by Evelyn James
“Worth a try,” Park-Coombs agreed. “I’ll put it at your disposal, but I don’t hold out much hope. Seems to me that man’s mind is shot.”
“Have a little faith, Inspector.”
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Clara was accompanied by Sarah Butler that evening when they went to the hospital. Sarah had brought the book of photographs and was there on an official capacity – if Peterson picked out a face from the pictures, she was to note it down and report to Park-Coombs. However, before going to the hospital, Clara had to pay a visit to Lovall Road.
Mary Parkes opened the door of No.10, looking very tired and worried. There was a hopefulness on her face when she saw Clara, which was unsettling to see. Clara had to let her down quickly.
“I don’t know where Mortimer is,” she said.
“No, why would you,” Mrs Parkes groaned, before a thought struck her. “How did you know he was missing?”
“Because your grandfather’s knife turned up at a murder scene. It was used to stab a friend of mine.”
Mary Parkes went white.
“I think you better come in,” she said, and ushered them through to the back room where once again Edward Basildon was working on his matchstick model.
He had had time to build it up and it was now plain it was going to be a ship of some description. The old man glanced up as Clara and Sarah entered the room.
“Grandfather’s knife has been used to kill someone,” Mrs Parkes burst into tears the second she was in the room and slumped into a chair.
Edward looked shocked for a moment, then his face hardened.
“Mortimer,” he said. “Have the police arrested him?”
“The police cannot find him,” Clara replied. “Your grandfather’s knife was used to stab a woman who perished, it was then stabbed into the back of a friend of mine. Private Peterson. He is in the hospital fighting for his life.”
The last was a lie, but it would cover why Peterson had not been able to say who was behind the attack.
“I am sorry,” Edward grimaced. “To think my grandfather’s knife was used to stab a soldier, and a woman. After all that it stood for…”
“Mortimer is not a killer,” Mary Parkes interrupted, finding her resolve again despite her despair. “He has fallen in with the wrong people, that’s all.”
“Mortimer was always easily led,” Edward snorted. “He doesn’t take after my side of the family.”
“Do you know anything about Mortimer’s friends? Their names? Where they worked or lived?” Clara asked. “As you may imagine, I want to track down who is responsible for hurting my friend.”
“Mortimer never spoke about his friends,” Mary said. “He knew neither I, nor his grandfather approved of them.”
“They were criminals, I could tell that,” Edward muttered. “I said that lad would get into trouble, Mary, if he didn’t get a regular job and settle down.”
Mary just shook her head.
“It could be that Mortimer has become involved with a gang,” Clara persisted. “Did he ever mention something like that? Or maybe you overheard something you weren’t meant to?”
“If I knew anything, I would tell you,” Mary swore. “I know my son is not a killer, but something has to be done to get him out of the clutches of these terrible people.”
“Bah! You give him too much credit!” Edward snapped. “If he killed someone, then he will hang for it, as is right and proper.”
“Oh no!” Mary Parkes wept into her hands. “Don’t say that!”
“Do you have a photograph of Mortimer I could borrow?” Clara asked hastily, before father and daughter descended into another argument. “I would like to show it to some people and see if they know where he is.”
Mary was weeping too much to reply. Edward Basildon grumbled to himself then rose from his chair and shuffled to the bureau where he had looked for his grandfather’s knife. He pulled open a drawer and produced a photograph album. Turning to the last pages, he drew out a photograph of Mortimer.
“His mother insisted on taking it the day before he had to go to the army recruitment office. When he was called up, she feared she would never see him again,” Edward scowled. “More’s the pity he didn’t get taken on and died in France. Then he would be a hero, rather than a scoundrel, and I could have some respect for him.”
Clara took the photograph and expressed her thanks. There was nothing else she could say; she and Sarah departed the house, where they had only added to the misery of Mary Parkes and her father.
“Delightful people,” Sarah said drily as they headed for the hospital.
“Mortimer Parkes has a lot to answer for,” Clara replied. “Though, the pressures he was under from his grandfather to be like a man he never met, probably did not help.”
Sarah tutted and cast up her eyes, as if that was obvious.
They arrived at the hospital in time for the start of the visiting hour and headed upstairs. The police constable was still on guard outside Private Peterson’s room and nodded as Sarah and Clara approached. They went inside and found Peterson as he had been on every occasion previous – flat on his belly, staring at the floor as there was nothing else to look at. His wound was going to take time to heal and until it did, he was not allowed to move or turn over. He looked depressed, which Clara could well understand.
“Peterson,” she said softly.
The young man seemed to take a moment to register her presence then turned his head a little to look at her. Clara sat in the chair beside his bed.
“There is good news at last. We know where the knife came from and the police are no longer considering you a suspect in this case,” that was pushing the truth, but Clara knew the evidence they had gathered all pointed at someone other than Peterson as the killer.
The young man’s eyes brightened.
“I didn’t kill her?”
“No. It appears that the woman was killed because of something she had said. Another man has been found dead, her boyfriend, and he was killed the Sunday before she died. We have a witness who can describe the men who murdered him and neither of them were you.”
