by Granger, Ann
‘I am dismayed, Mrs Ross. I fully understand you have a way of . . .’ He struggled to express himself politely. ‘You have a way of taking a lively interest in criminal cases and making comments. Some of your comments have, in the past, been very apt. I don’t deny it. But this . . .’ Dunn’s quivering forefinger tapped Lizzie’s statement. ‘This goes far beyond any reasonable action. When you first came into the possession of the visiting card belonging to this so-called private enquiry agent . . .’ Here Dunn’s already florid complexion darkened to a dangerous hue of deep red. ‘Whatever such a person may be, you should have reported it and given the card to an appropriate official. That is to your husband or, in his absence, to someone here at the Yard. To me.’
‘But I didn’t know who Jenkins was,’ Lizzie explained. ‘I didn’t know then he was the clown.’
Dunn hunched his shoulders and leaned forward. ‘Yes, this business of the clown . . .’
Here I thought I should interrupt in Lizzie’s defence. ‘My wife did report to me the presence of the clown by the bridge, sir.’
‘And she told you the clown appeared to be following Tapley?’ he snapped, transferring his attention to me.
‘Yes, sir, but at the time, I thought that was unlikely. I am sorry to report I dismissed her suspicions.’
‘It was because he knew I have a fear of clowns. I always find them sinister,’ confessed Lizzie, despite my warning glance.
‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Dunn to her with dangerous calm, ‘is there anything else you have not thought fit to tell us? Any little thing at all, mm?’
‘No, I don’t think so, I think you know all of it,’ said Lizzie, but I fancied she hesitated, just fractionally.
Dunn sighed. ‘We shall have to discuss your behaviour later, Mrs Ross, in greater detail. You have interfered with an official investigation and that, as I am sure you realise, is a serious matter. Whether you have actively hindered the police, or not, is yet to be established. If it turns out that you have done so, you will find yourself in a great deal of trouble. However . . .’ He raised his hand to forestall protest from either of us. ‘The investigation itself has primary importance and someone must interview this fellow Jenkins at once. You had better get over to Camden and do it, Ross.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I had better go along, too,’ said Lizzie disastrously.
Dunn’s hand crashed down on his desk with such force that all the papers on it jumped and a pen rolled off it on to the floor. ‘No, Mrs Ross! You had not!’
‘Because of the speaking French,’ explained Lizzie, undeterred. ‘Ben doesn’t. You don’t, do you, Ben?’
‘Speak French? No,’ I admitted.
‘This fellow Jenkins is French?’ Dunn demanded incredulously.
Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, Mr Dunn. But he said his client was a French lady and he offered his own services as interpreter if needed. But you couldn’t trust any translation done by Jenkins, could you?’ Lizzie paused for comment but Dunn only stared at her, eyes bulging. ‘What I am thinking,’ my wife carried on hurriedly, ‘is that if Jenkins has his client close at hand somewhere, and were to produce her when we – when Ben goes to see him, then it would be best if Ben – the police have the services of a reliable interpreter.’
‘Speak good French, do you?’ Dunn asked her brusquely.
‘Yes, quite good,’ was Lizzie’s confident reply. ‘I had a French governess when I was a child.’
This reply served to impress the superintendent. His confidence, I was pleased to see, was visibly shaken. Of course, he didn’t know what I knew, because Lizzie had told me, that the French governess in question had been a woman of rather questionable background who had eventually been dismissed for drinking herself insensible on Dr Martin’s brandy.
‘Then go with your husband. Ross!’ Dunn’s bloodshot gaze turned to me. ‘I want a full account. If Jenkins does produce his client and she makes any sort of statement, in French or in English, make sure she signs it. If you can bring her here, it would perhaps be even better.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll go to Camden immediately. We’ll take a cab.’
‘It will come out of your expenses allowance,’ said Dunn sourly. When Lizzie had left his office and I was about to follow her, he added: ‘You have not heard the last of this, Ross. I have spoken to you before about controlling your wife.’
‘I am afraid I don’t – can’t – control my wife, sir, not in the way you mean. But I shall make sure she understands the foolhardiness of her actions.’
