by David Field
‘I can’t believe that Lucy was insane enough to agree,’ Esther complained as Jack broke the news and explained the plan insofar as he was fully aware of it.
‘You know how persuasive Uncle Percy can be,’ Jack reminded her, ‘and Lucy just can’t resist a bit of melodrama.’
‘Did he tell her that the man tried to strangle the life out of me just for putting a scarf on a bedside table?’ she demanded.
Jack shook his head. ‘What do you think? He played the “public duty” card, and filled her head with all the melodrama that she’d be a part of. “Bringing a cold-blooded murderer to his just deserts” was his precise phrase. She was even disappointed that she wouldn’t have any lines to deliver and would just have to stand there looking malevolent.’
‘Rather her than me, all the same.’ Esther shuddered. ‘So when does all this take place?’
‘This coming Sunday, most likely. We’re travelling down there on the Saturday and we’ll do what’s called a “dress rehearsal” that evening, then the real thing on the Sunday evening, when there’s only the one train back to London.’
‘And do you really have to go?’
‘I’m afraid I do. I’ll be the one leading Ormonde over the trapdoor, so to speak.’
‘Jack, please promise me you’ll take care!’ Esther pleaded with him as she hugged him to her. ‘The man’s a raving maniac.’
‘All I have to do is arrest him on the charge of assaulting you. I’ll have a local police sergeant with me and he’s built like the King’s Cross gasometer. I just walk Ormonde into the station Booking Hall and Percy and Lucy take over from there. Once we have his screaming confession the sergeant will buckle him and Percy and I will bring him back in the local police coach, with a couple of local bobbies for additional muscle.’
‘And what if he doesn’t confess?’
‘We’ll arrest him anyway, for the attempted murder on you. Either way we’ll be bringing him back and a few months in Newgate should soften him up.’
Esher took his face in her hands and kissed him gently on the lips. ‘One of the reasons I love you, Jack Enright, is because you’re not like all the other police officers. Not like your Uncle Percy, determined to get their man at all costs. Not like those cosh-wielding thugs who break heads in pub fights. You care about ordinary people and you became a policeman to protect them. Don’t get just like all the rest of Scotland Yard, promise me?’
‘I promise,’ Jack replied, suitably chastised.
Chapter Sixteen
The large and ponderous police coach rumbled up to the Horse and Hounds and stopped. The coachman climbed from his footboard and stepped down onto the uneven roadway before opening the door for the four passengers he had conveyed all the way from London to Swindon along indifferent roads and through changeable weather. First out was Percy Enright and he held out his hand for Frances Fordyce, who bowed her head in gracious acknowledgment as she stepped down, leaving Jack to perform the same service for his sister Lucy.
‘What about the cargo, Sergeant?’ the coachman enquired as they all stood uncertainly on the pavement outside the best hotel in that market town. Percy nodded towards the two cheval mirrors inside the coach, both of them carefully covered in heavy blankets and propped up against the seats.
‘I need to escort the ladies inside and claim our accommodation. Unload our bags from the roof first, then while we’re inside keep a watchful eye on those two mirrors. I’ll be back out shortly to direct you where to go next.’
‘Very good, Sergeant. Will you be long? Only I thought I might chance lighting up my pipe.’
‘Good idea. I’ll probably join you when I come back out. It’ll be just me and the Constable for the next stage, anyway.’
The lady behind the reception desk confirmed that two double rooms had indeed been reserved by telegraph from Scotland Yard the previous day and the boy stepped forward to take their bags.
‘Take the ladies’ baggage up first,’ Percy instructed the boy, who nodded eagerly and picked up the two overnight bags with their labels. Percy smiled at Frances and Lucy. ‘I suggest that you two ladies freshen up, then spend the afternoon resting. We had an early start and we have a busy evening ahead of us before we can relax with a late supper. Johnson will be back to pick you up at around six this evening.’
Back outside, Percy joined the coachman for a smoke, after checking that the mirrors were where he had left them propped up inside the coach and appeared to be undamaged.
‘Why couldn’t we simply have acquired mirrors here in Swindon?’ Jack asked.