Peterson started to breathe fast.
“I had convinced myself I had murdered her,” he said. “I thought I would deserve to hang.”
“And that is ridiculous,” Clara informed him. “All those who care about you and know you have said over and over that you would not do such a thing. But, the real killer is still out there and I am hoping you might be able to help find him.”
Peterson frowned.
“How? I am stuck in this bed.”
“I just need you to look at these pictures and see if any of them seem familiar,” Clara told him, holding up the photograph album. “They might even jog your memory as to what happened that night.”
“I shall try,” Peterson said, his voice stronger as he filled with hope. There was at last a light in his eyes that suggested a will to go on, a will to fight this. Clara could not say aloud how relieved she was to see that look, nor did she let her emotions show in that moment. She had to focus on the task at hand.
“I’ll go through the photographs and all you need to do is say if the face rings a bell. You don’t have to say why, just call out if the face is familiar,” Clara opened the album and began turning the pages slowly.
Peterson frowned in deep concentration, barely blinking as he scanned the photographs. For several minutes he said nothing, then he reached out his hand and touched a photograph.
“Him,” he said. “I recognise him.”
Clara smiled. Peterson had pointed out the photograph of Robert Hartley.
“He looks… different,” Peterson said, beginning to doubt himself.
Clara hastened to explain why the face had looked familiar.
“This is the man who helped you after you collapsed in the alley. This picture was taken several years ago, but he has not changed that much.”
“He is a criminal?” Peterson looked anxious.
“He was. He leads an honest life now. He saved you,” Clara let this news sink in, then added. “You see, your memory is not as faulty as you feared.”
Peterson had not realised this when he first touched the picture, now the information sank in and he looked even more ecstatic.
“I remembered,” he said, the amazement plain on his face.
“Exactly,” Clara grinned. “Let’s see if any other faces are familiar.”
She continued to turn the pages, but she ended up at the last page without Peterson seeing anyone else he knew.
“I’m sorry,” he said sadly.
“It’s not your fault. The people could not have been in this book. Maybe they have never had their photograph taken by the police,” Clara reassured him. “There is one last picture I would like you to take a look at.”
Sarah handed the photograph of Mortimer Parkes to Clara. Clara placed it on the open final page of the photograph album where Peterson could have a good view. She watched as Peterson took in the image and his eyes widened.
“You recognise him,” Clara stated, she could see it on the young man’s face.
“He…” Peterson paused to swallow. He took a moment to study the picture closer. “He was the man with the knife.”
“You saw him holding the knife?” Clara asked.
“Y…yes,” Peterson considered the picture. “He was angry, it made his face look… different. But this is him.”
“Peterson, this is the most you have remembered of that night, do you see how important this is?”
Peterson didn’t understand.
“This must prove to you that you did not stab that woman. There was this man with the knife. His name is Mortimer Parkes. Remember you said the woman shouted something? You thought she said ‘monster’, when really she was shouting the killer’s name, Mortimer,” Clara paused. “Do you recall anything else?”
Peterson gave a small sigh and kept looking at the picture.
“Nothing much,” he admitted. “But…”
“But what?” Clara gently nudged him.
“There is this vague picture in my head, rather like a dream. I… I can’t be sure it is correct.”
“Tell me about it anyway,” Clara persisted. “I want to know.”
“In it… in it I see this man yelling at a woman. I can’t make out the words, but they are arguing fiercely, and I see the knife in this man’s right hand and this sick feeling comes over me, rather as if I know something awful is about to happen…”
“Go on,” Clara said. “I want to hear it all.”
“I see the man lose his temper and go to strike out with the knife and I rush forward thinking I will stop him, but at the same time knowing I won’t be in time…” Peterson shut his eyes. “Then things become… strange. There is this blank part, where there seems to be nothing, no picture to fill it and then I have this vivid recollection of the pain in my back. I don’t really remember anything after that.”
“You have remembered enough,” Clara promised him, resting a hand on his shoulder. “You didn’t kill this woman, Peterson, you were trying to save her. You are a hero; you have always been a hero.”
Peterson winced at the word, as if it stung, then his eyes filled with tears.
“Do you mean that?”
“I do,” Clara swore. “You put your life at risk to try to help a stranger. That you were not near enough to succeed is not your fault. You acted exactly as I would have expected of you, exactly as Captain O’Harris would expect. You are not a murderer, or a dangerous lunatic. You are a good man, a brave man, who nearly died trying to stop a thug.”
Tears slipped down Peterson’s face.
“You don’t know what it means to me to learn I am not a killer,” he said, choked with emotion. “I had lost all faith in myself.”
“Never doubt yourself again,” Clara told him.
The visiting hour bell rang out. Clara squeezed his shoulder.
“Captain O’Harris would like to be able to visit you, will you let him?”
Peterson nodded, then he turned his face into the pillow to hide his sobs. Clara and Sarah left him in peace, to shed tears of joy and relief over the discovery that he was not a wicked man after all.
