Shelf Life

by Douglas Clark

  “Certainly. But what are you saying, George?”

  “We walked along the High Street yesterday afternoon. Past the front of that empty shop.”

  “What about it?”

  “Think, Bill, think. What did Sutcliffe say—according to the reports we got yesterday morning—when he described what he was going to do after he left the station at noon on Tuesday?”

  “He was coming down here to see Morton to get some medicine for his missus.”

  “And why was he coming all this way to see a chemist?”

  “Because the one near the nick had just closed down,” said Green flatly. “And the empty shop on the High Street is the empty chemist’s shop and the rubbish in the garden is the accumulation of years in that shop and among that rubbish was a carton of ten, out-of-date but still potent, ampoules each containing two hundred milligrams of gold salt which Joe Howlett nicked and then proceeded to add to Miss Foulger’s wine because she had come the old acid with him in court and he wanted to pay her back.”

  “That’s it,” said Masters. “Simple, isn’t it? That silly woman, whose heart is probably twice life-size under normal conditions, has to show her authority by uttering words which, though probably justified, are so ill-chosen and wounding that, in one morning, she can arouse one man to the pitch of wanting to harm her and another to want to rob her, all of which sets in motion a train of events that ends in murder. You know, Bill, there’s a lot to be said for a few good honest cuss words directed at backsliders—as opposed to sarcasm and satire.”

  “I’m with you all the way,” said Green. “Now, I suppose we have to visit the old boy at the closed-down shop.”

  “I even recall his name,” mourned Masters. “James Stanmore, M.P.S., Chemist and Druggist. It was in gold letters on the fascia board. I noted it when we sauntered past yesterday afternoon.”

  As the sergeants and W.P.C. Prior came towards them, Green said: “I wonder just how much that fish-wife’s treatment of Howlett played a part in driving him to seek revenge on all women? She must have stirred him up more than enough to make him return to get his own back on her so soon, so probably she was the final straw in determining him to play his tricks on Foulger.”

  “Corby played her part,” agreed Masters.

  Chapter Eight

  It was five o’clock in the afternoon when Masters reported to the Chief Constable of Colesworth. Also present besides Masters’ own colleagues were D.C.S. Crewkerne, C.S. Warne, Inspector Snell and—at Masters’ request—Sergeant Watson, Constable Sutcliffe, W.P.C. Prior and Professor Haywood.

  “You have brought Joe Howlett in, I hear,” said Crewkerne.

  “With the Chief Constable’s agreement.”

  “Masters is going to put us all in the know,” said the C.C. “I have asked him to do that because this murder has affected some of us here very intimately and others of us have had the pleasure and honour of working with the Chief Superintendent over the past couple of days. Would you, therefore, please go ahead, Mr Masters.”

  The report took a little time because the senior officers present—with the exception of the C.C., who had been briefed earlier—were as yet unaware of the nature of the toxic agent that had killed Boyce, and so Masters had to describe this in detail. For the rest, however, he glossed over the thought processes and deductions which had caused him to question Haywood, which had leached the information from Morton and which had caused him to recall the bonfire and its significance.

  When he came to the end, he added: “Mr Stanmore, the retiring chemist, has stated that he did throw out on to the rubbish heap a box of ten two hundred milligram ampoules of sodium aurothiomalate. They had lain unnoticed for years at the back of a shelf in some dark corner of his dispensary. He sold all his stocks of those drugs which were still within their shelf life. But there were a few—the gold among them—which, because of their age, were unacceptable to other pharmacists.”

  “Damn careless of him to throw them on a heap in his garden, though,” said Warne.

  “Not quite as irresponsible as it may seem,” replied Masters. “All the liquids, powders and tablets he had to dispose of were flushed away down the loo. But ampoules cannot be disposed of in that way. As we know, he intended to destroy them by fire. Unfortunately he hadn’t counted on his rubbish heap becoming an attraction for a professional picker-over of such dumps as Joe Howlett.”

  But Warne persisted: “What if kids had got in there, before Howlett? They could have been killed.”

  “True. But that is the wisdom of hindsight talking. A piece of broken window pane which any householder may deposit in his garden would constitute a danger to marauding children, as do all sorts of garden sprays and tools.”

  Warne obviously wasn’t happy with this point of view, but he did not pursue his point.

  Crewkerne said: “I suppose somebody is combing that rubbish heap at the moment?”

  “Of course. A little of it was burned, but none of it beyond recognition. It is being combed at the moment because we must ensure that the ampoules are no longer there. I think you will agree—having heard how scarce ampoules of this particular strength are these days—that it would be an unbelievable coincidence if another ten were to turn up in Colesworth at this particular time. But we must be sure. I would add that the dump will be guarded until it is disposed of.”

  Crewkerne nodded. “I was wondering why some of my people had been taken off for unspecified duties.”

  “Sorry, Aubrey,” said the C.C. “I couldn’t get hold of you when Masters asked.”

  “I promised him all the help he needed,” said Crewkerne. “And if that’s all he’s asking, we’re getting off lightly. But I would like to ask Masters one big question, about something that he didn’t really explain fully.”

