‘If I don’t get anywhere in Salisbury, then back to Yorkshire I’ll go. But instinct tells me to go to the city where Emily grew up and was known. I might tackle Carroway again. I’ll telegraph Colby to let him know I’m coming.’
‘What, off again?’ growled Superintendent Dunn, when I approached him with my plan. ‘You are employed by the Metropolitan Police, you know, and you are supposed to be investigating crime in London and its suburbs! In difficult cases, particularly in that of murder, we do send an experienced man to help out a provincial force. I recall you yourself went down to Hampshire on one occasion. But if this is to do with the murder of Emily Devray, well then, that took place here, under our noses in London. Here is where you are investigating it and not in Wiltshire. You’ve been to Salisbury once, to check on the girl’s history. What else can there possibly be that necessitates you returning?’
‘Wilson’s evidence, sir. I am sure it was the newspaper that was handed to Emily that evening in the garden. Wilson saw her with the man five weeks before she died. The newspaper I found was five weeks old. It is too much of a coincidence.’
Another growl from Dunn. ‘Well, you may go, Ross. But I want an itemised report on every penny spent. You have also been up to Yorkshire and submitted a claim for that. So, keep down any costs for food and drink. Do not imagine you will dine well at public expense. They have food stalls at the station, don’t they? Buy yourself a sausage roll and a cup of tea there. That should see you through the day!’
As I hurried out, Dunn called after me, ‘By the way, Ross, I see from the expenses claim you lodged after your previous journey to Wiltshire that you purchased a second-class ticket. That is quite unnecessary. Buy a third-class one. Or, if you insist on travelling in style, pay for the ticket yourself.’
* * *
Remembering the pungent smell of the meat pasty being eaten by a fellow passenger on my last trip to Salisbury, I decided against buying a sausage roll from a station stall, as recommended by Dunn. This was for the sake of my own digestion and the comfort of my fellow passengers. On my way to Waterloo Bridge Station, however, I chanced to pass by a bakery. A truly tempting aroma suggested something good had just been taken from the ovens. I investigated and emerged with two freshly baked currant buns in a paper bag. These, together with coffee from a stall outside the station, set me up for my journey in a very satisfactory way.
I arrived in Salisbury in the early afternoon. To my surprise Colby had turned out again to meet me, waving his bowler hat to attract my attention. He wore a coat of heavy tweed and his expression radiated urgency. He didn’t quite bounce up and down but he stamped his feet like a warhorse.
‘Thank goodness you have come!’ he cried, grasping my hand. ‘If you hadn’t come, I’d have sent for you. Come along, no time to waste! I’ll explain as we go.’ Colby urged me past the ticket collector, who grabbed my ticket as I rushed past him, and then we were out of the station. We found ourselves under a lowering sky and buffeted by a stiff wind. It all promised heavy rain before too long.
‘Where are we going?’ I asked. We were proceeding at a headlong pace and it was slippery with mud beneath the feet. We were both holding on to our hats.
‘To the infirmary!’
‘Who is in the infirmary?’
‘Poor old Tobias Fitchett, and in a very bad way. He, oh, drat it!’ Colby seized my arm and halted me forcibly. ‘We would have to run into him!’
I looked ahead and saw, approaching us, the tall, dignified figure of the Reverend Bastable. He was accompanied by a lean female, clad in a voluminous black mantle that made her resemble a large crow. She had a crow’s sharp and pitiless gaze and it was fixed on me. She could only be Bastable’s sister.
‘Dear me!’ said Bastable sourly, and reluctantly raised his hat in greeting. ‘Inspector Colby! And the emissary from Scotland Yard. Ross, is it not?’ He stared at me and then, even more reluctantly, introduced the female. ‘My sister.’
‘Miss Bastable!’ I said politely, with a bow. ‘I am indeed Inspector Ross from Scotland Yard.’
The lady, forced to recognise my greeting, inclined her head and said in a clipped tone, ‘My brother has spoken of you.’
And not favourably! I thought.
‘I suppose,’ continued Bastable reluctantly, ‘it is the unfortunate business concerning the shoemaker, Fitchett, that has brought you. Though that would appear to be an entirely local matter, an attempted robbery, no doubt. Hardly of any interest to you, Inspector Ross.’
