Chapter 4
Campbell drove Alexander to the Northfield Allotments, out at Ealing, a stone’s throw from Cosher’s residence in a little two-up-two-down terrace house in Milford Road.
Here he was met by the president of the allotment society, who had assured him that this was the oldest allotment in London, having been endowed in 1832, created on common land by the Bishop of Ealing. Alexander listened to the nervous chatter with half an ear, nodding and making appropriate-sounding grunting noises.
He recognised his neighbour, Sir Brian Cleevey, now he saw him, and he also recognised the man’s assistant as Ida, dressed sensibly in riding breeches, spats, brogues, and a thick woolly cable-knit, camel-coloured sweater which was too long on her, since it was one of his, and which she had belted at the waist whilst her piquant face peeped out of the turtle neck. It came almost to her knees and was probably warmer than a coat at that.
“Sir Brian,” Alexander greeted him, and ignored Ida. “Thank you for coming to lend your expertise. We have a most ticklish business today.”
“It sounds a most stimulating problem,” boomed Sir Brian.
“And of course, we will expel Mr. Stubbins from the society...” said the president of the society. Alexander rounded on him.
“You will do no such thing!” he roared in his best major’s parade-ground voice. “Come, man, how many times have you woken at night in a cold sweat after what you saw on the Western Front?”
“I... er, I did not serve in the military during the war,” said the man.
“Then do not presume to judge those of us who did,” said Alexander, coldly. “It was an improper action but an aberration, and Mr. Stubbins told me about it as soon as he could.”
This might not be strictly true, but Cosher had been very willing to share the burden when given an opportunity, and probably slept better for it, even in the holding cells under New Scotland Yard.
A small man who could only be Mr. Pickle was also waiting, and Alexander introduced himself.
“Goodness gracious, what a large turnout,” said Mr. Pickle.
“You’re watching as a matter of courtesy; the coroner is standing by; Sir Brian is an archaeologist who kindly volunteered his aid; and I have a dozen hefty constables to dig, all wearing gloves, and this is Mister er... who runs the allotment, and knows that we are here, and is free to go about his business, thank you,” said Alexander, in dismissal.
“And who is the girl?” asked Mr. Pickle.
“Girl? What girl?” said Alexander.
“My assistant for the day, a trainee archaeologist,” said Sir Brian. “She keeps excellent notes.”
Ida beamed.
“Oh, that girl,” said Alexander.
He left Sir Brian directing the constables. The man was conscious of the fact that a body had to be lifted, or what was left of it, as soon as possible, and working with brushes and trowels was out of the question. His main reason for being there was to recognise small bone fragments from amongst any other debris.
One of the bobbies came up with a shoulder blade.
“Sheep,” said Sir Brian.
The bobby retired, to dump the mutton bone on the spoil heap.
Alexander drifted over to the cold frames.
“Campbell,” he said, “These are very nicely made. What do you bet they can be moved and there’s a space underneath?” Campbell grunted.
“I’d go bail they was ‘inged,” he opined. “See, any idiot c’d lift one, but if it’s ‘inged, it won’t lift, see? Gimme arfaminnit.”
Alexander was glad to give Campbell half a minute. After a few moments’ poking, and a brief burst of invective, Cambell opened one in the middle, did something, shut it, closed a clasp on it, and the whole square structure tilted back.
“’E ‘ad bolts on the inside at the openin’ side gwine into the stone under it,” said Campbell. “Cunning little bastard.”
The stone under the frame lifted readily, to reveal a hole lined with oilcloth, the same of which was on the underside of the stone. There was nothing in the cavity.
“I was almost certain he had the parure,” said Alexander, disappointed.
“’Old on, guvnor, I ain’t done openin’ them,” said Campbell. “Reckon three o’ them open like this.”
The next frame he opened had a bag in it, which Alexander opened.
“Mosh Cohen will be glad,” he said. “These look like his goods.”
Campbell opened the third.
Alexander opened the large leather-covered box inside it, and almost dropped the lid at the stunning shine of rubies and the soft sheen of pearls.
“Well, I’m damned,” he said.
“Do you get to keep it now?” asked Campbell.