  “What’s that exactly?” asked Masters.

  “You’ve done a grand job in double-quick time. But from an outsider’s point of view, it seemed as if you went about it from the outside in instead of the other way about.”

  “Exactly what I told him,” said Green. “But he isn’t daft. He had to break in somewhere.”

  “Right,” said Crewkerne. “So how did you break in so soon, young Masters?”

  “There was nothing magical about it,” replied Masters. “Always one of the first questions one must ask is whether anybody apparently held a grudge against the victim. According to your local newspaper, Watson had a grudge because of his daughter and Sutcliffe had one because of the leniency of the court. But there was one other. I didn’t know who it was. But somebody had enough of a grudge against Boyce to discredit him to Mr Snell. Now Mr Snell knows Joe Howlett—has known him for many years—as an eccentric but honest, sober man who places himself voluntarily into the hands of the local police when it suits him to do so, and thereafter co-operates amicably in what comes after.

  “But I suggest Mr Snell has only ever met Howlett when he, Howlett, is the suppliant succeeding in his aims. Never before has he met Howlett when the tramp’s designs have been thwarted. So Mr Snell’s picture of Howlett is incomplete; only half a portrait. And he judges the man on what he knows of him. That means he could not believe that Howlett would bear a grudge, even though he told tales to the police about Boyce and his friends. Mr Snell believed the information was given to him out of some sort of regard for the police, not out of pique engendered by a ticking-off from the bench, coupled with a refusal by the magistrates to sentence him. But I am a stranger here. I know nothing of Howlett. Consequently, when I heard that Howlett had grassed on Boyce, I treated it as though the squeal sprang from a genuine dislike of the lad. And that is where I broke into the circle. In the event, I was wrong. Howlett spoke out of anger and pique, like a small child in a tantrum lashing out at whatever is nearest, as opposed to speaking out of dislike of Boyce. But it didn’t matter. It was the door that let me in to begin nosing round.”

  “And you did that before you knew what the Professor had to tell you?” asked Crewkerne.
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  “Yes. The toxic substance was important as were the amounts of it in the body and all the other forensic details. But really and truly, whatever the poison turned out to be merely affected the tracing of the substance, not the motives behind its use. That the two problems were intertwined merely meant that the unravelling of both could be done simultaneously.”

  “But, Chief,” said Betty Prior, colouring as the heads of her own senior officers turned towards her. “Mr Green told you some story about a tin of bully beef that had been left over from the Boer War being still safe to eat. It had no relevance to any case, and yet you could make a decision about a murder in Colesworth because of his story.”

  “What exactly is your point, Betty?”

  “Well, Chief, it just doesn’t seem like criminal investigation to me. It’s . . . well, it’s more like a trick.”

  Masters smiled. “You are misjudging the part Mr Green played. He was on the same wavelength as myself throughout. At just the right time, when he could see I was struggling with some point, the solution to which seemed obvious to him, he gave me his advice by telling me a pertinent story. Had he made a bald statement of his beliefs, it might possibly have not been so convincing. He knew that, so he authenticated his advice by telling an anecdote about a situation that paralleled our own. You do much the same all the time—in essence—when you compare one crime with a similar one.”

  “That’s right, lass,” said Green. “We went to a cake shop for a chat, remember. We went because Sergeant Watson had told us Howlett went there last Tuesday. You were there with us. You heard how we were able to make use of the shop assistant’s knowledge of Howlett’s habits. The Chief Super told you, and the rest of us, that the info he got there suggested that old Joe had fouled Mrs Corby’s wellies. But we understood, where you didn’t, that if that were true, then it meant that Howlett was still in a revengeful mood on Tuesday night. So, if he was still in a mood to do the dirty on Mrs Corby so late at night, how much more likely was he to have done the dirty on Miss Foulger some hours earlier, before his anger had had any time at all to cool off? You can’t explain this sort of team thinking and understanding because they only come with working together over a long time. And remember, too, that every team is different.”

  “Right,” said Crewkerne. “And it depends on how lucky a team is in its separate members fitting in together. Any team can get a long way by working by the book and sticking to routine. But when everybody concerned is prepared to work in one particular way—whether by the book or, as in this case by leaning heavily on expertise and experience—then the team is liable to go further, quicker.”

  Snell spoke up.

  “Have you charged Howlett with murder, Mr Masters?”

  “Not yet. But he will have to be charged very soon. He has made a statement—a co-operative one as you would expect.”

  “But it won’t be murder, will it?”

  “Why not?”

  “Because the intent was not there. He did not intend to kill Boyce.”

  “He intended to kill,” said Masters. “Furthermore, it was a planned operation. He stole the means of encompassing death. He worked stealthily. He went to the house specifically to plant a toxic substance. He took care to remove the empty ampoules—even though he was careless enough to drop the snapped tops. All those factors show intent to kill by stealth. Who the victim was is immaterial. His defence will undoubtedly be that he did not intend to kill Boyce. But the lad died as a result of Howlett’s criminal activities. We must, therefore, charge him with murder. The legal authorities may lessen the charge. That is their business, not ours.”

  “When will you charge him?” asked the C.C.

