the purloined parure 17

 

Chapter 17

 

“Still alive, then? Never mind,” said Barrett, jocularly.

“The little turds decided to go a-burgling first, rather than tangling with a senior police officer as their first choice, proving them to have some brains,” said Alexander. “And I’m going to be the laughing stock of the yard, the inspector who was burgled.”

“Morrell is having a field day.”

“Of course he is,” said Alexander. “He hates me more than I hate him, and without as much excuse.”

“He thinks that he has more justification than you.”

“Really? He hates me because I exist.”

“No, he hates you because he truly believes you are bent.”

“Then he’s a fool. My parentage and background are a matter of public record if he wanted to go and look; my family have been carefully building up wealth for generations, and that by not living it up.  If I was bent, doesn’t he think I’d indulge myself?”

Barrett sighed.

“From his point of view, you do; expensive clothes and car, eating out a lot of the time. It’s pure envy at bottom, but he genuinely thinks that a man of your wealth would avoid a hard job like being a copper if he could live  without the bribes he assumes must be your only reason for remaining in the job.”

“Doesn’t he have any concept of duty?”

“Not, I think, in the way you do,” said Barrett. “I’m not in your class, but I was raised to believe in the giving of duty as a part of noblesse oblige. My parents are borderline gentry.”

“Much as my family were, a hundred years ago,” said Alexander. “I haven’t asked Morrell about his background; I was afraid he might tell me.”

“He’s middle class, like Teal, but where Teal sets out to better himself, Morrell clings to his roots as the son of a Methodist minister in the rooting out of sins of the flesh, middle-class standards, and rigidly obeying the rules.”

“Well, you know what he’s going to get if he tries to both obey the rules and behave in a proper manner for his class,” said Alexander.

“I’m not going to like this, am I?” said Barrett.

“A Morrell dilemma,” said Alexander.

Barrett swiped him across the back of the head for this terrible pun, and Alexander grinned at him.

“Morrell, poor bastard, is in the same situation in a way as a promotion by merit into the officer’s ranks, except he ought to adapt better as there has never been the elitism in the police that there is in the armed forces,” said Alexander.

He went out into the outer office, and Morrell sneered at him.

“Diamond cuff links shining so bright the cons followed you home to nab them?” he asked.

“Chummies picked up an empty jewellery box they thought might have something exciting in it,” said Alexander. “Do you really think I’m on the take?”

“Well, why would any rich bastard be a copper if he could afford to swan around the way you do?”

“Weren’t you brought up to have a sense of duty to the Crown and to the people, to do what you could for your country? If you had such a sterile upbringing devoid of moral obligation, I’m sorry for you, but it makes me wonder why you are a copper.”

“I was brought up well! My father’s a Minister of God!” snapped Morrell.

“Oh, I see; they say the son of a policeman fears not Mammon, but the son of a reverend fears neither God nor Mammon.  Well, Morrell, you’re going to come with me, and see exactly where my income comes from. I’m sick of your insinuations; you can bloody well run a financial check on me.”

Alexander seized Morrell by the arm and dragged him out to his car.

“Get in,” he said.

Morrell got in. Alexander was white with fury.

“I... what....?” Morrell managed.

“We are going to Child’s Bank, where my family has banked since my ancestress was a friend of Sally, Countess Jersey, who inherited it and ran it,” said Alexander in a low, tight voice. “You make my arrest record suspect and stop me from doing my job properly if you make even one person doubt my integrity.  I could have walked away from what I’m working on, with a four hundred thousand pound parure – that’s a jewellery collection that matches, if you didn’t know – but I didn’t. I am holding it in trust for the owner, who happens to be a con, but he fulfilled the terms of the will.  The last person the chummies I’m after believed to be in possession of it was tortured to death. His end was messy and agonising.  Now, I trust your integrity to hold the thing for Mickey Stubbins if you want to run the risk, and I’ll tell a murderous pair to whom I gave it, but I haven’t asked you, because I didn’t think it fair to put the risk on anyone else. They broke in to steal it, and when they found they only had the case, they’ll be back.  Now, are you ready for them to break into your house and start torturing you to get a case against two slippery customers who are likely to get away without the evidence of their sadistic insanity? If so, we can go to my parents’ house and collect it and I drop them the word.”

Morrell had gone white.

“B... but isn’t that entrapment?”

“No, because my custody of the thing was arranged by the family solicitor.  I didn’t ask anyone to come collecting on it.  The terms of the will are, anyone who finds it, and can keep it a year, owns it. In theory I could claim it, as it was where Mickey hides his stolen goods; but I count it as being the same as his quid of tobacco in his pouch, and other stuff from his pocket, his own property, held in trust for the little blighter while he does time. But that means they have a year to get hold of it, and hang onto it.  If they take it from me and keep it for a year, it is legally theirs. But torturing me to find out where it is, that’s not legal, and their inoffensive cousin deserves his legal revenge on them.  But waiting for them to decide if they are going to treat me the same as Marty is making me jumpy, so pardon me, I am not going to treat you with kid gloves to stroke your self-righteous ego.  Now, get in the bank.” They had arrived at Child’s.