‘Will you, indeed?’ said Dunn unpleasantly.
I thought Lizzie and I had come out of that encounter rather well, all things considered. It would not have surprised me if I’d found myself suspended. If our visit to Horatio Jenkins produced some important new evidence, it would be even better. Dunn would still grumble about her actions during my absence, but his sting would have been drawn. I felt quite optimistic as we made our way to Camden.
A fine rain drizzled down by the time we arrived. We stood for shelter under the awning of a dress shop across the road from the greengrocer’s above which Jenkins had his so-called detective agency.
‘It doesn’t look very impressive,’ I said, studying the uncurtained first-floor windows.
‘It isn’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘Nor is Mr Jenkins himself very impressive to look at. But you have to admit he does seem to know his business. He found Thomas Tapley for his client.’
‘I’ll give him credit for that. But I can’t say I like the idea of this fellow running round investigating his fellow citizens’ private affairs because someone has paid him to do so. Especially as the person who hired him is so shy about speaking to anyone in authority.’
We remained there for a further three or four minutes and during that time no one approached the street door to the staircase, or left by it. There was no sign of movement at the windows of Jenkins’s office, nor was any gas lit inside although the afternoon light was now poor on account of the rain. The first-floor room looked quite deserted. The floor above that, where the milliner had her workroom, did show a lighted lamp at one window. Her work involved fine stitching. Inside the greengrocer’s shop a glow announced gaslight.
‘This was once a private house,’ I mused aloud. ‘The shop and its entrance have been carved out of the ground-floor rooms. I dare say the proprietor and his family live at the back. That street door once gave access to the whole house. Now, if what you told me is correct, it only lets visitors on to the staircase and the rooms for letting, above. They have been sealed off from the shop and proprietor’s dwelling by some more recent brickwork and plaster.’
Lizzie understood that I was not just speculating idly. ‘You wonder if Jenkins has another way out, other than on to the street. So he could escape if he saw us coming and decided he didn’t want to meet us. I don’t think he does. He could perhaps run up to Miss Poole’s workroom and hide there. They sound to be on very good terms.’ She frowned. ‘He might be able to get into an attic or out on to the roof, from the top floor.’
‘At the moment he shows no sign of being at home. But I agree that he will have thought out some strategy for emergency use. I doubt he’s cultivated the goodwill of Miss Poole just for cups of tea. Come on, Lizzie, let’s knock on this private detective’s door.’
I set off briskly across the street with Lizzie darting past me in her eagerness and reaching the door first.
‘One moment, Lizzie.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘Just wait here while I ask something of the shopkeeper.’
Mr Weisz was selling onions to a customer and I waited until the woman had made her purchase and left the shop. Weisz then turned to me and looked me over carefully, head to toe. I took out my warrant card but before I could show it, he was ahead of me.
‘You will be from the police?’ His accent was faint but noticeable all the same.
I reflected that even those who had not been all their lives in this country knew an offi
cer of the law in plain clothes as soon as he hove into view. There must be something about us.
‘I have no trouble with the police,’ Weisz was continuing. ‘I am a respectable citizen. I work hard. My wife works hard. My younger children help. My eldest son is a clerk in a counting house. My daughter sews on buttons, piecework. We don’t want any trouble.’
‘I am not here seeking to make any trouble for you,’ I assured him. ‘I only want to ask about the tenant on the first floor, Mr Horatio Jenkins.’
A look of derision passed over the greengrocer’s face. He leaned forward slightly and hissed, ‘He is a spy!’
‘A spy?’ I asked, startled.
‘Yes, yes, a spy, an informer. He runs to the authorities with gossip. In the country where I was born and spent my boyhood, such people were everywhere and everyone knew them.’
‘Mr Jenkins claims to be a private detective,’ I pointed out.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Weisz. ‘What is that but a spy?’
‘Have you seen him today?’ I asked, cutting short the discussion of the nature of Jenkins’s activities.
‘No. There is a separate entrance. I don’t see him come or go, only if I am standing outside.’