“Not I; as it is theoretically legally Mickey’s property, since I am only searching for stolen property, it doesn’t count. If he can hold on to it, it’s his. I need to issue him with a receipt for it, and keep it safe for him,” said Alexander. “But I need to register his possession of it with the solicitor.” He went over to Mr. Pickle.
“Would you verify that this is indeed the parure?” he asked. Mr. Pickle peeked into the box.
“My goodness! It is!” he said. “What... do you claim it?”
“What do you take me for?” demanded Alexander. “I would like you to take Mr. Michael Stubbins as your client in expectation of him paying your fees when he comes out by the sale of the parure, and give me a receipt for it that I am taking it into custody as material evidence in the case of Rex vs Unknown Murderer.”
“My goodness!” said Mr. Pickle again. “So it will disappear into the depths of Scotland Yard?”
“I’m not sure they’ll like that,” said Alexander. “I’ll probably have to take it home with me or put it in a safe deposit box or something. This is something outside our usual evidence, it isn’t stolen goods because of the wording of the will, and I fancy my boss will tell me it’s my responsibility since I got myself into this mess.” He managed to look worried.
Ida, shamelessly eavesdropping, frowned. Alexander motioned silence to her.
She managed to drift over whilst Mr. Pickle wrote an affidavit of claim.
“Alex, are you setting yourself up for attack?” she asked.
“Do you think we’re going to get substantive evidence of torture and murder from one skull fragment, a few more teeth, and a portion of pelvis?” asked Alexander, indicating the very small number of finds neatly boxed and labelled.
“No, but I don’t want him substantively torturing and murdering you,” said Ida. “Besides, how is chummy going to know?”
“Pickle is a garrulous chap and not terribly discreet,” said Alexander. “I wager he’d think it a funny story that a policeman is keeping a priceless treasure on behalf of a jewel thief. I think he might also feel it his duty to his clients to let them know where it is.”
“You aren’t going to keep it in your flat, are you?” asked Ida.
“Not a chance, no,” said Alexander. “I’m going to go into the potting shed and transfer the geegaws to a sack, which you are going to drop down your sweater, it being baggy enough, and take home with Sir Brian, and give to Papa to hide in the secret room. And I will take the box to my flat and wait for chummy.”
“Aren’t you glad I came?”
“Well, I had intended to send them into Essex with Campbell, but yes, my darling, I am glad you came.”
He wandered off to the potting shed, where he quickly wrapped the gems in sacking, and slid them into some old stockings he found there, which appeared to be used for storing onions, since others were pegged up with onions in. That would be an easier way for Ida to carry them. He wandered out with the box in full view, and Ida slid in. She emerged looking a little lumpier, and went to Sir Brian.
“I am so cold, Sir Brian, have we much more to do?” she asked.
“No, I believe our role is done,” said Sir Brian. Courteously, he took off his long tweed coat and wrapped it round Ida, who snuggled into it, further concealing her extra burden. They headed for Sir Brian’s hard-top tourer.
Alexander relaxed as its engine started and it roared away.
“You’re up to shenanigans, Major,” opined Campbell.
“Of course I am,” said Alexander, unrepentantly.
oOoOo
“Are you out of your mind?” asked Superintendant Barrett.
“Not more so than usually,” said Alexander.
“Totally, then,” said Barrett. “What makes you think this parure will be safe in your parents’ home and that chummy won’t try to torture them, or your girl?”
“My family have been in law enforcement for generations, and if anyone can get into the house without tripping any number of warnings, I’ll be very much surprised,” said Alexander. “As a family we’re inclined to be used to an exciting life, so the pater will be happy devising more traps and tricks.”
“Why the devil are you going to these lengths for a sneak thief?”
“Because Mickey is actually likely to go straight if he doesn’t have to steal, and because according to the old woman’s will, he’s actually entitled to it. If he can hold onto it for a year and a day. And I’ve just effectively put him inside, so it’s up to me to look after it for him. I need to tell him, actually.”
Barrett sighed.
“I’d rather, in a way, that it went to you.”
“I wouldn’t want it,” said Alexander. “Poor Mickey doesn’t know what it will mean to him, but I’ll do my best to help him to survive being rich.”