Alexander demanded to see a manager.

“This is Police Inspector Morrell,” he said. “I have been accused of financial irregularities, and I not only give you permission, I demand that you show him my fiscal records, so that he may see for himself where my income comes from.”

“Is this an official investigation, Mr. Armitage?” asked the manager.

“No, it isn’t; but I want my colleague to be satisfied so that we can work together,” said Alexander. “Give him anything he wants;  feed him if it goes past lunch time. I’m parked illegally and I don’t want a ticket.”

He swept out, leaving an embarrassed and stammering Inspector Morrell, being led tenderly into a private office with marble, gilding, soft deep carpeting, and velvet-covered rosewood furniture, provided with a pot of tea and macaroons, and a clerk showing him Alexander’s ledgers.

 

oOoOo

 

“Armitage!”

Barrett bellowed as Alexander was about to head for his office.

“Sir?”

“Where’s Morrell?”

“I’d like to say he’s twenty feet down under the Thames with concrete overshoes, but alas, I cannot tell a lie, and last I saw, he was gingerly nibbling macaroons in Child’s Bank,” said Alexander.

“What? Why?”

“I demanded of him that he verify for himself that my wealth is legitimate,” said Alexander, in a hard voice. “It won’t make him less envious, indeed, it may make him more so, but he will have no further excuse to get on my case over my expenditure. I am not going to put up with his sly insinuations any longer.”

“Testy, ain’t you?”

“Yes,” said Alexander.

“I had a look at the images of you by that Henderson fellow; I wondered, but he really does have your number. Thank goodness, you’re not Mr. Bloody Perfect.”

“I never claimed I was,” said Alexander.

“It’s the impression you give,” said Barrett. “Having a temper makes me like you the better for having a human side. Now come in here; as you’ve stolen Morrell’s attentions, you can bloody  well work his case.”

“Oh, that will go down well.”

“I’ll make him feel guilty over abandoning it.  But it’s a trifle urgent.”

Alexander allowed himself to be ushered into the superintendant’s office.

“What’s urgent?” he asked.

“Missing girl,” said Barrett.

“Yes, that is urgent, I’m sorry I stole Morrell,” said Alexander. “Brief me.”

“The girl is... well, actually she’s not technically a girl, she’s over twenty-one, but she was seeing a man her father disapproved of. And he thinks she’s been abducted.”

“Photo?” said Alexander, and was soon looking at a pretty blonde flapper, the photograph hand-touched with colour. It was an expert job, and one could almost believe the picture to be a rare colour photograph.

“So, what’s the story?”

“Argument with her father – a wealthy industrialist – about her boyfriend. His name is Tom Kent, he’s a mechanic in a garage, and he’s souped up her car for her, little sporty red number, last seen heading north with a couple in it, assumed to be Tom and this Winifred Havilland.”

“And no doubt the police in the north asked to be aware, and yet missing seeing a sporty red car heading for Gretna Green?”

“Apparently,” said Barrett.

“Make of her car?” asked Alexander.

“No idea,” said Barrett. “Here,” he found a photograph.

“That,” said Alexander, in awe, “Is an Alfa Romeo.”

“Well, it seems to have attracted ’alf a Romeo, anyway,” said Barrett.

“Oh, nice one, sir,” said Alexander, who could never resist a pun. “Do we know what he looks like?”

“Father’s description is not helpful; ‘greasy great bastard, probably a Dago,’ which tells us that he’s probably got dark hair and might be swarthy.”

“As you say, insulting and not a lot of help,” said Alexander. “And, I fear, shows the ignorance of the lady’s father in using a generic pejorative for anyone of Hispano-Italian origin and probably with as much accuracy as calling anyone blond a Hun.”

“I did point out that if they have gone to Gretna, it’s their right to do so,” said Barrett. “But he is convinced that she is acting under duress.”

“I take it the lady has an apartment of her own?” said Alexander.

“Yes, and Morrell questioned the maid and chauffeur, and came up blank; he reckoned the maid was wanting.”

“A lady who buys a fancy sports car and has a chauffeur to drive it?”

“You have a chauffeur.”

“I use my car for work, he can drive when I’m tired,” said Alexander. “What did the maid look like?”

“Morrell did not say,” said Barrett.

“I’ll lay a tenner on it that the maid was Winifred Havilland in disguise, the chauffeur is her husband, married locally, and the car is a rapidly painted car of similar look and a couple of friends laying a false trail,” said Alexander.  “Got a copy of her photo?”

Barrett handed him a black and white copy.

