the purloined parure 2

 

Chapter 2

 

“Right,” said Alexander, over fresh tea, and both of them with relieved bladders. “Were there signs of searching in the house when you got there?”

“I’ll say,” said Cosher. “And I’ll say this for Weasel, he knew his onions about searching.  Mattress slashed, short bit o’ floorboard lifted, end of skirting board jemmied, you know, all the places people finks is clever when ‘iding their little bit jewellery. Drawers all pulled out an’ emptied, and turned upside-dahn, you’d be surprised ‘ow many folks fink it’s clever to ‘ide fings taped to the bottom or back o’ drawers. Most drawers ‘avin’ space at the bottom, which stand to reason, they go in on runners on the side, not wantin’ to catch on the ‘ole bottom.”

“The constructional frame,” said Alexander.

“Yerse, erzackerly,” said Cosher. “Nah, when you got a chest o’ drawers made shoddy-like, wivaht a back, you c’n use that surgical tape to put a flat box like wot a necklace come in on the back of it, see? But if there’s a back, often the drawer is pushed forward. Neow, if they moves all the drawers forward, a casual sneak thief might miss it; but householders is often dead stupid, an’ they don’t fink of it, an’ that’s a dead giveaway.  It’s when they’re on ‘oliday when they does fings like that, and you march in, go to the neighbour for a key wiv your gas man’s ‘at, big leak, very dangerous, ma’am, need to trace it before the ‘ole street goes up, an’ they lets you in, and by the time you’ve sprayed arahnd the smell o’ pickled onions, an’ took up a floorboard, Mrs. Nextdoor gets the wind up, an’ leaves yer to it. Then you got the run o’ the ‘ouse. Break a winder at the back, or leave one open, they comes back from ‘oliday, may take a few days if you put everyfink back neat-like b’fore they realise stuff’s missing, an’ then there’s a broken or open winder to blame, and the neighbour’s forgotten the gasman.”

“Fascinating,” said Alexander.

“Yerse, well, it take a pro to know a pro,” said Cosher. “And Weasel, he was enough a pro to reckon he ‘as a record. Which is why I figured ‘e’d fahn the jools, an’ cosh-carrier, ‘e beat out of ‘im where they was.  Pore Weasel, not knowing, couldn’t say. I’m sorry now that I composted him.”

“You could look through my mugshots, you know,” said Alexander.

“It’s a bit late for that, innit?” said Cosher. “So I c’d ‘ave anovver night in the cells ‘ere, an’ a decent breakfast, right?”

“Do you take me for a mug, Mickey?” asked Alexander.

“No, Mister Armitage, strite up, I takes you as a compassionate man, and a man ‘oo wants ‘is own meal,” said Cosher.

“You’re incorrigible,” said Alexander.

“Fanks,” said Cosher.

“If I dig up your compost heap, and you give me permission to dig on your allotment, it shows willingness to co-operate,” said Alexander. “Then my lab boys can sieve it all and see what they can turn up. You know I have to book you for concealing a murder and disposing unlawfully of a body, don’t you?”

Cosher sighed.

“So, if I cough for the breakin’ an’ enterin’ all told, I might git orf wiv anuvver nine monfs on top o’ me free years for doin’ Cohen’s.”

“If I try to get you a sympathetic judge, yes,” said Alexander. “Now, you listen to me, Mickey Stubbins! Like you said, we’re men who know war. And most judges aren’t. So you lay it on thick about how standing on a body which sat up and groaned with gas took you right back to the trenches, and all you could think of was getting rid of it to avoid disease, and you forgot yourself. I don’t know why I encourage you, but I wouldn’t say there wasn’t something of that in you doing it. And I’ll put that as my opinion in my report.”

“O’ course there was, Mister Armitage,” said Cosher. “Right back to the Somme it took me.”

“Grow a plot of poppies for the poor devil when you get out,” said Alexander.

“I will. Nahw, abaht me allotment. You can dig up me compost ‘eap but I’d as soon you left my cold-frames be. Tricky fings, cold frames.”

“If you’ve spread any compost enriched by Weasel, I may need to sieve it.”

“Well, that’ll be my swedes,” said Cosher.  “Here, can you ask the feller next to me to see to my allotment while I’m away? He can have anything that’s growing there; an’ there’s some seeds in me shed.”

“I tell you what, I’ll tend it myself with my own loving hands,” said Alexander.

“Yeah, fanks.... I fink,” said Cosher.

“You write me permission, and it’ll be fine,” said Alexander, brightly.

With permission to handle the plot, anything hidden there was legal for him to uncover. Nobody had ever found any stolen goods – beyond that one clock – in Cosher’s possession at his house, but then, nobody knew before that he had an allotment.

