by Jamie Probin
‘Who knows about this?’
Charles shrugged.
‘It’s not as though I tell everyone I meet about it. But it’s hardly a secret either. And you’d be amazed at how information gets around Upper Wentham.’
‘I think you’d be amazed by how little amazes me,’ replied Harris. ‘I take it a box of chocolates arrived, purporting to be from your friend?’
‘Exactly so. I’d been expecting it as I do every year, so when I saw the box and international address nothing seemed suspicious about it. I ate a chocolate and almost instantly began choking. I think I may even have lost consciousness.’
The young man before Harris had been recounting these various incidents with equanimity, but suddenly he broke off and ran his hand through his thick mop of hair, as though recalling this latest brush with death had made the threat to his life more immediate. His gaze wandered briefly around Harris’ cluttered room, without seeming to actually see any of it.
‘I was found by my father,’ continued Charles after a moment, his composure recovered, albeit with a slight catch in his voice. ‘He was standing over me when I came to, looking very worried and there was a terrified maid behind him. I felt incredibly fatigued and violently nauseous. One thing you need to understand about my father is that he is obsessed – literally obsessed – with our family’s name and tradition, and ensuring the continuation of the Wentworth line. I think he feels that having only one son is a tremendous risk, and is desperate for a proliferation of grandchildren as soon as possible. Or grandsons to be precise. He is petrified by the idea of anything happening to me.
‘Anyway, he called Dr Falkes, the local doctor, who said I was suffering from arsenic poisoning. He had me rushed to the hospital where I stayed for a week until I recovered. The police contacted their Belgian counterparts who investigated, but my friend denied sending me any chocolates in the last year. In fact, ironically, he had a box in the house when the police arrived, which he was intending to post in the next few days.
‘You see my concern? The first two incidents could have been unfortunate accidents. Even occurring so close together I could not entirely rule out coincidence. But this last case was clearly an attempt to kill me. The police analysed the chocolates and found the entire top layer had been laced with arsenic. Fortunately one chocolate alone had not contained a lethal dose; I would have needed to eat three or four for that.’
Dr Harris threw his chair back and planted his feet on the fender. He fixed his visitor with an astute gaze.
‘Then it strikes me that you have no need of my services. As you say, the last case is clearly attempted murder and the police should be investigating it as such.’
‘That’s what my father said,’ replied Charles Wentworth. ‘He is on good terms with the chief constable and dropped his name several times to the chief superintendent, but he said they couldn’t do anything. The chocolates had been sent from Belgium, so the crime occurred at their end. The Belgian police did investigate, as I said, but it turned out that my friend had only the day before returned from Monte Carlo. More than twenty people could testify he had been in his hotel every day over the period the chocolates could have been posted, quite besides the utter lack of motive. Father was furious, of course, but I have sympathy with the Belgian police. Really, what could they do? As they pointed out to the chief constable, if we even knew when and where the chocolates were posted they might have had something to go on.’
‘I take it, then, that you didn’t keep the packaging in which the chocolates were sent?’
Charles twitched a wry smile to indicate that he understood the point of the question.
‘Unfortunately not. I didn’t try a chocolate until the evening and by that time the paper had been burnt. I’m sure you’re having the same thoughts as I did. The fact is, I really have no evidence they were posted in Belgium at all. Anyone can put ENGLAND at the bottom of an envelope and write an international return address; the post office wouldn’t care. The chocolates could just as easily have been posted in Upper Wentham.’
Harris surveyed his rooms. His gaze was far more focussed than the distracted one his guest had cast minutes earlier, and the bookcases all looked duller, the surfaces dustier, the atmosphere heavier. Who was he trying to fool in pretending he had no interest in a mystery? True, there may not have been a murder – yet – and the whole thing may still turn out to be a storm in a teacup, but he was bored.
Moreover, his guest impressed him. The young man had presented the facts efficiently and without embellishment. Most of the questions which had struck Harris’ mind had already occurred to young Wentworth too, and the answers were reasonable and considered.
Yes, Harris knew he was going to take the charge, but his newfound philanthropy was not going to come at the expense of the earlier promise of reward. He steepled his forefingers to his lips in an attitude he hoped would imply grave consideration.
‘I shall accept your case,’ Harris eventually intoned. In a sombre voice intended to imply unfortunate but inevitable causality, he added, ‘but my fees are not inexpensive.’
‘The cost is unimportant,’ said Charles, dismissively.
Harris breathed a quiet sigh of joy.
‘How would you like me to manage the investigation?’
‘I think you should come to stay in Upper Wentham as soon as possible. Can you leave your duties here for a time?’
Harris pretended to consider the issue, as though it were a difficult decision.
‘I believe I can make arrangements to be in Upper Wentham tomorrow. Would you expect me to reside at Blackwood Manor?’ he added, hopefully.
Charles shook his head.
‘No. I think it would be better if you were there casually. It will make it easier for you to ask questions. There is a fine inn very close to the Manor and I will arrange for your board.’
‘And how would you like me to conduct affairs?’