‘Hardly so, indeed,’ confirmed Miss Bastable. ‘A regrettable matter, of course.’
She was still staring at me as though she would like to peck at me viciously.
‘I trust,’ intoned Bastable, ‘that you are not going to return to trouble us at home again?’
‘In our home!’ snapped Miss Bastable.
‘Oh, I don’t think that will be necessary,’ Colby assured them.
‘I should hope not! We shall not delay you further,’ Bastable told him.
He and his sister proceeded on their way.
‘For goodness’ sake, Colby,’ I urged him. ‘Tell me what has happened to Fitchett! What was Bastable talking about?’
‘The shop failed to open for business on Monday morning. There was no notice in the window advising it was closed or giving any reason. It inconvenienced customers; but didn’t raise any alarm. But then it didn’t open again yesterday morning. That did beg an answer. A customer, who had placed an urgent order, became annoyed, rather than concerned. This morning the police were informed. We broke down the door to find poor old Fitchett lying on the floor of his workroom, with severe head injuries. He was taken to the infirmary at once. I was about to telegraph you with the news when I received your telegram to me, announcing you were on your way.’
‘What about that apprentice of his, Ezra Jennings? Did he not try and open the shop?’
‘Missing!’ returned Colby tersely.
I stopped in my tracks, seizing Colby’s arm, so that the poor fellow stumbled. I apologised quickly, adding, ‘Is it your opinion that Jennings could be the attacker?’
‘He has to be the prime suspect! For a start, he can’t be found. No one has seen him since Friday, not even his landlady. He did not attend any chapel services on Sunday. What’s on your mind?’ Colby stared at me inquiringly.
‘I have become more and more certain that the answer to everything lies here,’ I told him. ‘Emily Devray’s story began in Salisbury and, although she was killed in London, the roots of that crime are here, too.’
Either from cold or from impatience, Colby began to stamp his feet again. ‘Listen, we must not waste time. Fitchett has regained consciousness of a sort, slipping in and out of it, you understand. He’s been repeating the name “Ezra” and “Ezra has them!” But what “they” are we don’t yet know. He could lapse back into unconsciousness.’ He tugged at my arm.
‘Even so, I’d like to see the scene of the attack before we visit the victim. Will it take long?’
‘Not long at all, if that’s your wish. But Fitchett’s condition is giving cause for concern, so we can’t spend long there.’
A stalwart constable guarded the premises. A small crowd loitered outside but, seeing Colby and myself approach, the constable quickly cleared them away. The sightseers withdrew some distance, where they hovered, resentful but excited. News of our presence would soon spread and an even bigger crowd form. I was reminded of the interest shown in Emily’s funeral.
The front part of the shop appeared undisturbed. In shocking contrast, Fitchett’s workroom was in complete disarray, and gave all the appearance of a struggle having taken place in it. Fitchett’s tools lay scattered everywhere and there was an ominous stain on the floorboards.
‘Any evidence of a robbery? Forced entry? Money taken from the cash drawer?’
‘Fitchett kept the day’s takings in a wooden box under the counter in the front area of the shop. The box is there but empty. Either s
omeone, the assailant, made off with the contents, or the attack took place before the shop opened and there was little or no money in the box. It does not appear to have been robbery, which would have made more sense. Of course, if the assault took place the evening before, there might have been more cash in the box and it could be a case of robbery after all. Fitchett hasn’t yet managed to make a really coherent statement. I’m hoping he will – if he survives.’
‘Why would Jennings rob his employer?’ I mused aloud. Then a thought struck me. ‘There are other things to be stolen than money!’ I exclaimed. ‘Colby, have you checked the contents of the shop window?’
‘The shop window?’ exclaimed Colby. ‘The glass wasn’t broken. Who would want anything from the small display there? There was nothing of value, only oddments to draw a customer’s attention.’
But I was already on my way to investigate. It was as I’d guessed. The shaped wooden lasts for the boots made for Emily Devray, for a while on display as a gruesome exhibit in the shop’s window, had vanished.