With a black pen to colour out the frizzy bob, as if the hair was pulled back, Alexander cut out the shape of a maid’s cap from a piece of plain paper and stuck it onto the photo with gum arabic, sketching in details with a pencil.

There was a knock on the door, and Morrell, looking flustered, came in.

“Hello, old boy, Barrett had me on the carpet for taking up your time and asked me to look over your case,” said Alexander. “Would this happen to be the maid who told you she knew nothing about her mistress?”

Morrell looked suspiciously at the doctored photograph.

“That’s her,” he said.

“Chauffeur; dark hair, swarthy?” asked Alexander.

“Yes,” said Morrell. He looked at the photo again. “Good God! That’s the Havilland wench!”

“I thought it might be.  It was a hunch,” said Alexander, with a shrug. “The sort of woman who buys a sporty car does so to drive them; and that sort of woman does not have a chauffeur. So if the chauffeur was false, it struck me that the maid might be false, too, which is why I’ve been messing around producing an art work for you.”

“Well, if he didn’t coerce her into running away, there’s no case to answer,” said Morrell.

“I expect you’ll find they were married locally, too,” said Alexander. “She’s of age, wedded and doubtless bedded, and her father can do nothing about it. If he disowns her, that’s his prerogative, but I predict that in a couple of years, he’ll be showing people photos of his grandchildren.”

“I hope so,” said Morrell, gloomily. “Family splits are nasty.  You know more about servants than I do.” His voice was a little resentful again.

“I’m engaged to a girl who is considering what car she wants to buy when she celebrates her twenty-first birthday next month,” said Alexander. “She was interested in the same model Alfa Romeo as Miss Havilland, and she had a ‘No, you may not drive it’ look in her eye. I know about girls. I have sisters too.”

“And you don’t mind?”

“Mind? It makes no difference if I mind or not. I’d be a poor sort of husband to dictate to my life partner.  I can be justified in asking her to drive carefully. And to take her maid with her; Gladys drove ambulances during the war, and you have to be good to manage that.”

“I owe you an apology for doubting your source of wealth,” said Morrell, with something close to a snap. “I had no idea so much wealth existed.”

“We aren’t on the level of those of the upper ten thousand,” said Alexander, “But we’ve made careful investments. I can’t help it if you let the deadly sin of envy into your heart; I’m always ready to help out a colleague who needs doctor’s bills covered or anything of that sort, but I’m not going to give away my wealth to be on a par with the average man, because I don’t feel guilty about having it, and I don’t see why I should.  As you will have seen, I have increased it with judicious share purchases.  It’s a sacred trust to use to educate my children of the future, and make sure they are also sufficiently well off not to have to worry, before you say anything about rich men and camels, and needle’s eyes.  Are you going to leave off irritating me?”

“I have no choice.  And I have to thank you for breaking open my case.”

“Oh, glad to be of service.  You could ring and ask to see the maid and chauffeur again, and then confront her, and give her a good ear-wigging about wasting police time, and that sort of thing.”

“Yes, I believe I will. I’ve been worrying about that girl at the mercy of some brute of a ne’er do well, but the chauffeur was well enough spoken, not some brawny brute as her father represented him, and she’s been laughing up her sleeve at me.”

“She deserves a good telling off,” said Alexander. “And she should let her father know, so he isn’t in fear over Christmas.”

“I’ll soon sort her out,” said Morrell. He left the office with a bang.

“Armitage, did you just deflect all the irritation he is feeling towards you at the Havilland girl?” demanded Barrett.

“Yes,” said Alexander. “I don’t know her, so I don’t care.”

“You’re incorrigible.”

“Yes, sir, but I have my bad points too.”

 

the purloined parure 15

 

Chapter 15

 

“Had you any plans for the afternoon, Armitage?” asked Barrett.

“I was planning on running out to Ealing to track down ‘Pooch’ Robson and ‘Odds’ Pleasance, to check an alibi,” said Alexander. “But I can put it off if you have something you want me to do; though it should really be done today, as I’m expecting to be set upon by as nasty a pair of villains as I’ve ever met, and I’m not excluding the Hun.”

 “Yes, I’ve been reading your reports, truly unpleasant,” said Barrett.

“You wait until they get in the autopsy on the partly composted Marty,” said Alexander, grimly. “Poor little bastard probably either died of shock or bled out from major blood vessels if I read correctly what the police surgeon hinted at being found in the house by the search team I sent in.”

“How singularly... dear me, I am not often shocked,” said Barrett.

“No, quite,” said Alexander. “He’s reading psychology books again; it makes him come over all Freud and fury, signifying very little but with enough truth there to make illuminating reading if you discard every conclusion he makes and go for the basics.”

“Do you have to mangle Shakespeare?” asked Barrett, waspishly.