“Are you trying to be funny?”
“Come off it, boss; if you suddenly had a supposed honeyfall in the five figure sort of range, what would you do with it?”
“Take the missus on a cruise for her health,” said Barrett.
“I’d fund that for her, you know, if she’s ailing,” said Alexander. “No, I’m not throwing money at you, but I like to help people, and as a colleague....”
“I grant you, you aren’t the sort that Morrell tries to make you out to be. I... I don’t know. I’ll see how she goes, but for my Alma I might take you up on that.”
“It’d be my pleasure,” said Alexander. “And if you didn’t want to go with her, I might send Ida as a companion for her; she could do with being more robust after her experiences at the hands of the Lashbrook drug ring.”
“I’ll think about that; because then, giving her a companion is a favour back to you, too.”
“It is,” said Alexander. “But you go on a cruise, the interest pays for that. You’re being touched by people all the time who want a loan, or to prove their system at the races, or to just get out of debt; and you know fine well that most of them will squander it. Meanwhile, there’s the temptation to get in with the fast set, you buy the suits, get a nice signet and a gold watch, and the bastards still snigger behind their hands, because my class are a bunch of nasty bastards who accept us because we’ve been moneyed for over a century; but they try to squeeze out those joining their exclusive little club who aren’t used to it. So you start drinking before receptions to give yourself confidence, and then you drink while you are there to appear sophisticated, and to give you more confidence, and you go home, and you drink to forget how humiliated you felt. And then, you start needing a drink to get through the morning... and we know how it goes. I’ve seen it many times, and sometimes I’ve been able to intervene, and sometimes I haven’t. Mickey isn’t a strong character. He’ll drink it all inside a year if he isn’t shown how to treat money purely as a way of keeping score, and maybe get some of his kicks from financing more allotments for younger men who don’t know what to do with themselves after the war. There’s something soothing about growing things.”
“You’re quite a philosopher,” said Barrett. “And frighteningly accurate about how I’d feel to be belittled.”
“That’s why I hope you’ll let me be your guide if you ever do come into money,” said Alexander. “I can out-arrogant any of them, and imply subtly that you have a better pedigree than they do. Which, as we all descend from Adam, should be irrelevant, but some people care more than others. According to Debrett’s, my Bow Street Runner’s father was the Duke of York; according to family tradition, he was a coal heaver who married a woman despoiled by her employer and was a good father to both that child, and Caleb, who was born next. I am prouder of the idea that Caleb made himself known as ‘the gentleman Bow Street Runner’ from his own efforts than ever I would be if he had been the child of a royal duke.”
“I can see that,” said Barrett. “Yes, it is an achievement. And Mickey wouldn’t know what to do with it.”
“I’m going to suggest that he puts it in a trust fund which gives him enough pocket money to live what passes for the lap of luxury for him,” said Alexander.
“Good idea,” said Barrett. “I could think of more deserving people to get it, though.”
“I suspect he’ll be terrified by that much and will give a lot of it to charity,” said Alexander. “A big difference to the fenced value and the legitimate sale price.”
“Truth. Well, I suppose you are going through with this whatever I say.”
“Yes. A relatively harmless sneak thief died nastily and I want whoever did that inside. Marty Beauchamp might have been crooked, but like Mickey, he wasn’t nasty. Anyone who will pull out a man’s fingernails is nasty, and I want him off the streets.”
“I concur. How many suspects do you have?”
“Well, according to records, Alec and Arthur Beauchamp; Alec’s sons, Frederick, Thomas, and Eric, and Arthur’s sons, Charley and Joseph, though they are only twenty and sixteen years old respectively. Frederick was the same age as Marty, about my age, Eric is twenty-two, and Thomas is between them. I don’t know if any of them are married. And if so, if any of them have homicidal wives. I am waiting for their army records.”
“Very well, carry on. But make sure you have that big baboon of a chauffeur of yours available when you are being bait.”
“Yessir, the thought had occurred to me. I’m attached to my fingernails.”
Barrett looked at the younger man, and read the degree of fear that fuelled the flippancy.
“Take care,” he said.