‘Colby! Where is that order ledger?’ I was scrabbling under the counter as I spoke and my fingers touched the large solid tome in which Fitchett had shown us the entry relating to the order for Emily’s boots. I dragged it out, opened it on the counter and ran my finger down the pages. ‘Look, here! Here’s the order Mrs Waterfield placed for Emily’s boots and this is the order number. Quick! The storeroom!’
I ran through the shop, Colby on my heels, and into the rear storeroom where the racks of paired wooden lasts stood in neat rows.
‘Not there!’ exclaimed Colby, who had caught on to what I was doing, and had found the empty space where Emily’s lasts had been. ‘If this attack is Ezra’s doing, it has to do with those wooden lasts of Emily’s feet. That is what poor Fitchett meant, when he spoke of Ezra having “them”. They must now be with him, wherever he is! Whatever can the wretch want with them?’
‘Let’s hope poor Fitchett is able to tell us.’
* * *
The matron was an imposing figure, as straight and rigid as a guardsman, with a crisp cap and gown and a collar starched so fearsomely I wondered it didn’t cut her throat.
‘The patient is semi-conscious, gentleman,’ she informed us as she led us down the corridor. ‘Because, Inspector Colby, you warned us the assailant might return and attempt some mischief here in the hospital itself, we have put Mr Fitchett in a private room. We took this precaution even though, I assure you, it would very difficult for any visitor to behave in a disrespectful or threatening manner in this hospital. It would not be tolerated for one moment and a stop would be put to it straight away!’
I believed her.
Colby said: ‘We do understand that, madam. But I trust the constable I sent is still here?’
‘Sitting outside the room, in the corridor, as you ordered.’ She pointed as we turned a corner and saw the uniformed man in question: a sturdy figure perched on a very small wooden chair.
The constable jumped to his feet and saluted on seeing Colby and me. ‘All safe, sir! No one has gone in, ’cepting the doctor and the nurses.’
The matron swept into the room ahead of us and bent over the patient. ‘You have visitors, Mr Fitchett. Do you understand me?’
A voice mumbled faintly from the bed and a hand was raised and dropped back to the coverlet.
‘They are police officers and want to talk to you.’
Another mumble from the bed.
The matron turned to us. ‘You should not tire him. He is very weak. Whatever you do, don’t make him agitated!’
Considering that the patient was in her care as the result of a violent attack, and we were to question him about it, I thought it would be difficult to prevent Fitchett becoming agitated. But we promised solemnly that we would behave with the utmost discretion.
The matron gave us a severe stare and withdrew. We neared the bed.
Poor Fitchett presented a pitiful sight. I remembered him as a small man, but in this bed he resembled a mummified exhibit in a museum, something found in an Egyptian tomb. His head was heavily bandaged and what could be seen of his face was wrinkled like a walnut. One of his hands was also swathed in a bandage. His gaze settled on us hazily at first. This worried me. However, when his sunken old eyes moved to take in my presence there was a flicker of recognition in them. The unwrapped hand was raised in greeting or acknowledgement.
‘London man…’ came in a whisper from the bed.
I bent over him. ‘Yes, Mr Fitchett, Inspector Ross from Scotland Yard. I am glad you remember me, and very sorry indeed to find you in such a state. Are you in pain?’
‘Headache…’ muttered Fitchett.
‘I realise that. Inspector Colby here suspects you were attacked by your assistant, Ezra Jennings. Is that right?’
The gleam in the eyes brightened with anger. The hand waved to and fro. I feared that he was becoming very agitated and hoped the matron did not return now. Fitchett said something but I couldn’t catch it. I bent over him.
‘What was that, Mr Fitchett?’
‘Lasts… he wanted the wooden lasts.’
‘He wanted the lasts of the boots made for Emily Devray? We have ascertained they are missing from the shop, both the window and the storeroom,’ I told him.
‘Wouldn’t let him have them. He set about me. Rogue!’
The word was spat out with unexpected vigour. Then the energy faded and Fitchett closed his eyes. Colby and I exchanged concerned looks.
‘Should I fetch a nurse?’ whispered Colby.