“It seemed appropriate to the moment,” said Alexander, meekly. “‘Sound and fury, signifying nothing’ is what a lot of psychology sounds like to me.”

“Well, the half-baked stuff the half-trained spout off, anyway,” said Barrett, who agreed that an excess of psychology addled a man’s wits. “There was a fellow in court the other day trying to claim that he had taken to raping adolescent boys in the school where he teaches because his mother poked him with the nappy-pin when he was a baby, simultaneously putting him off women anywhere in that region and making him conscious of his back passage and having to have his nappy emptied.”

“Good lord, some of them will claim anything if they think it makes them more interesting than nasty vicious scum who prey on kids,” said Alexander. “What did you want me to do?”

“Round up Barty Tolliver for using the old time-lag racetrack trick.”

“Oh, where the mark’s in a room with a clock put back, and someone telephones in tips, and the mark thinks the race is ongoing, and gets excited enough to bet a huge amount on a horse that doesn’t win?” said Alexander.

“Yes, and Barty might even be happy to be picked up, because he picked the wrong mark,” said Barrett, with vicious enjoyment. “Instead of some poor old boy who flutters with his pension every raceday and can be conned out of all his savings, he picked Harry Shearer.”

Alexander winced.

“And Harry sails close to the law himself, and won’t hesitate to set several hefty torpedos on Tolliver,” he said.

“Must you use American slang like ‘torpedos’ for muscle men?”

“The naval fliers who flew Sopwith Cuckoos dropped torpedos and refer to them as ‘mouldies’ and if you can think of anything more atrophied and mouldy than the brain and conscience of most muscle, I’d be surprised,” said Alexander.

Barrett snorted.

“They’re muscle without any brain or conscience; tell it like it is, and don’t go cuckoo yourself.”

“Yessir,” said Alexander, who knew when his whimsies had gone quite far enough. “Who’s Barty’s partner, do we know?”

“According to Shearer, who was being unwontedly forthcoming until he realised a constable was taking down every word, it was some ferretty little fellow with a taste in loud checked suits and garish yellow and blue ties,” said Barratt.

“Bertie Briscowe. And the constable wasn’t pounded?”

“No, you can say what you like about Harry Shearer and his illegal nightclubs, but he doesn’t beat on women.”

“Aren’t they supposed to go around in pairs, like nuns?” asked Alexander.

“Yes, well, seemingly they had only popped into the pub because t’other one had the call of nature... which judging by the embarrassment levels meant the monthlies, not a need for a jimmy riddle... uh, you know about that, not being a married man?”

“Sisters,” said Alexander. “Well, I can sympathise with that; the idea of blood pouring out for days on end and not a scar to show for one’s bravery makes me wince.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Barrett. “And the mood swings.”

“Been there,” said Alexander.

There was a moment’s shared silence of men in adversity.

“So, Barty and Bertie were two pretty men...” murmured Alexander.

“What’s that from, Gilbert and Sullivan?”

“Mother Goose; it’s a nursery rhyme,” said Alexander. He quoted,

“Robin and Richard were two pretty men;

They stayed in bed till the clock struck ten.

Then up starts Robin and looks at the sky:

‘Oh, brother Richard, the sun's very high

.You go before with the bottle and bag,

And I will come after on little Jack nag.’”

“Not one I know, but very appropriate; that sort of villain is usually up late into the night and lays in bed half the day, and they sound very shady,” said Barrett.

“I hadn’t thought of it in the nursery, but they really do,” said Alexander, cheerfully. “Terrible things these nursery rhymes teach children. Look at Tom, Tom, the piper’s son, who stole a pig and away did run.”

“Well, at least he was beaten for his theft if I recall correctly,” said Barrett. “Nursery rhymes! Honestly! I don’t have time to waste on nursery rhymes! Go sort out that alibi first and see if either of those two knows where Barty Tolliver has gone to ground, with or without Bertie Briscowe. They might be glad of the warning that Harry Shearer is on the warpath.”

“Yes, and I need to pick them up before they hear it, and scarper, themselves,” said Alexander. “Can I borrow a car and driver?”

“What’s wrong with your car?”

“I sent the fellow I think is going to be used as a scapegoat to my parents as I can’t keep him in custody any longer, and his relatives think he’s in the wind as he stormed out on my suggestion, to be collected by Campbell.”

“Careful you don’t fall into entrapment.”

“I don’t think I do.  They know I’m holding the parure, and I have the case in my flat here, so I hope that means that they attempt to attack me, and then I have an open and shut case against them. Campbell should be having a sleep in my bed right now, to be fresh overnight. I borrowed Harris and Teal as well, to lurk, sending them home for a few hours.”

“Wise,” said Barrett. “Surely they won’t attack a senior police officer? You would identify them.”

“Not if I was dead, I wouldn’t,” said Alexander. “I have every expectation that they mean to torture me to find out where it is, as it isn’t in the case, and then kill me. Campbell has orders to make himself scarce until they start.”