Percy smiled condescendingly. ‘We couldn’t guarantee that this sheep market of a town was supplied with a furniture store of sufficient quality. Those mirrors are on hire from Regent Street, which is why I don’t want them damaged in any way, hence the covers on them and the discomfort they caused during our journey down here, when they were resting against our legs. And I for one didn’t fancy lugging them on and off a train, before you ask why we had to endure the discomfort of a coach journey.’
‘This operation must be costing a small fortune,’ Jack commented. ‘I hope you got the Chief Inspector’s approval.’
‘Almost,’ Percy replied with a conspiratorial smile, ‘I told him that we were moving in to arrest Ormonde on suspicion, but I don’t think he fully appreciated what we’re going to be doing exactly, or how much it’s going to cost.’
‘Let’s hope we finish up getting our man.’
‘Amen to that. Now, Johnson, if you’ve finished your fill, head to the railway station. It’s directly down the main street here, then off to the right.’
‘Why Swindon Station and not Kemble?’ Jack enquired.
‘Because we need to renew our acquaintance with the obliging Mr Babbage.’
‘The local coachman? Why do we need him, when we’ve got a coach of our own?’ Jack asked, genuinely puzzled.
‘Because the coach we brought from London screams “Metropolitan Police”, that’s why. I want our return to Kemble to be less obvious, since we don’t know who’ll be watching our movements, do we?’
‘Did you alert the local sergeant?’
‘I most certainly did and he’ll be awaiting our arrival. But before we get to that stage, let’s concentrate on the immediate one. Ah, here we are.’
The two men stepped down from their coach in the area reserved for public carriages and had little difficulty in locating Josh Babbage as he sat on the front board of his own coach, reigns in hand and pipe in mouth. He smiled as he saw them approach and recognised them.
‘Afternoon, gents. Another trip ter Kemble?’
‘Several, probably,’ Percy advised him. ‘We’ll need you on a permanent basis until late tomorrow evening — shall we say thirty pounds for the entire period?’
‘Fer thirty quid I’ll drive yer through the gates o’ Hell.’
‘Kemble will probably be sufficient,’ Percy replied drily. ‘You might wish to begin by assisting our existing coachman to lift those two mirrors out of his coach into yours, very carefully. Then we’re taking them to Kemble. We don’t want to arrive there before dark, so if you want to take us on a vacationer’s tour of the local countryside first, that will be fine.’
Having introduced one coachman to the other, he instructed Scotland Yard coachman Johnson to return to Swindon Station at six-thirty that evening with Mrs Fordyce and Mrs Wilton, and hand them over to Josh Babbage, who’d be driving them to Kemble Station. Then he bid good afternoon to Johnson and instructed Babbage to begin the journey to Kemble.
It was just beginning to get dark as Jack and Percy alighted outside Kemble Police Station and instructed Babbage to wait for them to re-emerge. Inside, Sergeant Oakley was impatiently awaiting them, one eye on the clock on the wall as he envisaged his supper slowly congealing on the stove two doors up. He came through eagerly when they arrived at the front desk and ushered them hastily into the back room.
‘Everything’s laid out just as yer instructed, Sergeant.’
‘Excellent,’ Percy murmured as he walked over to the long table where the property found on the body of Marianne Ormonde had been laid out, and held up a blood-soaked dress.
‘Do you think that will fit Lucy without the need to call in a tailor?’ he asked Jack, who wrinkled his nose in disgust.
‘The more appropriate question is whether or not Lucy will deign to wear it. It stinks!’
‘Good point,’ Percy observed as he fished around in the deceased’s purse and came up with a scent spray. Holding it out at arm’s length to assist his ageing eyes he smiled. ‘This should overcome her squeamishness. “Tuberose”, wasn’t it?’
He sprayed a little on the dress and Jack sneezed loudly.
‘Esther wasn’t exaggerating about that stuff — it’s overpowering!’
‘Better than the smell of two week old blood,’ Percy observed as he studied the dress more carefully. ‘A lot of the blood will be fully visible even on a head and shoulders view. It must have come from her head, which from memory was quite a mess.’