And Alexander strongly suspected that Cosher’s summer bag went into the same slit in his prize marrows as the tube to feed it milk, a master stroke. No policeman would dare to disturb another Englishman’s prize marrows. Such things were the sacred cows of any English soul.

Out of marrow season? Well, Alexander wanted a good look at the cold frames.

“I need to know which house in Orme Court,” he asked. Cosher supplied the number readily.

Then Alexander returned Cosher to his cell, with instructions that he was to have full English, on Alexander, in the morning, from the Lyon’s cafe nearby, put several actions and investigations in train, and motored down to Essex to see Ida, his fiancée, who was, with her brother, staying with Alexander’s parents since their house burned down.

 

oOoOo

 

“You are a soft touch, you know,” said Ida.

“Mickey’s a fairly harmless rogue, compared to some you might meet. And he knows when to throw in his hand for a fair cop.  And he’s no killer. So, I want to find out who Weasel is, and all about the owner of the house.”

“If you let me have Cosher’s address, I’ll go see what bookshops I can find, and see about the incunabulae,” said Simon.

“And I’ll be digging up his allotment,” said Alexander. “Lovely thing to be doing over Christmas, exhuming a composted body.  But I reckon I might find a parure of surpassing value.”

“Sounds like archaeology work,” said Ida, brightly.  “Shall I come and help?”

“It isn’t archaeology work, you stay out of it,” said Alexander. “I might call an archaeologist in, however.”

“Sir Brian Cleevey is an archaeologist,” said Simon. “He lives in the red brick monstrosity the other side of Gidea Park. I’m sure he’ll be interested.”

“Fine,” said Alexander, applying himself to his food, unaware that Ida was mouthing ‘Sir Brian needs an assistant’ to her prospective father in law.

 

After discussing an early breakfast of fried eggs, from the home farm hens, bacon, black pudding,  and sausage from the home farm pigs, and bubble-and-squeak, Alexander was feeling much more like getting back to work.

“What does black pudding taste like? I haven’t dared try it,” said Ida. “I don’t think David approves of it.”

Alexander cut off a tiny piece and held out his fork to her. Ida trustingly popped the morsel in her mouth.

“I like it,” said Alexander.

“Oh, it’s rather like paté fried,” said Ida.

“That describes it rather well,” said Alexander.

“Well, we have fried liver sometimes,” said Ida. “I am behind you in breakfasting, but I shall have some.”

“Waste not, want not,” said Alexander. He stood, and kissed her. “I’m taking Campbell do drive for me, as I shall be around and about today.”

“Wise,” said Ida. “Don’t you get a police driver?”

“I could, if I asked,” said Alexander. “But I’d as soon have Campbell. I can ask  him to go above and beyond a copper’s duty. Like nipping out to a cafe to get us sandwiches, or to a chippy. Last time I had a constable as a driver the little swipe quoted me a heap of regulations. So I directed him to a certain address, I got out and got myself fish and chips and made him live with the smell. And then told him that if he hadn’t been so sniffy, he’d have been treated to lunch as well. Listening to his belly growl for the next three hours was balm to my outraged soul. He reported me for breaking regulations, too, and got an earwigging from his commander. I think he’s out directing traffic now, not driving in it.”

“Some people take regulations to a foolish level,” said Ida.

“The hobgoblin of the small mind,” said Alexander. “Which is about consistency and don’t ask me who said it.”

“Fits well enough,” said Ida. “Have fun with Cosher’s swedes, beets, and leeks or whatever he grows.”

“I’m sorry I can’t really involve you,” said Alexander. “I hope you won’t be too bored; but Mama is busy getting ready to fill the house with sundry relatives including the Russian ones[1].”

“Russian?”

“It’s where the dancing comes from.  Dmitro Tereshchenko is a cousin several times removed, but we’ve kept in touch. The Churchill and Redmayne cousins from Yorkshire are less exotic.”

Ida laughed.

“I will do my best to get to know everyone.”

“I am sure they will all love you. I hope you’ll do sketches,”

“Oh, I will. Especially of wild Russian dances.”

“Sir?” Campbell was waiting. “I brought the car round.”

“Invaluable,” said Alexander. “I’ll drive as far as the city; I want you fresh negotiating the metropolis.”

“You want the fun of the best bit of the road, Major.”

“Well, yes, RHIP,” said Alexander, cheerfully.

“It does indeed,” agreed Campbell, equally cheerfully.