“I don’t like it.”

“I don’t like it much either; but we can’t rely on finger prints and they are clever, cunning, and ruthless and I suspect they could play any jury like a gramophone.”

“Did they wipe the tools that got left?”

“Yes, and they were taken from the house itself, where the outdoor man had a toolshed. I had hoped they had stolen them from their own chauffeur, but no such luck. And the bits and pieces of cages for the rats didn’t carry enough prints to be useful.”

“A pity.”

“That’s life,” said Alexander.

 

 

The plainclothes man in the unmarked car dropped Alexander off. He sauntered into the Three Pigeons, being one of two pubs where he guessed the men he was looking for might be. The other, the Penny Flyer, was where Freddy had found them, but they had their habits, and towards closing time around lunch, the Three Pigeons should find one at least of them.

He was lucky; if he had missed them, he would have had to wait until the evening.

He moved forward silently and dropped an arm each around two shoulders.

“Mr. Robson, Mr. Pleasance, what a pleasure for me,” he said.

“Oh Gawd! It’s a bleedin’ flatfoot,” said ‘Pooch’ Robson. “I’m clean, squire, straight up I am.”

“I’m not here to make a pinch, as it happens,” said Alexander. “I need to check a man’s alibi.”

“Well, he was with us if he says he was,” said ‘Odds’ Pleasance.

“It’s not so easy as that,” said Alexander.  “I am after someone who tortured little Marty Beauchamp to death; and I wager you know him.”

“We might do,” said Pooch.

“Sneak thief, doesn’t need to steal, but can’t keep his hands off other people’s collectables, books and chinaware his specialities,” said Alexander. “Usually steals – stole, I should say, poor little sod – to order for collectors. Pigeon fancier in his spare time, may have ratted you up to get his cousin into trouble.”

“Oh, that Marty Beauchamp,” said Odds. “No ’arm to ’im, an’ ’e don’t despise a flutter on the dogs.”

“Well, someone did him to death; and there has been some suggestion it was his cousin, Freddy.”

“Freddy wouldn’t torture nobody,” said Pooch, instantly. “Not like that little shit he brought once, asked if a dog wouldn’t run faster if you opened the skin near its tail and sewed a load of wasps inside. Little bastard, and Freddy took his belt to him.”

“So I should hope,” said Alexander. “It was a Sunday. First Sunday after the full moon, you had a meet, he was taken to it from the Penny Flyer.”

“Not admitting to anything,” said Pooch, “But I remember seeing Freddy about then. He wasn’t happy.”

“When is ’e?” asked Odds. “’E dropped a packet, but no more’n usual.”

“And you can vouch for him all evening?”

“And at the club ’ouse after,” said Odds. “Someone dropped him off near enough to ’is pa’s place to walk ’ome.  Wasn’t fit to change tubes even if it was open; wasn’t near enough five of the morning to make it worth while.”

“Thanks,” said Alexander. “Can I write that out and get you to sign it?”

“I s’pose,” said Pooch, suspiciously. “We don’t have to say where we were with him, do we?”

“No, you can say at a club where you share a mutual interest,” said Alexander. “I’m only interested in dirty tricks at race venues, and worry that illegal races increase the chances.”

“Oh, we seen some,” said Odds. “Funny ’ow people wot try that go swimming wiv a few ol’ pipes tied to them.”

“I’ll pretend I didn’t hear that,” said Alexander.  “And whilst I have your attention, do you know where I might find Barty Tolliver or Bertie Briscowe?”

“What for do you want them?” asked Pooch.

“They tried to stiff Harry Shearer,” said Alexander.

“We don’t know them at all,” said Pooch, hastily

“Nah, and don’t want to,” said Odds.

“If you did know them where would be a good place to go looking?” asked Alexander.

The men exchanged looks.

“They might of gone to ground in the Pascal Street area, out Nine Elms way,” said Pooch. “Heap o’ old Victorian tenements due for slum clearance. Plenty o’ places to hide out while there’re fights over whose responsibility it is.”

“An’ an ’ole ’eap o’ people moved out wot moved back in,” said Odds.

“But if you find them, we didn’t tell you nuffing,” said Pooch.

“Never even saw you,” said Alexander, obligingly. “Well, if you see them before I do, tell them they’ll be safer on the inside than out, and we’re happy to receive visitors if they find themselves seized with the urge of confession. Here you both are, statements to sign.”

The two petty criminals read through what they were signing and appended their signatures.

“I don’t hold with torture,” said Pooch.

“Nor do I,” said Alexander. “Nor do I.”

 

“Fancy a run out to Vauxhall?” asked Alexander, of his driver.

“Is that where you want to go, sir?” asked the driver.

“It is,” said Alexander, stifling a sigh. The young man was almost rigidly proper.

