Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘No, she’s real enough,’ said Jack.

  ‘Then …’ She paused. ‘I just don’t understand it,’ she said, her voice close to breaking.

  ‘Are you sure you never came across her or heard the name, Mrs Shilton?’

  She shook her head blankly. ‘No, not as far as I know. One cannot remember every name one’s ever heard, of course, but, to the best of my knowledge, I’ve never heard of her before this latest outrage. An outrage, I may say, that Michael is completely innocent of.’

  Her voice was very definite. She was so certain that it made him pause. She’d been proclaiming her brother’s innocence for years, but could she actually know anything? He decided to probe a bit further.

  ‘You’re sure of that, aren’t you, Mrs Shilton?’

  ‘Of course. I have hardly made a secret of my beliefs.’

  He didn’t want belief, he wanted knowledge. ‘I think this is rather more than belief though, isn’t it?’

  Her eyes widened. Flustered, she started to stammer a reply, when a barge on the river hooted in a deafening blast of steam, drowning out her words. With a sense of boiling frustration, Jack knew the noise had given her a chance to think and startled her into wariness.

  ‘I don’t know what you mean,’ she said defensively.

  Dammit, thought Jack, the blasted woman was on the point of actually telling me something. ‘Mrs Shilton,’ he pleaded, ‘if you do know anything, tell me.’

  For a fleeting few seconds, he thought she was going to tell him and then she drew herself up. ‘Naturally I believe in my brother’s innocence. I always have done. My late husband, Alan, was of the same opinion.’

  They were back to belief and yet, she knew. What did she know?

  She tilted her chin upright and glared at him. ‘I suppose you’re about to tell me that Alan and I shouldn’t have helped him.’

  ‘No,’ said Jack sincerely. Even now, there was a chance. ‘You’re his sister and you believed in him. It’s only natural that you should help him.’ He paused. ‘You’re helping him now, aren’t you?’

  She stared at him wordlessly. As the noise of the traffic on the Embankment rumbled behind them, she looked at him for what seemed a long while. Then, with a great effort, she spoke. ‘Mr Haldean, I do not tell lies. When I tell you my brother is innocent, please do me the courtesy of believing what I say.’

  They were back to where they had started. ‘I certainly believe you are telling the truth as you see it.’

  ‘Then act upon it, young man!’

  ‘I need facts, Mrs Shilton.’

  She gave a disdainful sniff. ‘They are bound to be there if you choose to look for them.’

  She adjusted her coat and scarf and stood up. ‘You say that Mr Rackham is engaged this afternoon?’

  What did she know? What he wanted to do was see Bill, tell him that he was convinced that Mrs Shilton really did know something and see if official persuasion could get her to speak. ‘Why don’t you give him an hour or so?’ he said with a smile. ‘I’m sure he’ll make every effort to see you if it’s at all possible.’

  ‘An hour, you say?’ She looked thoughtful. ‘Very well. Thank you for your advice, Mr Haldean. I will act upon it. I trust the next time we meet, it will be in happier circumstances.’

  FOURTEEN

  Jack pulled out a chair and reached for a cigarette from the box on the desk. ‘I bumped into Mrs Shilton on the Embankment, Bill.’

  ‘Blimey, did you?’

  ‘I’m afraid so, yes. She intends to descend on you this afternoon. She’s breathing fire and fury because you’ve issued a warrant for Trevelyan.’

  ‘What does the blasted woman expect us to do?’ He looked at his friend. ‘Couldn’t you put her off? Say I’d left the country or something?’

  ‘Not really,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘The thing is, Bill, I’m sure she knows something.’

  ‘Well, that’s not new.’

  ‘Yes, but I’m certain of it. I hoped you might be able to get it out of her.’

  Bill gave an irritated sigh. ‘I can’t force her to tell us, Jack, much as I’d like to. Besides that, what we really want to know is where we can lay our hands on him. He’s far too wily a bird to let slip information like that, sister or no sister.’

  He flicked open the file on the desk in front of him and slewed it round so Jack could see. There was a photograph of a good-looking, broad-shouldered man in the doorway of a church. Beside him a pretty woman in an elaborate wedding dress smiled towards the camera. She had a distinct resemblance to Jennifer Langton.

  ‘She made a dickens of a fuss about us having this photo and, to be honest, I don’t know if it was really worth the trouble to get it. Not only is it years old, Trevelyan seems to be able to walk around London at will, without anyone noticing.’