“I like the open road” said Alexander,  “And I loathe London driving with an intensity akin to a religious fervour. My dislike is such that it is hard not to snarl at the poor hapless bobby trying to direct the flow of morons usually only controlled with the effectiveness of an elderly maiden lady herding cats or kindergarden, but I repeat myself, which is not consonant with the dignity of an inspector of police. I pay you to conduct yourself in a professional manner, so we should not present the bad showing of being bent over the wheel snarling and frothing at the mouth with every appearance of being in the process of turning into demonic beings in the nether hell which is Piccadilly Circus. And those heroic young police, in their white gloves, conduct the mayhem with as close to the mastery of a maestro conductor leading a demonic orchestra in their hellish symphony of hatred as can be imagined.”

“You’re in a whimsical mood, major,” said Campbell.

“I have a body to dig up,” said Alexander.

“I see, sir,” said Campbell, who suddenly understood. “Symphony for growlin’ engines, squealin’ brakes, screechin’ tyres, blasphemin’ drivers and the whaddyacallit, light motive of ‘orns.”

“Leitmotif,” explained Alexander. “A musical theme recurring in a work and typically designating a particular character; which in our demonic symphony is the personification of anger.”

“That’ll do it,” agreed Campbell, equably, and with affection. He was becoming as fond of Mr. Alex as he had been of Mr. Basil, Miss Ida’s brother, who had also rambled vaguely in whimsical fashion, and who could swear a squaddie into admiring submission when the pain had been bad. Campbell never took it personally, and saw himself as the verbal whipping-boy to help Captain Basil relieve his feelings; and apparently the major needed someone to be whimsical to, in order to deal with the very natural dislike a soldier had of dead bodies, however used one had become to them. Some folks had become hardened to death, and killing, and they were potentially dangerous, for not caring. Some had learned to enjoy it, and that was even more dangerous. Most people could deal with death but found the memories it brought back somewhat distasteful; and the ones who could imagine themselves back in the hell of the war suffered badly.  Campbell considered himself a coper, but with the imagination to understand how others responded, and he tagged his major as one who suffered. He had been upset by the burning of that murderous woman in the house, Foursquares, and she was a nasty piece. It didn’t do to be too comfortable with bodies, thought Campbell. It made one less than human, as they had all been less than human just to survive day to day in the hell of the Western front.

“Strewf, I ‘opes it goes well,” he said.

“Thanks, Campbell,” said Alexander, who somehow understood the evolution of thought expressed in that simple phrase.

Campbell thought it was a shame one could not fit a gramophone into the dashboard of a car, and began singing ‘With cat-like tread’ to distract Alexander. His master, liking Gilbert and Sullivan, joined in. They swept into New Scotland Yard declaring that it is, it is a glorious thing to be a pirate king.

“Thank you, Campbell,” said Alexander. The thanks were not for driving the last five miles and both knew it.

 

 

Alexander ran up to his office, calling for the prisoner Stubbins to be taken to the file room to look at mug shots. He dealt with two internal memos by scrawling a reply on one to be returned to sender, and the short comment ‘hang in lavatory’ on the other.

 “Mr. Armitage!” scolded his secretary. “You can’t consign all of Inspector Morrell’s memos to be toilet paper.”

“When he writes me something worth taking more seriously than toilet paper, I’ll treat it more seriously than toilet paper,” said Alexander. “Have you read this, Mary?”

Mary pursed her lips. She was a WPC of indefatigable energy who was married to a sergeant.

“Complaints about you sending out to Lyons are none of his business, I grant you.”

“Take a message, Mrs. Brown,” said Alexander. “From, Alexander Armitage, Police Inspector to Jeffrey Morrell, Police Inspector.  Inspector Morrell, your continual harassment of me over my choices over how to spend my own money is becoming sufficiently tedious that I am considering making a complaint about your behaviour. Anyone would think I was spending Scotland Yard’s petty cash or expecting you to foot the bill for my idiosyncrasies.  I think I have the right to spend my own money any way I like. And if you don’t like it that I am independently wealthy I am sorry but that’s not my problem. Armitage.”

“He’s been poking around, trying to see your expense account, and he asked me how much I thought your suit cost.”

“Add to the memo a post script. ‘My suit cost me one hundred guineas and my shoes cost me fifty guineas because I have both hand made for me in Savile Row. This is not really any of your business either. Superintendant Barrett is quite well aware of my income, and that it comes from legitimate sources. I am about to marry a wealthy woman as well, so you know what? Take your over-active imagination that I am on the take and insert it...’”

“Mr. Armitage!” said Mary.

“’...insert it into that minute space you laughingly call your brain,’” said Alexander. “Why, Mary, what did you think I was going to say?”

 

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[1] Yes, I know it’s Ukrainian Cossack, but that wasn’t really a concept in the 1920s