 

There were a number of Victorian tenements scheduled for demolition in Pascal Street, and Alexander sighed. A long search would ensue, and his quarry quite likely to slip out the back and through alleys they knew better than him. Well, he could look.

“Nip down the back, and nab anyone who comes running out,” said Alexander.

His driver gave him a long-suffering and jaundiced look.

“Shall I find a telephone to call for help?” he asked.

“You can surely manage a pair of bunco lads on your own?” said Alexander. “Whistle when you go after them.”

The driver sighed.

“Yes, sir,” he said.

 

the purloined parure 9 weekend bonus

 

Chapter 9

 

Presently a distinguished looking man in a doctor’s white coat came in.

“What’s all this nonsense about Scotland Yard needing to talk to me?” he opened without preamble.

“You were the doctor to Mrs. Gertrude Beauchamp, I believe?” said Alexander.

“Yes, an elderly lady who died, essentially, of old age, as all death can, in broad, be laid down to heart failure,” said Whitlaw.

“And you never thought to question symptoms of internal problems, anaemia, joint pains, memory loss, and, I suspect, though it was not mentioned, kidney failure, and death described by a nurse as following a seizure which did not resemble a heart attack?” said Alexander.

Whitlaw froze.

“All symptoms could be attributed to old age,” he said, unhappily.

“And no blame could be attached to a doctor who thought so,” said Alexander. “But if that’s making you think what I thought, in conjunction with the old lady thinking that one of her grandsons was poisoning her, an agreement to exhume would go a long way towards avoiding a scandal for you.”

“Yes, indeed; though I don’t know how lead could be introduced into her diet.”

“Sugar of lead, in the medicine, I suspect,” said Alexander.

Whitlaw blinked.

“I brought away the last bottle of sleeping draught, as one is supposed to; I believe it might still be in my bag. It slipped my mind.”

“Or providence slipped it from your mind,” said Alexander.

“What, you believe still in an outmoded religion?”

“Science is too rich and wonderful for me not to believe in God,” said Alexander. “But I don’t care what you believe in; it’s your loss if you’re a modern atheist. God knows, with the nonsense of some of the so-called moralists, it’s enough to drive any man to atheism. And look at America; banning booze is only going to drive it underground, and encourage criminality.”

“Oh, we agree on that sort of thing, anyway,” said Whitlaw, relieved. “I was afraid you were some sort of dour moralist policeman.”

“I’m a moralist in that I don’t think anyone has the right to deprive a fellow being of life, means to live, or enjoyment of life,” said Alexander.

“Well! I’ll hand over the bottle to you and endorse the autopsy,” said Whitlaw. “Not a common form of poison, and usually chronic.”

“But it crystalises out in the bottom which would make it more concentrated,” said Alexander.

“Good point. It’s a bit exotic these days.”

“Easy to make, though, from readily available commodites,” said Alexander. “I can see if there have been any thefts from local sources; you could get two ingredients from any medical facility or from a hair salon.”

“And I suppose from any roof,” said Whitlaw.

“Yes, or a plumber’s supplies,” said Alexander. 

“Let me get that bottle,” said Whitlaw.

He was gone from the room a minute or two, and Alexander admired a painting on the wall.

“You own a Basil Henderson,” he said, when the doctor came back.

“Yes, I was looking into the possibility of having prosthetics fitted for him,” said Whitlaw. “He’s not that well known.”

“He was a friend of mine; I’m going to marry his sister,” said Alexander.

“Poor child, he consulted me about her, their brother would not permit her to see me, is she still....?”

“Oh, no, she managed to get herself off it on her own, with Basil’s help,” said Alexander. “She’s not strong, but I’m sending her on a cruise after Christmas.”

“Best thing for her,” enthused Whitlaw.  “There are crystals in this bottle.” He unstoppered it and sniffed, and frowned. “Acetic sort of smell.” He tipped it and caught a drop on one finger and licked it. His eyes widened. “Sweet!” he declared. “By George, sir, you’re right. Someone used my medicine to kill her.”

“Well, if you will place that into this paper bag, and sign it beside my signature...” said Alexander.

 

oOoOo

 

“From a murdered sneak-thief to exhuming an old woman who died of old age? Really, Armitage?” said Superintendant Barrett.

“I have the proof she was murdered already, the autopsy will confirm it,” said Alexander. “The manner of her degeneration and death as described by the nurse, who was with her all the time; and the test the doctor did on her last medicine.”

“The hell! That puts a different complexion on things,”

“Believe me, sir, I don’t want to dig up bodies willy-nilly, but when they’ve been buried without proper investigation, yes, I do. The doctor made an honest, and reasonable at the time, diagnosis because the nurse was too diffident to discuss her concerns with him, or to tell him that the old woman believed she was being poisoned. It’s perhaps a side issue, but....”