‘Yes, don’t remind me,’ Jack muttered as he turned away and caught Sergeant Oakley studying his fob watch. ‘Do we need the sergeant any longer?’
Percy looked back up from studying the blood-spattered dress. ‘Yes, sorry for keeping you from an early supper, Sergeant. Before you go, any news of Mr Ormonde’s movements?’
‘Accordin’ ter Gregson ’e went shootin’ on Thursday and made a short visit ter Martha Longhurst ’ere in the village on Friday mornin’. Otherwise nothin’ to speak o’, but Bert promised ter let me know immediately if there’s any sign of ’im makin’ a run fer it.’
‘Fine,’ Percy confirmed. ‘Do you happen to know what time Michael Parsons clocks on for duty at the station?’
‘Around six in the evenin’, usually. ’E does twelve hour nights an’ ’e finishes at six in the mornin’.’
‘So he should be on duty around now?’
‘I’d imagine so.’
‘Very well, let’s find out for ourselves, shall we? Thanks for your invaluable assistance, Sergeant, and tomorrow evening at approximately this time you’ll be assisting Scotland Yard in the apprehension of a murderer.’
‘Might lead ter me gettin’ more respect from some o’ the locals who seem ter think that me only function in life’s ter spoil their fun an’ games,’ Oakley said, grinning as he took his leave.
Percy and Jack instructed Babbage to drive them down the main street to Kemble Station, where they unloaded the mirrors in the small forecourt, then instructed Babbage to return to Swindon and come back with the two ladies who Johnson would be delivering to him in the police coach. Then they wheeled the mirrors into the Booking Hall by means of the cradles on which they were mounted and knocked loudly on the door to the ticket seller’s office, which was opened by a rather grumpy Michael Parsons.
‘What do you want this time?’ he demanded gruffly.
‘Information and co-operation,’ Percy advised him with a stern stare, ‘and remember that I’m still in a position to end your promising career.’
‘So you keep reminding me,’ Parsons grumbled. ‘So what is it you need?’
‘First of all, confirm that the Scotland Yard copy of your timetable is still up to date, and that there’s only one train out of here for London late tomorrow evening — Sunday.’
‘That’s right,’ Parsons confirmed. ‘The nine fifteen — all stations from Chelmsford.’
‘And how well patronised is it?’ Percy asked next.
‘Depends,’ Parsons replied uncertainly. ‘Some Sundays there’s nobody at all, some Sundays we may get two or three. On public holidays it’s more like ten or so.’
‘And the only way onto the platform is through this Booking Hall?’
‘There’s a gate at the end of the “up” platform back there,’ Parsons indicated with a nod of the head, ‘but if people need to buy a ticket then yes, they’d have to come through here.’
‘But if the gas lamps were extinguished and the doors were closed, they’d back-track to that gate you just mentioned and buy their ticket when they got off at Paddington?’
‘Yes, but that would be somewhat unauthorised.’
‘So’s murder,’ Percy replied laconically as he glanced up at the ticket window. ‘Jack, take one of these mirrors into the Booking Hall out there, place it somewhere near the corner, but facing the entrance at a forty-five degree angle, then take the cover off it and turn off the gas lamps in there.’
‘What if we get customers needing to buy a ticket?’ Parsons objected.
‘Just tell them that the rail company’s experimenting with new decor,’ Percy suggested, ‘but we won’t be long. While we’re waiting, can you look out some chalk for me?’
Jack manoeuvred the first mirror roughly into position and removed the heavy blanket, then walked round the room and extinguished the gas jets, leaving only the light flooding in through the hatch from the ticket seller’s office and the more diffused glow from the platform lights.
‘Now what?’ he yelled through the window to Percy, who’d uncovered the mirror inside the office and was pointing it at an angle out through the window.
‘Let me know when you can see my hand,’ Percy shouted back to Jack.
Several manoeuvres and a few curses later, Jack confirmed that he could see Percy’s hand and Percy stepped fully in front of the mirror.
‘Now what can you see?’
‘You, but only vaguely,’ Jack replied. ‘There’s too much light coming through from the platform.’