  “This evening, sir, unless you have any objections. The inquest is tomorrow at eleven, I believe?”

  “Yes.”

  “I think Howlett should appear before the magistrates before that, sir. Say at ten o’clock. It will be a brief appearance, because I’ve no doubt his solicitor will want to reserve his defence. Then we can go to the inquest with a man already charged. That should achieve two objects. It will curtail the inquest because the arrest of Howlett will have forestalled the verdict, and it will nail the press. It was because of intemperate reporting that we were brought here. Now is the opportunity to show the public how ridiculous the innuendoes about the police were. To this end, I hope the coroner will let Professor Haywood speak to exonerate your men totally, so that nobody can murmur the old saw that there’s no smoke without fire and that we’ve arrested a harmless old tramp as a cover-up.”

  “I find that eminently satisfactory,” said the Chief Constable.

  “At least,” said Green, “old Joe will get the prison sentence he wanted.”

  Tom Watson said: “I told him to behave himself or he’d get more than he bargained for.”

  Masters looked at Warne. “Perhaps Mr Snell could put the formal charge.”

  “I’d rather not,” said Snell. “I mean . . . well, you know I know him.”

  “I’ll do it myself,” said Warne. “Now?”

  “If you please. It is six o’clock and we might as well wrap this up for the night.”

  As Warne rose, the C.C. said: “Before we break up, I’d like to say thank you to Mr Masters, Mr Green and Sergeants Reed and Berger. They’ve done a magnificent job and all of us here are relieved to have the matter resolved so quickly.”

  “Hear, hear,” said Haywood. “I’ve found it fascinating—and educational.”

  Masters murmured something about it having been a pleasure. Green, already on his feet, said: “You’d have done it yourselves easily enough. The trouble was you were knocked sideways because the lad died in one of your cells. So you didn’t spark quite soon enough.”

  “We thought the death was due to natural causes, Bill,” said Crewkerne.

  “I know, matey. And your police surgeon said the lad hadn’t been knocked about, so you dismissed violence from your minds—out of sheer relief, I suspect. And then that bloody reporter weighed in and effectively stopped you from taking any action. All I’m saying is that there should be some rule for us cops that says that every unexplained death is murder until it is proved not to be.”

  “I see your point,” said Crewkerne heavily. “And I admit we should have been quicker off the mark. But . . .” He shrugged. “We’re so taken up these days with keeping a good image that we don’t do our job as we should. Leastways not always.”

  Masters smiled at Crewkerne. “That can’t be right. At any rate as far as I know this is the first time the Yard has been called down to this neck of the woods, so the policing can’t be all that bad.” He looked around. “We shall see you all tomorrow morning. Mr Snell, you’ll let me know what time the court is, and there’s just one other thing.”

  “What’s that, sir?”

  “Make sure Miss Foulger isn’t on the bench. Your magistrates will all have to be unconnected with the case.”

  “We’ll make sure all three are different.”

  “Good.”

  When they were once more alone, Masters said to Reed, “You and Berger are free. You’re taking Pam Watson out. Why not ask Betty Prior to make a foursome?”

  “Good idea, Chief. Thanks. But is there any particular reason . . .?”

  “Just to say thank you to Betty and because whenever male police officers are dealing with women, it’s as well to have a W.P.C. in attendance. It’s more seemly and, I think, Tom Watson and his missus would think it was.”

  “I see. It’s not a duty job then?”

  “Oh, but it is. I want that girl treated so chivalrously that it will complete her re-education about coppers. By tomorrow I want her thinking that policemen are the goods and that her father—in her eyes—is once more a god among men.”

  “Got it, Chief. What will you be doing?”

  “I think the D.C.I. and I have decided to ask Tom Watson and his missus round for a drink, haven’t we, Bill?”

  “We have that. Young Sutcli
ffe says his missus is feeling better now, so I’ve asked them, too. Just to restore morale, like.”

  Masters grinned. “None of your rhyming games tonight.”

  “No pitch, patch, pepper?”

  “Skip it.”

  Masters wandered towards the door. As he reached it, he turned to face Green. “In the version of that flea one that I used to know, the last line was ‘Here comes father with his shirt hanging out’. No mention of his tongue hanging out—as Haywood quoted it.”

  “Well, I’ll be damned,” said Green. “I wouldn’t have thought you’d have known anything about it.”

  They walked out of the recreation room together. “Both versions could be apposite,” said Masters. “It all depends how one views the situation.”

  “Right. He could have come along with his shirt hanging out because he’d dashed in to see what his missus was caterwauling about—interrupted in his toilette, you might say. Or he could have barged in with his tongue hanging out because he was thirsty and he was a bit put out at the prospect of not getting any tea—the flea having escaped.”

  Berger and Reed were following them. Reed turned to Berger, lifted his eyes in mock despair and whispered: “Senior detectives! I ask you! The tongue or shirt-tail mystery!”

  “And this pitch, patch, pepper business. What’s all that about?”

  “I can’t say exactly, but I do know that peppers—in that context—are very fast jumps when skipping.”

  “In that case, well, the Chief did a few peppers himself. Quick skips to a solution, you might say.”

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