  ‘Mrs Rotherwell noticed him,’ murmured Jack.

  ‘Yes, poor beggar. The flat was clean as a whistle, by the way. I thought as much, when we saw how the dust was undisturbed, but the fingerprint boys confirmed it.’

  He paused, running his finger round the photograph. ‘It’s funny to think these are Miss Langton’s parents.’ He looked up. ‘I’m glad she stuck to the name of Langton. If she was called Trevelyan, she’d get saddled with all sorts of publicity. That would be rotten for her.’

  ‘It’s pretty rotten as it is. She’s scared, Bill.’

  ‘She’s quite right to be scared. We need to get hold of this man and get him safely behind bars.’

  His voice was so vehement, Jack raised his eyebrows in surprise. ‘Calm down, Bill,’ he said, stubbing out his cigarette. ‘I can’t blame Jenny Langton for being rattled, but we don’t know he intends her any harm. After all, all he’s actually done is give her a brooch and pinch a photo from her room.’

  ‘We know perfectly well he’s capable of harm, though.’

  ‘But she’s his daughter.’

  ‘So what?’ Bill hesitated, trying to marshal his thoughts. ‘I don’t think we’re dealing with what I’d call a good, straightforward, crook.’

  Jack raised his eyebrows. ‘Straightforward?’

  ‘Yes, straightforward. I know it sounds strange, but just think about it. Why do crooks commit crimes?’

  Jack pursed his lips. ‘Because they want something, I suppose. Money, perhaps, is the obvious one.’

  ‘Exactly. A straightforward crook, to use that word, is a man who, if he wants money, will commit a robbery. There’s nothing wrong with wanting money. It’s a perfectly understandable ambition, but you know as well as I do that there are other types of crooks. Men with a kink, with a twist, somewhere in their characters. Now, take Trevelyan. Why did he murder Mrs Rotherwell?’

  ‘You know the answer as well as I do,’ said Jack with a shrug. ‘Amelia Rotherwell knew who he was. She was a danger to him.’

  ‘Was she?’ Bill got up and walked to the window. ‘Think about it, Jack. Yes, she told us she’d seen him. The first time, in St James’ Park, happened by complete chance. The second time, when she was with Jane Davenham, might have been chance as well, but I’m not so sure about that. And what does Trevelyan do? We know he can disguise himself, but does he do it? No. Does he disappear, as he managed to disappear years ago?’ He whirled round. ‘No. He tracks her to her hotel.’

  Jack stared at him. ‘I see what you mean.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Bill grimly. ‘He didn’t try and hide, but deliberately put himself in the one place where he knew she would be. Now d’you see what I mean about him not being straightforward? I think he’s got a kink or a twist that makes him toy with danger for the sheer satisfaction of getting away with it. He didn’t have to go to his daughter’s rooms in person. He could’ve easily have posted that brooch, but he didn’t. I know he took Miss Langton’s photograph and that idiot sister of his seems to find that rather touching. I don’t.’

  Bill stretched his shoulders. ‘If all he had wanted was a photograph, then he could’ve got one another way, maybe f
rom Mrs Shilton. She could’ve arranged that easily enough.’ He glanced at his friend. ‘Perhaps you’ll think I’m being overly dramatic, but I think he was marking possession, staking out territory.’

  Jack shook his head. ‘Bill, this is nothing but a nightmare.’

  ‘Is it? I tell you, Jack, he’s twisted.’

  He walked back to the desk and, leaning on his arms, shook his head. He stared down at the files wearily. ‘I’ve gone over those damn things until I can hardly see them any longer.’ He glanced at Jack. ‘Haven’t you got any ideas? You’re usually full of them.’

  The answer was that yes, he was beginning to have some ideas. They had come to him on the Embankment, before he had met Mrs Shilton, but his thoughts were so vague that even he hardly knew what they were. He needed to think, to fit them into a coherent shape, to find evidence, for heaven’s sake.

  ‘I’m not a magician,’ he said soberly. ‘I haven’t got a magic wand. I can’t rustle up theories out of thin air. I need some facts to work on.’

  The telephone on the desk rang. Bill picked it up. ‘Oh, is she?’ he said. ‘All right, I’ll come down.’ He hung up the receiver with a grimace. ‘Guess who’s downstairs, wanting to see me.’