‘Go and extinguish the nearest gas jets on either side of the platform entrance,’ Percy instructed him.
Jack did as he was told and then came back into the Booking Hall and took another look. ‘That’s good,’ he announced, ‘but it’s still a bit hazy.’
‘All the better.’ Percy grinned to himself, just as Frances and Lucy entered the Booking Hall and Frances observed ‘Bloody amateurs’ before walking through the communicating door and smiling at Percy.
‘Thank goodness you invited me along,’ she observed. ‘The lighting’s all wrong. You need the bright light shining on the subject, not the mirror. May I?’
‘Be my guest,’ Percy invited her as he stood to one side.
‘Lucy,’ Frances instructed her, ‘go and stand in front of that mirror. Stay where you are, Jack,’ she added as she yelled through the communication hatch, then turned to look at Michael Parsons. ‘I take it from your uniform that you work here. Do your employers by any chance issue you with a lantern?’
‘There’s one back here, somewhere,’ Parsons responded, without it even occurring to him that this bossy lady was in no way authorised to either give him instructions or commandeer company property.
‘Good,’ Frances responded. ‘Light it up and place it on a stand to the side of this young lady.’
Parsons did as instructed and Lucy’s image suddenly became clearer in the facing mirror.
‘That’s a whole lot better!’ Jack yelled through the window and Frances reached forward and adjusted the hinge where the glass met the supporting frame, tilting the reflection upwards.
‘Let me know when you’ve got just the head and shoulders!’ she commanded and Jack duly obliged when that point was reached. ‘That seems to be the best we can do, given these rather makeshift conditions,’ she advised Percy. ‘Now, can we get back for that late supper you promised us?’
‘Not quite yet,’ Percy advised her. ‘We need to put all the lights back on and mark the positions of the mirrors with chalk marks. We can’t leave them where they are for twenty-four hours, and tomorrow evening, when we do the real thing, we won’t have the luxury of time.’
Once the chalk marks were made, Percy turned to Michael Parsons. ‘Leave a note for your daytime colleague that those chalk marks are not to be removed in an excess of cleaning zeal. The mirrors can be explained as lost property. I’ll certainly be glad to lose them when all this is over. We’re lea
ving now, but we’ll be back at the same time tomorrow. You had better be here.’
Chapter Seventeen
At shortly before seven the following evening, Jack and Sergeant Oakley left Constable Jacks with the police coach at the entrance to Sandpool Farm and walked down the driveway as silently as the circumstances permitted. As they approached the rear of the main house, Bert Gregson sidled out from the coach house.
‘’E’s still in there, Joe,’ he advised Sergeant Oakley while nodding politely to Jack. ‘Florrie Bradfield went ’ome a few minutes since — yer musta passed ’er on yer way in — so Clarice’s prob’ly servin’ the supper.’
Oakley hammered hard on the back door, and after a few moments a light shone in the scullery, the door opened, and there stood Clarice Battersby in a long black dress with a white serving apron.
‘We need ter see yer master, Clarice,’ Oakley advised her gently.
‘I’m afraid ’e’s at ’is supper,’ she replied.
‘We don’t care if he’s at his prayers,’ Jack replied sternly. ‘Let us in.’
Clarice stood meekly to one side and Oakley and Jack strode purposefully through the scullery and kitchen, down the hallway and through the open door to the dining room, where Ormonde looked up with a mixture of surprise and annoyance.
‘I told the girl I wasn’t to be disturbed,’ he insisted.
‘Well, this should you disturb you alright,’ Jack replied angrily as he remembered what Esther had suffered at the hands of this pompous balloon. ‘Edgar Ormonde, I’m arresting you for the attempted murder of Esther Enright.’
‘And who might she be?’ Ormonde demanded haughtily.
‘You probably knew her as Esther Jacobs,’ Jack replied with all the patience he could muster, ‘but her real name’s “Enright”, and she’s been closely watching your behaviour for the past few weeks, before you attempted to strangle her to death. She won’t be returning to work, by the way.’
‘This is ridiculous!’ Ormonde objected. ‘Whatever that idiot girl’s alleging is a lie.’