Back in the hospital foyer, Clara contemplated what to do next.
“There is probably enough here to charge Mortimer Parkes with murder,” Sarah voiced exactly what Clara was thinking. “We just don’t know where to find him. He might disappear for good.”
“That’s what worries me,” Clara agreed.
“We need to find a way to lure him out,” Sarah said. “I doubt he will risk going back home, though we have a constable watching the house. He has to have a good reason to reveal himself and take the chance of being caught.”
“Maybe being offered a way of avoiding murder charges?” Clara mused.
Sarah gave her a questioning look.
“Mortimer is clever enough to work out the police will connect him with his great grandfather’s missing knife, he also knows his grandfather will have no qualms reporting the theft and pointing the finger at his grandson,” Clara explained.
“We’ve already had the old man at the station telling us all about it,” Sarah nodded.
“The knife alone, however, might not be enough to convict Mortimer of murder. At least, that’s what we want Mortimer to think. If he were to believe that the real danger to his freedom and his neck, is an eye-witness to the murder, then he might take a chance to eradicate that threat.”
“Private Peterson!” Sarah said, grasping the idea. “Use him as bait?”
“Not literally,” Clara replied. “Just, place the thought in Mortimer’s head that he needs to be rid of Peterson for good. Then hope he will be reckless enough to come to the hospital and try to dispatch him.”
“We set a trap,” Sarah fully understood. “Spread the word through the usual sources that the police have a witness to the killing and that he is at the hospital.”
“I think Robert Hartley could be key to this,” Clara said. “He is in the right place to spread talk and I bet his mother is a good gossip.”
“Before we do anything, I shall have to run this past Inspector Park-Coombs,” Sarah continued. “I think this could be the only way to catch our man.”
“And then maybe we shall have a better idea of what was going on in that alley,” Clara nodded. “Maybe.”
“The Inspector is quite concerned about that, he thinks there is something big going on, right under his nose. You know how much he dislikes that,” Sarah added. “He will be glad to catch Mortimer Parkes.”
“Well, let’s just hope we can create a tempting enough trap for this big rat.”
Chapter Twenty-Eight
It was not difficult to convince Park-Coombs that the only way to catch Mortimer Parkes was to lure him out of hiding. He liked the idea and agreed to go ahead with the plan. Clara paid a call on Robert Hartley the next day with Sarah. The ex-gangster was fixing a shoe in his back yard when they arrived. He looked up at them sourly.
“If you have no news, I don’t want to talk to you,” he complained. “Most of the street won’t talk to my wife or my mother now, they think we are fools and don’t want to be associated with us in case it gets them into trouble.”
“What if I could offer you a way to change that?” Clara said.
“What do you mean?” Robert asked suspiciously.
“Supposing you had seen the error of your ways in helping that young man the other night, and you happened to have gathered some important information about where he was and what he remembers of the incident?” Clara said. “And supposing you passed this along to those who would find this information useful, as a means of warning them.”
Robert was listening keenly.
“You want me to stitch someone up,” he observed.
Clara smiled; Robert Hartley had been around, and he knew how things worked.
“Ever heard of a man called Mortim
er Parkes?” She said.
Robert nodded.
“He works around here. I don’t take any interest in the gang that is keeping this neighbourhood in fear, you know that, I don’t want to know anything. But Mortimer is hard to miss. He is one of the gang’s enforcers and likes to swagger about with a knife.”
“Was it Mortimer you saw the night Peterson was hurt?” Clara asked.
Robert shook his head.
“One of the other thugs,” he replied.
“Well, we are pretty certain it was Mortimer who stabbed that woman and Peterson, but he has gone into hiding. We want to lure him out.”
Robert smirked.
“I know how this one works. So, what information do you want me to make sure gets back to Mortimer’s ears?”
“I need you to tell him that the man he stabbed has regained consciousness in hospital and remembers everything. That he has identified Mortimer from a photograph and says he stabbed both the woman and himself. Tell him, this young man is the key to the police’s case against him, without his testimony, they will have nothing substantial.”
Robert nodded, still with that smile on his face.
“I dare say I can do that.”
~~~*~~~
That evening the rain clouds clagged in and it was a foul night to be out. A man wrapped up in a heavy raincoat and with a trilby hat pulled down firmly on his head entered the hospital just as the bell for visiting time went. He took a moment to shake water from his coat and hat, then he headed for the staircase, seemingly certain of where he was going.
On the second floor he walked along the corridor and paused by a map on the wall, as if suddenly lost. He had one eye on the police constable stood before a private room, but it would have seemed to a casual observer that he was merely studying the layout of the hospital. After a moment he walked away from the map and back down the corridor. He turned a corner and then bent double and started to shout for help.
A nurse appeared from a ward and asked what was the matter? Pretending to gasp for breath, the man informed her that someone had just run into him and taken his wallet. The thief had run off towards the stairs. The nurse, as he had expected, darted to the end of the corridor and called to the handy police constable that they had a pickpocket wandering the hospital. The constable obediently abandoned his post to attend to the drama.