“Murder is never a side issue, Armitage!” barked Barrett. “Damn you, boy, you have me violently agreeing with you.”

“The primary case is the torture and murder of Marty,” said Alexander. “That the little sod, whichever little sod it was, killed his grandmother – or mother, we can’t rule out that Gertrude was wrong in accusing the younger generation – is merely additional evidence to his ruthlessness. Or hers, if we include the daughters-in-law.”

“You have one grandson in custody.”

“He took a few swings at me and tried to kick me. I fell over a footstool trying not to hit him back and get accusations of police brutality,” said Alexander.

“Is he chummy, do you think?”

“I doubt it,” said Alexander. “He’s more likely to have beaten Marty to a bloody pulp, not to have pulled out teeth and fingernails.  It takes some brute strength, but it’s more... cold. Nastier.”

“Yes, I take your point. Poisoning an old woman is rather nasty too.”

“Yes, poor old dear, and worse than that, clouding her mind with the poison chosen.”

“And what was that?”

“Lead acetate. You might know it as ‘sugar of lead.’”

“I’ve heard there have been a few accidental poisonings with that.”

“Yes, and it’s been used in a couple of suicides, and proving murder without it being in the bottle of medicine would be bloody difficult, because a clever counsel would have it that the old woman liked her wine in a pewter mug or something to suggest accidental death from the wine leaching the lead out of the pewter.”

“Yes, I see.  And the doctor is ready to swear his medicine was poisoned? That makes him a rare breed.”

“He also knew my late brother-in-law to be,” said Alexander.

“Late brother-in-law to be? What an excruciating mix of tenses,” said Barrett.

“I know. But I can’t figure out a better way of putting it.  My Ida is prepared to go on a cruise, by the way. Her top choice would be Egypt and a trip up the Nile to poke her nose into Howard Carter’s diggings.”

“I... I’ll ask Alma.”

 

 

oOoOo

 

“And what precautions, Major, ’as you taken agin bein’ set on in your sleep to nick the parure?” asked Campbell, as he drove Alexander to Liverpool Street Station to pick up Ida.

“None whatsoever; beyond nicking Freddy,” said Alexander.

“Well, wot if ’e ain’t chummy?” asked Campbell.

“Oh, I don’t think he is chummy,” said Alexander.

“You’ll be the ruddy death o’ me... sir,” growled Campbell. “If ’e ain’t chummy, what good does locking ’im up do?”

“It provides him with a water-tight alibi,” said Alexander. “Think about it.”

Campbell thought about it.

“Oh!” he said. “While ’e ’as an alibi, chummy can’t blame it on him.”

“Indeed,” said Alexander. “Pick up anything from chauffeurs?”

“Nothin’ I couldn’t of told you from ’earin’ about them off of you,” said Campbell. “There was a bit of a domestic over you nickin’ Freddy; Mr. Alec was all for getting some bit o’ ’aybybush corpus, and Mrs. Alec, Mrs. Penelope that is, said Freddy was best left where ’e was, and Mr. Alec slapped her, and she put a knitting needle in his nostril and said it wouldn’t take much force to shove it into his brain, and most doctors would sign a death certificate as brain embolism caused by stress. They would too,” he added.

“Well, well! A mother’s defence of her young is always fierce, but it shows the lady has ruthlessness,” said Alexander.

“Because she understands why you have Freddy,” said Campbell.

“Yes, and the term is ‘a writ of habeus corpus’ a demand to have the body – live, that is, produced and not thrown into jail without trial.  I fancy Freddy will accept protective custody unless he’s denser than I think he is.”

“Which he may be,” said Campbell.

“But I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it, if indeed I do,” said Alexander. “Tell me more.”

“Well, the servants fear Freddy; they reckon he’s half crazy. Mr. Thomas can be a demon he’s drunk, which is to say, most of the time. Mr. Eric is reckoned the best of the bunch. The servants reckon that Mr. Thomas was all over blood for walking through a French window. He’s done something of the sort before, apparently. Mr. Eric has knocked dahn both his brothers in the past. Mr. Alec’s idea of discipline is flogging tied to the flagstaff in the back garden.”

“Lovely people. Did you get to the Arthur Beauchamps?”

“Yes; ’imself is a nothing sort of man; it’s the missus you have to look out for.”

“Violent, is she?”

“Naow. Not as such. They call her the Icicle, but she’s done things like stubbed out a cigarette on a maid’s face for being late back on her day off, so that nobody’ll want to keep ’er out late again. But she don’t lose her temper. She just suddenly lashes out. The boys... well, Mr. Charley isn’t a boy, really, he’s at university, and both of them have always cheered to be going back to school.”

“Does she abuse them?” asked Alexander.