‘Hold on a moment…’ I bent over the old bootmaker. ‘Mr Fitchett? Can you hear me?’
To my relief, his eyelids fluttered and opened. His eyes fixed me blearily, as they had done when they first saw us. But then his gaze cleared. He stretched out his hand and seized my sleeve.
‘You must find him! He is mad, quite mad…’ The voice was weak and hoarse, yet the words were spoken quite distinctly. Though he’d been savagely beaten about the head, Fitchett had his wits, thank goodness.
‘Can you tell us about it, sir?’
‘The lasts were in the window – on display.’ Fitchett’s hand waved to and fro. ‘My mistake. Wrong thing to do.’
‘I understand, sir; what happened to them?’
‘They came… people came and stared at them. Came in the shop. Wanted boots the same…’
He broke off and began to cough. Colby seized a glass of water on a nightstand. Between us we managed to raise Fitchett with care and get him to sip a little. The cough subsided and he sank back on to his pillows.
‘I decided… I should take them out of the window and destroy them. You understand?’ Fitchett’s gaze was fixed on me imploringly. ‘The interest folk showed in them was bad, indecent… I decided to burn them was best, right thing. But Ezra, he wanted them. Begged me for them. I asked him why… He said, over and over, he said, “Her feet… her feet!”’
‘Ah…’ I was beginning to understand. ‘Do you think he was obsessed with the young lady?’
Fitchett threw out his hand and gripped my sleeve with unexpected strength. ‘He’s mad – mad on account of her! You’ve got to stop him!’
‘Stop him from doing what?’ urged Colby. The bootmaker, as if exhausted by the moment of energy, had sunk back on his pillows again, and turned his head to stare at the windows and what could be seen of the outside world.
‘Mr Fitchett!’ I added my entreaty. ‘Do you have any idea where Ezra is now?’
The injured man turned his head slowly on the pillow so that he could look up at me again. ‘He’s taking the boots… to the stones…’
‘To the stones?’ I looked at Colby for guidance but he appeared as puzzled as I was. ‘What stones are these?’ I made a guess. ‘Has he gone to the graveyard? Tombstones? Fitchett, has Ezra gone up to London to take the wooden lasts to place on Emily’s grave?’
‘No, no!’ Fitchett’s gnarled old hand, scarred from ancient mishaps in his trade
, pointed at Colby. ‘Near here! Ask him. He knows them.’
‘Think, Colby!’ I urged.
Colby scowled. Then his features cleared and he bent over the bed. ‘Do you mean the ancient stones? Stonehenge?’
‘Yes, yes, that’s where he’s gone. He’s taken them there… the lasts…’
‘It is not quite twenty miles from here,’ Colby said to me. ‘You’ve heard of it, Stonehenge, as they call it.’
‘Yes, yes, a prehistoric site, is it not?’ I bent over Fitchett. ‘Is that the place?’
‘Yes… the old stones, magical place, ancient beliefs, old practices… Pagan, not Christian,’ croaked the old man.
‘But why take the wooden feet there?’
Fitchett’s eyes suddenly opened wide. ‘Because the Spring Equinox is upon us! Ezra believes that we are halfway between winter and summer, and so, in his poor crazed mind, halfway between death and life.’
Colby was thumbing through a pocket diary. ‘Yes, that’s right. The weather’s been so foul you wouldn’t believe it. But according to the calendar, winter is now behind us.’
Fitchett’s fingers plucked feebly at my sleeve. ‘He believes, Ezra, the silly fellow… He believes if he takes the wooden lasts of her feet there, at this special time, he will see her.’
‘See Emily?’
‘Yes, she will come… She, too, is halfway on her journey between life and death, so he will have it. Thus her path and that of the seasons will cross. At the moment she is going in the direction of death and winter, when the earth is dead. Spring is even now coming towards us in the contrary direction, on its way to awaken the earth. The wooden feet, placed among the ancient stones, will absorb their power. Then they will draw her to them… That is what Ezra believes. She will turn back on her journey to the world of the dead; turn back to life. When spring arrives, so will she! Don’t ask me from where he has all this. He is mad, as I told you. He believes all manner of nonsense.’
The Murderer's Apprentice Page 24