do you want with him?’