‘And you haven’t been standing outside today?’
‘It is raining,’ said Weisz simply. ‘Also today we sort the potatoes. We buy at market in big sacks and we put them in smaller ones, or put them loose in that tray. They must be inspected, each one. One bad potato will make bad every other potato it touches. If you go into the backyard, you will see my wife and children bagging potatoes, also carrots.’
‘In the rain?’
‘They can take the work into a shed.’
I persevered with one last question. ‘Perhaps, recently, while you have been standing outside in better weather, you may have seen a lady arrive to visit Mr Jenkins.’
He shook his head. ‘No. I am busy man. Also there are many thieves. If I stand outside, it is to watch my fruit and vegetables. Small boys will steal an apple. Old ladies, too. You will not believe what old ladies steal. They conceal it in their shawls.’
He treated me to an aggrieved scowl. ‘Where are police then?’
‘We have other matters than apples to worry about, Mr Weisz, but if you speak to the regular constable on this beat, he will keep a lookout. Thank you for your time.’
I rejoined Lizzie who was waiting for me impatiently. ‘How did you get on?’ she asked.
‘Not at all. Mr Weisz neither sees nor hears anything that is not his business. I fancy he hails from a country where it is unwise to behave otherwise. Let’s go up and find Jenkins.’
We proceeded up the unswept stairs and arrived before Jenkins’s door. It was not quite shut fast. A prickle of apprehension ran up my spine.
‘Lizzie,’ I said. ‘Perhaps you had better wait downstairs. Weisz will let you shelter in his shop out of the rain.’
But Lizzie had already noticed the door. She leaned past me and gave it a push. It swung open.
I was, in my mind, already half prepared for what we’d see. Lizzie was not. She gasped and when I turned to her, she had a hand clasped to her mouth.
‘Go downstairs!’ I said sharply. This was not the moment to deal with a distressed female.
I should have known my wife better. She took the hand from her mouth and snapped, ‘Certainly not!’
‘Oh, well, stay then, but here!’ I pointed at the floor. ‘Don’t come further inside.’
Jenkins had had earlier visitors. The small room was in complete disarray. The wicker hamper in one corner had been tipped over and fantastical garb of all kinds – Jenkins’s disguises – lay strewn across the floor. The stained velvet curtain that had been drawn across the opposite corner had been wrenched from its hooks and also lay on the ground. The couch it had shielded had been dragged out, stripped of its bedding and slashed open. Shiny black horsehair filling spilled out. Even the pillow had been slashed in the same way and a dusting of feathers, like snow, lay over everything. Every drawer in the desk had been pulled out, the contents thrown around.
The body of the private detective lay behind the desk, huddled on the bare boards. I stooped over him. His face and, as far as I could tell, his skull were unmarked. He had not been bludgeoned, as had Tapley. A large damp patch on his waistcoat, staining my fingers crimson when I touched it, told me he’d been stabbed. He had been in confrontation with his visitor, I reasoned, and the assailant had been close enough to make one deadly thrust up between the ribs. This was a knifeman who knew his business. The victim had not been dead very long.
I didn’t doubt we were looking for the same killer as had slain Tapley. But he’d changed his method. Why? Because he’d needed to talk to Jenkins and he wouldn’t have had much conversation with a bludgeoned man. He had wanted something from Jenkins. Not information, something tangible. Jenkins hadn’t given it to him and so the killer had ransacked the room, looking for it. Something small, therefore, something easily concealed. Had he found it?
Lizzie, predictably, had ignored my last instruction and stood a few feet away.
‘As you’re here,’ I said to her, ‘can you confirm for me that this is the man who introduced himself to you as Horatio Jenkins?’
‘Yes, poor man,’ she said, looking down at the sprawled form. ‘I didn’t like him but he looks so pathetic lying there.’