“There’s a cupboard the maids aren’t allowed to open,” said Campbell. “Mind, the boys aren’t averse to being nasty, to each other. They all closed up after that.  The family has no pets but there’s a kennel in the garden, and an old bird cage in a loggia affair used for lumber out back.”

Alexander nodded, and then saw a trim black head which he knew, under a ridiculous confection which could not, in any man’s language, be called a hat. Behind her was the tall, neat figure of Gladys, Ida’s maid.

“There’s Ida, just off the train; give her a toot. She knows morse, you can tootle her name,” he said.

Campbell parped out ‘pip pip parp pip pip pip parp’ and Ida came running.

“Now, that was clever, to spell me out,” she said, throwing baggage into the back seat as Alexander got out of the front seat to open the back door for her. She wound herself around him and he kissed her, hard.

They got in the back seat and Gladys got in the front.

“Bertram’s Hotel, Pond Street,” said Alexander.

“Not the Ritz?” said Ida.

“You wouldn’t like it, poppet,” said Alexander. “It’s pretentious. I’ll take you dancing at Claridge’s sometime; they have live jazz.  Did you prefer Kensington House?[1] It’s not far from Gertrude’s house; I just thought Bertram’s is nice and quiet.”

“Kensington House Hotel, please, Campbell,” said Ida. “And yes, partly to exert my stubborn streak, but also I want to be near the centre of it all.”

“Bertram’s is a bit off the beaten track,” said Alexander. “Nothing ever happens there. Full of old fogeys, like the Bellona Club.”

 

oOoOo

 

Having seen Ida ensconced in the hotel, Alexander went back to Scotland Yard to catch up on paperwork.

Mary looked up from typing up a report.

“Here’s a lad who managed to run to earth all your persons of interest,” she said. Alexander’s eyebrow went up.

“Joe Munday, did I remember that right?”

“Yessir,” said Munday.

“I issued the photos to different groups, how did you manage to run them all down?” asked Alexander.

“One of the chaps looking for Mr. Freddy’s movements took ill, sir, so I took his photo as well,” said Munday.

“Watch it, lad, you’re bucking for promotion,” said Alexander. “We’ll have you after my job next.”

Munday flushed.

“I wouldn’t mind being in the detective division,” he said.

“Well, let’s hear how you did, how you got your information, and I’ll go through what you did right, anything you could have done better, and I’ll add you to my notes as a bright lad to keep an eye on. Don’t be pushy, mind, but make sure you’re indispensible to whoever’s running a case you’re used in. If you volunteer for mine, I’ll always listen. If you volunteer for some people, speaking up will get you a black mark and your nose snapped off, and you didn’t hear it from me, but one of the least tolerant is an Inspector Morrell.”

“Oh, yes, sir, I’m aware of him,” said Munday.

“Well, stay out of his way,” said Alexander. “Now, what have you uncovered?”

“My initial assignment was the movements of Mr. Thomas Beauchamp,” said Munday.

“Henceforth, just Thomas, for convenience,” said Alexander.

“Yessir,” said Munday. “Mr. ... uh, Thomas was to be found in the Bull and Bush from lunch time, whence he was ejected at closing time. He managed to find an off-licence which sells Sunday magazines, and intimidated the storekeeper into selling him a couple of bottles of whisky. I said it wouldn’t be official; was I right?”

“The trail is more important, but keep your eye on that store. He might not need much intimidating. Frankly, there are more important things in life than the licensing laws, but I never said so, and if someone will buck the law in one thing, he might be ready to buck the law in other things.”

Munday nodded.

“I’ll remember that,” he said. “Anyway, by the time the cinemas opened, he must have been totally bladdered; he drank both bottles. I found some witnesses, they described it as disgusting.  He went into a Regent Cinema, and snored through the main feature, the news, and the management threw him out.  I found the projectionist, who saw which way he went, and he found another pub until closing time. Then he went in search of an off-licence, which was, of course, already shut. He found a private party, and gate-crashed it, and kicked up a shindy because it was a Church Sociable and they were drinking lemonade. He walked out into the night through their conservatory, which, one may assume, is when he got cut.  He was nicked on the embankment at about two, and managed to elude the constable who was trying to run him in and legged it. That’s the last I have. I furnished his name to the people with the conservatory so they can sue him. Was that right?”

“Morally, if not necessarily inside your purview,” said Alexander. “So, we have the time between the private party and the embankment unaccounted for, and the shorter time between that and his reaching home.”

“Unless he’s looking to upstage Rudolph Valentino and Michael Fairbanks, he wasn’t in a fit state to do anything violent, let alone cross London,” opined Munday.

“But you have to assume the possibility that he is, and keep him open as a suspect even when saying that in the balance of probabilities he is innocent.  You manage to get about smartish.”

“I have a pushbike,” said Munday.

“Good man,” said Alexander. “And now, Freddy.”

 

---

[1] Now The Milestone Hotel