‘Well that’s your business isn’t it?’ replied Charles, and a touch of superiority had unconsciously entered his tone. Harris suddenly realised that he was now an employee and, for all his affable manner, Charles Wentworth was used to having exactly what he wanted. ‘You’ll need to find a story to explain why you are there and why you are asking questions.’
Harris spoke with a touch of haughtiness.
‘What I shall require from you, Mr Wentworth, is a short summary of the people in Upper Wentham related to you in any way, whether as family or acquaintances. Anyone you think might have some knowledge which may shed light on the matter. It would be far too time-consuming and conspicuous to simply ask questions of random strangers, so I need to know the people relevant to the case.’
Charles nodded and promised that such a résumé would be waiting in Harris’ room when he arrived.
‘You must understand, this is not to be a list of people you consider to be suspects, but people close to you. Those who may, without even realising it, know important information.’
‘I quite understand, Dr Harris,’ replied Charles. He stood and, as he did so, noticed the newspaper on the desk. ‘I say, are you doing the Times crossword?’
‘I was trying to,’ growled Harris, ‘but I’m sad to say it was an exercise in optimism on my part to imagine the sadist they employ to compile such things might have, for once, decided to make the thing vaguely coherent.’
‘Oh I don’t know. It’s not so bad once you get the hang of the thing.’
‘Do you do it?’
‘Oh, rather.’
‘And finish it?’
‘Well, from time to time,’ murmured Charles, modestly.
Harris stared at his visitor.
‘You actually finish the Times crossword?’
‘Well, one tries one’s best, you know.’
‘This morning’s specimen. Did you finish that?’
Charles Wentworth was trying to retain an air of diffidence.
‘Yes, I believe I did.’
Harris scram
bled for his copy and carried it over, looking like a dog bringing its favourite ball to its owner.
‘What about this one,’ he panted in amazement. ‘“Ruined by potential difference in impudent attitude.” I mean, what in the name of Hades does it mean? Is that even English?’
‘Well, you see, the impudent attitude is “insolent”, and the unit of potential difference is the Volt, or V. So you put a “v” into “insolent” and get “insolvent”, meaning ruined.’
Harris scribbled the word into the grid, muttering under his breath all the while about the dishonourable and underhand behaviour that was so inexplicably tolerated by the editor of the Times.
Once again his guest made to leave, and Harris beamed at him with a new respect.
‘I take my hat off to you sir. The world needs more men and women who can defeat this hellhound.’ He shook Charles’ hand with enthusiastic vigour. ‘I consider it a matter of honour to keep you alive.’
Chapter 6
There are many elements which must all come together if a complex crime is to be solved. Were Dr Samuel Harris to accept this premise at all, it would be with the caveat that the heart of this engine is an ingenious bout of analytical deduction – generally his own. Should his friend Chief Inspector Rogers of Scotland Yard have a say, he would place dogged investigation and intuition as the foundational pillars – and possibly admit under duress that Harris’ systematic reasoning had, on occasion, helped speed up the inevitable solution.
What neither would likely admit out loud, yet had to acknowledge in their heart of hearts, is that in many cases there comes a moment of luck or good fortune on which hangs the success of the entire affair.
In the case of the Upper Wentham mystery, this chance came in the person of Mr Percival Greenspan, a young man who, though undoubtedly of fine character and a credit to his family, is utterly insignificant to the story as a whole. This shall be, from that perspective, his moment in the sun, after which he will never be heard from again.
Percy Greenspan was a senior teller at the Farringham branch of the Bath and Avon Bank. He was surprisingly young to hold such a senior position, and the fact can be attributed to his conscientious devotion to his duty. As a young boy Percy was taught by his parents that hard work and attention to detail were his path to success in the world, and their son had admirably followed their advice. He was not one to skimp on details or cut corners; and so, when Detective Inspector Hollingsworth’s memo arrived at his branch, Percy acted. The letter detailed the numbers of the banknotes which Ronald Asbury had withdrawn prior to his death, and requested the tellers at each bank to keep a watchful eye on the money passing through their branch. Thus Percy had made a point to check the serial numbers of all five and ten pound notes passing through the Farringham branch against the numbers on the list when he cashed up at the end of each day.
He was probably the only clerk in England to do this. No doubt one or two conscientious souls had checked the notes on the day that Hollingsworth’s memo was received, possibly some even to the end of that week, but most undoubtedly forgot all about the request in the course of a hectic schedule, or else simply ignored it. But in Farringham, over two months later, Percy was still examining a list of serial numbers on a daily basis.
Hollingsworth himself only distributed the note as a matter of procedure, rather than with any real hope of result. And yet, today, his idea and Percy Greenspan’s dedication to his duty, combined to resuscitate an investigation which had been at death’s door and, ultimately, hang a murderer.
‘Operator, please put me through to Scotland Yard.’
A man with more imagination than Percy Greenspan may have experienced some emotion at speaking such a phrase, whether it be embarrassment, thrill or pride. But to Percy it was simply a part of his job, albeit an unusual and unexpected one.
A series of further connections took place until finally a voice at the other end of the line spoke.