‘Listen to me, Lizzie,’ I said. ‘And please, don’t argue. This is now an investigation into a murder. Take a cab if you can find one and go to Scotland Yard and report what has happened here. Oh, before you do that, please ask Weisz to send one of his children to find the local constable on his beat, and bring him here. I must stay here, make sure nothing here is disturbed—’
A shrill shriek made my eardrums ring. We both spun round to see a woman standing in the doorway. She was a dowdy little soul, wearing spectacles and a pinafore with a large pocket. She backed away from us into the stairwell, and screamed, ‘Murder! Horrible murder! What have you done? You’ve gone and killed poor Mr Jenkins! Oh, help, help! Police!’
I started towards her but she had turned and, with the speed of terror, had darted down the stairs and out into the street where she was already screeching, ‘Murder!’
Weisz burst out of his shop and, seeing me emerge from the door into the street, demanded, ‘What’s amiss?’
‘Jenkins is dead,’ I told him, since this was obvious. ‘Please send one of your children for the local constable and take this lady into your shop and give her some tea or something. Do you know her?’
‘I know her. It is Ruby Poole. She makes hats. I send Jacob for the constable. He is an intelligent boy, and quick. Come, come, Miss Poole . . .’
She had begun to sob uncontrollably and allowed Weisz to take her elbow and lead her into the shop.
I went back upstairs. ‘You need only go directly to the Yard, Lizzie. Weisz is sending a child for the constable.’
Lizzie nodded. ‘I’ll be back soon.’
I opened my mouth to say she had no need to return with the officers from the Yard, but she would do so, anyway. Besides, she was, after all, a witness. I returned upstairs and closed the door to the detective agency. I remembered that a taxidermist also had his workshop on this floor. Accordingly, I moved along to the next door and rapped on it. No one answered. I tried the handle and the door opened easily. I stepped inside.
At once I found myself in an extraordinary place beyond my imagination. The first thing to strike me was the smell. The air had a strange musty quality, with a hint of chemicals, and a lingering odour of meat. Death itself was everywhere, but in the form of a curious limbo in which creatures which had ceased to live and breathe still existed, in a halfway house between this life and total extinction. The room was inhabited by a menagerie of dead animals. They hung from the ceiling; they peered at me through the glass walls of boxes within which they had been tastefully mounted in naturalistic settings. They poked their snouts out from under the ta
ble and chairs, shelves, open cupboards. A window in this room gave on to the rear of the premises, and before it was a large porcelain sink and draining board. I made a cautious way towards it, conscious of so many glass eyes watching my progress, and looked down. A small dead dog of the miniature sort ladies like to carry round concealed in a muff lay in it, still entire but presumably a candidate for taxidermy.
Looking through the window I had a view of the back garden, if that was the word for it. I saw a patch of trampled mud, a washing line from which flapped the Weisz family linen; a brick-built privy and a shed. There was also a door in the back wall so an alley must run behind. Directly below, as I looked down, I could see a rough deal table, a couple of benches, some sacks of vegetables and signs of the work that had now been abandoned by Mrs Weisz and her children when the rain began.
There was a faint scuffling sound. I felt a moment’s unreasoning panic that one of the glassy eyed creatures behind me might have returned to life and was reaching out its stiff paws or had spread its wings and was about to swoop down. I spun round and just glimpsed, from the corner of my eye, a movement behind a display cabinet.
‘Come out!’ I ordered.
With a moan a small man, wearing an apron and a skullcap crammed over straggling grey hair, emerged and sidled a few inches towards me. He looked as terrified as Miss Poole had done.
‘Don’t be afraid,’ I reassured him. ‘I am a police officer. Are you Mr Baggins?’ I produced my warrant card.
‘Yes,’ he whispered, ‘I’m Baggins, Sebastian Baggins, sir . . .’
‘There has been an incident concerning your neighbour, Mr Jenkins.’
‘I heard Ruby Poole screeching,’ he confessed. ‘She shouted it was murder. Is it murder? I hid.’ He blinked at me pathetically. ‘When you knocked at my door, I thought you were the murderer, come to find another victim.’
A polite murderer who knocked at doors, I thought. ‘No, Mr Baggins, you are quite safe. The assailant has fled.’
He straightened up and heaved a deep sigh of relief. Then, with a twitch of fear, asked, ‘He ain’t coming back?’