  ‘Mrs Shilton?’ He glanced at his watch. ‘I asked her to give you an hour. She’s early.’

  ‘I might as well get it over with,’ said Bill with a sigh. ‘Look, I don’t want to hold you up, but could you go through the files again? I know you’ve seen them all before but something might strike you.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jack obligingly. He took another cigarette from the box and, lighting it, pulled the files towards him.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bill softly. ‘I’ll leave you to it.’

  He was gone for nearly half an hour. When he returned, he was surprised to see Jack sitting on the desk, telephone in hand. He waggled his eyebrows interrogatively. Jack made a silent shushing gesture.

  ‘Yes, Chief Inspector Rackham’s office,’ he said into the phone. ‘Now, if you can manage it. I’m very much obliged.’ He hung up the receiver and punched the air in satisfaction. ‘Yes!’

  ‘What the devil’s all that about?’ asked Bill. ‘Who were you speaking to?’

  Jack opened his mouth to speak and then stopped. ‘Actually, would you mind waiting a couple of ticks? I might not have a magic wand, but I’ve just asked for a magician. In a manner of speaking, that is. I don’t want to spoil the show. Did you get anything out of Mrs Shilton?’

  ‘No, but like you, I’m convinced she really does know something. What d’you mean, a magician?’

  ‘Wait and see,’ said Jack with a smile.

  ‘Just as you say,’ said Bill. He took his pipe from his pocket and filled it with an air of highly put-upon patience.

  A few minutes later, a knock came at the door and Jack, getting swiftly to his feet, opened it to admit a rather severe-looking, grey-haired lady in an old-fashioned dress and a pince-nez.

  ‘Miss Hollander?’ said Jack, pulling out a chair for her. ‘It’s good of you to come.’

  ‘Not at all, Mr Haldean,’ said Miss Hollander, settling herself stiffly on the chair. She bestowed a quick, if wintery, smile upon Bill. ‘And you are, I take it, Chief Inspector Rackham?’

  ‘I am, Miss Hollander. Pleased to meet you.’ He frowned. ‘I’m sure I’ve come across your name before.’

  ‘I have, on occasion, given evidence in court as an expert witness,’ said Miss Hollander.

  Bill looked at Jack. ‘Is this your magician?’ he asked.

  Jack nodded with a smile.

  ‘Magician?’ repeated Miss Hollander with a frown. ‘I’m afraid you’re under a misapprehension, sir.’

  ‘Miss Hollander,’ interjected Jack, ‘is attached to the British Museum and is an authority on medieval palimpsests.’

  Bill blinked. ‘Good grief, Jack, I know this case goes back a few years, but not to the Middle Ages.’

  ‘She is also,’ continued Jack, ‘one of the country’s leading experts – in fact, I might say, the leading expert – on handwriting, who has often advised Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I knew I knew the name,’ said Bill.

  ‘And to be an expert on handwriting, Miss Hollander,’ said Jack, ‘is, to us mere mortals, something akin to magic.’

  ‘Too kind,’ she murmured, accepting the praise as her due. ‘It was indeed fortunate that I was in the building when you telephoned. May I see the documents in question?’

  Jack gave her two sheets of paper. Bill recognised one as the letter they’d found under the blotter in Trevelyan’s flat. The other sheet of paper was evidently older. It was, he realised with surprise, the forged letter, supposedly from Caroline Trevelyan, that had been filed in the original documents in the Trevelyan case.

  Miss Hollander adjusted her pince-nez and examined the letters. ‘Oh, yes,’ she said after a brief examination. ‘This is very clear.’ She put down the letters and, opening her bag, took out a magnifying glass. ‘I can immediately identify fifteen distinguishing characteristics. I would expect to find more on closer examination. You can see for yourself the similarity of the cursive a and the way the t is formed.’

  She looked up at Jack in approval. ‘I’m not surprised you spotted it, Mr Haldean. It really is quite unmistakable.’

  ‘Excuse me, but what’s unmistakable?’ asked Bill.

  Miss Hollander looked at him over the top of her pince-nez. ‘Why, the fact that the letters were written by the same person, of course.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘There’s no doubt about it,’ said Miss Hollander, obviously taken aback by Bill’s tone. ‘This letter,’ she said, tapping the one signed by Caroline, ‘bears signs that the writer has attempted to either conceal their identity or imitate another’s handwriting. However, as you can see for yourself,’ she said, handing Bill the letters and the magnifying glass, ‘the dimensions and proportions of the letters, the spacing both between and within words, and the way in which words and letters are connected are obvious indications that the same hand penned both letters.’