‘Hollingsworth.’
‘Good afternoon detective inspector,’ said Percy in his nasal voice, ‘my name is Percival Greenspan, and I work for the Bath and Avon bank. You distributed a circular on the twentieth of May featuring the numbers of certain banknotes you were hoping to trace. One of them passed through my branch today.’
There was a long silence from the other end of the line. Percy waited impassively.
‘Do you… ah, do you mean… yes, of course you do,’ came the dumbfounded voice of detective inspector Hollingsworth, eventually. ‘Mr Greenspan, I’d like to come and speak to you about this in person. Would tomorrow morning be acceptable?’
Percy assured the policeman that he would be at the bank all day.
Detective Inspector Hollingsworth caught the train to Farringham after breakfasting early the following morning. He still hardly dare believe that the young man on the telephone had been correct in his assertion, but prayed that he was. Days had stretched into weeks following the Metropole murder, and not a single lead had been forthcoming. Time and resources had been denied Hollingsworth, but he could not simply move on and forget about the case. An unsolved murder under his jurisdiction was a taunt to his professional pride.
The chances of anything turning up seemed increasingly remote, but of all his slender hopes, the banknotes had appeared the slenderest.
Now though, two months later, if this bank teller was correct there may be something after all. One of the notes withdrawn by Ronald Asbury just before his death had been paid into a bank in Farringham, only seven miles from the village of Upper Wentham. This could finally tie the murder back to Asbury’s home.
Officially the case was still open, but unofficially the investigation was over. It was clear that his superiors were adopting the attitude that if they pretended the murder had never happened, then the whole thing would go away. Either that or, if they waited long enough, everyone involved would forget the exact reason why the death could not have been suicide, and they could go ahead and call it that anyway. It was the case that nobody wanted to notice, like a huge blemish on somebody’s nose. But Hollingsworth was not satisfied; he hated leaving the case in limbo and wanted to track down his murderer. Something nagged away at him that this was not a routine crime simply lacking in evidence, but rather the tip of a far more complex iceberg, and he desperately wanted to find something, anything, which gave him another lead. He knew not to publicise this attitude, however; the amount of work sent his way by the chief superintendent was definitely not intended to fit around this investigation, but rather engulf it. It had required some rather creative scheduling to craft a plausible excuse for today’s trip, and as he disembarked at Farringham station Hollingsworth hoped it would be worth it.
The policeman walked briskly down the high street and entered the bank, where he was greeted by Percy Greenspan. The latter got straight to business.
‘Good morning chief inspector. I’ve compiled yesterday’s records for you to look at, and see the banknote in question for yourself. The five pound note was paid in by Mrs Wall, who owns the village store and post office in Upper Wentham, a small village some seven miles away. She pays her money in every Tuesday.
‘I took it upon myself to double-check our recent records, and found that another of the notes in question was paid in seventeen days ago. I was ill on the day in question,’ Percy’s tone indicated a quite unforgivable lapse in responsibility on his part, ‘and I’m afraid my subordinate was remiss in checking the banknote numbers against your list. Unfortunately after this time there is no way to find out by whom that note was paid in.’
Hollingsworth stared as Percy finally took a breath. This Percival Greenspan was a tall, rather gangly young man with pale skin and a hooked nose, but to detective inspector Hollingsworth he looked like an angel.
He scanned Percy’s efficiently transcribed documents and verified that the notes were indeed two of the ones given to Ronald Asbury by his bank shortly before his death. Percy gave him the location of Mrs Wall’s store, and before
long Hollingsworth was on his way to Upper Wentham.
(Although of no consequence to this story, the reader may like to know that Percy Greenspan eventually rose to become vice president of the entire Bath and Avon bank, and married a clever and beautiful woman who considered attention to detail the most important quality that a man could possess. His second son eventually went on to become undersecretary to the Chancellor of the Exchequer.)
Hollingsworth, meanwhile, was appreciating his answered prayer. Since the telephone call of the previous evening, doubts had plagued him: even if the notes turned out to be genuine, and not a mistake, was it really a lead? Could the note not simply have passed from hand to hand until it chanced upon Upper Wentham? How could he even be sure the note had come through Upper Wentham? Plenty of local villages must also use the Farringham branch.
Now though, his doubts faded. The note was genuine, it had come from Upper Wentham, the original home of the victim, and furthermore another one had too. It was possible, although extremely unlikely, that a banknote once belonging to Ronald Asbury innocently found its way to Upper Wentham. The independent arrival of a second, separate note was beyond the realms of chance. For the first time he had a clue which pointed somewhere.
Either Ronald Asbury had given that money to a certain person, for reasons yet to be determined, or else someone had stolen it from him; whichever the case, that person was linked with Upper Wentham. It followed that they knew Ronald Asbury from when he lived there, and the motive for his murder might well lie there too.
The first aim had to be to discover whether the note could be traced back to a particular person but, with the natural pessimism of a true Yorkshireman, Hollingsworth felt sure he had exhausted his luck for the day.
Hollingsworth was half-right.