  ‘Michael Trevelyan,’ said Bill in a whisper. ‘He did forge the letter from his wife.’

  Jack cleared his throat. ‘Excuse me, Miss Hollander, but did a man write this?’

  ‘It is impossible to say, Mr Haldean.’

  ‘Are you sure?’ he said in surprise. ‘After all, in detective stories, everyone seems to be able to tell right away if a letter’s written by a man or a woman.’

  ‘Then detective novelists, Mr Haldean – including yourself, I may say – should consult the facts before helping to promulgate a widely-held error. Other indications, such as scent, coloured ink or the smell of strong pipe tobacco may lead to a presumption of the writer’s sex, but to make a judgement from the handwriting alone? No.’

  She retrieved the magnifying glass from the table and stood up. ‘Is that all? If you want me to give evidence to the court, Chief Inspector, I will, of course, examine the documents again and draw up a list of identifying characteristics.’

  ‘I just wanted to know if they were written by the same person,’ said Jack.

  ‘The answer is a very definite yes.’

  Jack opened the door for her and turned back to Bill, eyes shining. ‘What d’you think of that? Magic, eh?’

  ‘It’s incredible,’ said Bill, pulling the letters towards him. ‘What on earth made you spot it?’

  ‘Pure chance. I’d had both letters out of the file and on the desk. Then, without looking properly, I picked up what I thought was the Caroline letter but was actually the one from Jane Davenham. I wondered why on earth I’d made that mistake, and that made me look not at the words, but the actual writing. It was what Miss Hollander called the dimensions and proportions of the letters that really struck me. The more I looked, the more similar they seemed, so I thought I’d better get an expert on the job.’

  ‘I’m very glad you did,’ said Bill, sitting back. He re-lit his pipe and flicked
the match into the ashtray. ‘So that’s it. We look for the common thread between Caroline Trevelyan’s murder – I’m going to assume she was murdered – and Mrs Rotherwell’s murder and the common thread is, surprise, surprise, Michael Trevelyan.’

  ‘All right,’ said Jack. ‘It’s obvious why Trevelyan should write the first letter. He wanted to convince the police that his wife had run away. But why should he write the second?’

  ‘Because …’ Bill paused. ‘I don’t know. That’s really odd. There doesn’t seem to be any reason. We know he didn’t send it. Do you think we were meant to find it?’

  ‘If we were, what’s it told us?’

  Bill pulled the partly-finished letter towards him and read through it again. ‘Nothing we didn’t know already.’ He looked up. ‘What’s the point of it, Jack?’

  ‘If Michael Trevelyan wrote it? I really don’t know. It could be a rough draft of a letter to entice Mrs Rotherwell to the flat, I suppose. But say Jane Davenham wrote it.’

  ‘But she …’

  Jack held up a hand to quell Bill’s protests. ‘We know from the porter at the flats that Mrs Rotherwell and Jane Davenham came in to the building together, so it looks as if Jane Davenham was instrumental in getting Mrs Rotherwell to visit the flat that day. I was beginning to wonder about her, you know.’

  Bill gave him a sceptical look.

  ‘Honestly, I really was. Think about it. Mrs Rotherwell was a highly respectable lady, yes? Now just think what a highly respectable lady would do on finding out that an old friend was in an irregular relationship. Take a line through any maiden aunts you happen to have.’

  Bill put his head on one side thoughtfully. ‘She’d probably have forty fits and break off the friendship,’ he said slowly.

  ‘Exactly. I asked Mrs Shilton and she said the same.’

  ‘That seems a rum sort of conversation,’ commented Bill. ‘Do you usually ask middle-aged ladies what their views are on couples living over the brush?’

  ‘Not as a general rule,’ said Jack with a laugh. ‘It all came up very naturally. Trust me. I didn’t give anything away, but she was certain that would be Mrs Rotherwell’s reaction. You saw the flat. It was obvious that a man lived there. As soon as Mrs Rotherwell walked in, she’d be scandalised. Her reaction would probably be to exclaim in horror and then walk out – unless she was prevented.’