Death Waits for No Lady

by James Andrew

  ‘Have you ever been there on your own?’

  ‘No.’

  ‘You weren’t there on the evening of Thursday, July the 26th?’

  Renshaw didn’t answer but took a long draw from his cigarette before saying. ‘What’s significant about that date?’

  ‘Were you there then?’

  ‘I don’t know what you think I’ve done but I haven’t done anything.’ He pointed a finger at Blades. ‘I know what you think of me. I dress well but I’m a working-class type. You look in my direction and think I should have done something criminal. My accent’s all wrong. But all I do is work and work hard. Graft has got me where I am. I’ve as much to be proud of as anybody.’

  Blades noticed the vigour in the bluster, but also that Renshaw hadn’t answered the question. He decided to wait for him to do that.

  Renshaw scratched his nose, took another draw on his cigarette, then said, ‘Let’s see. That’s over a week ago now. I’ve no idea what I was doing then, but I wasn’t in Birtleby. I’ve never been there on my own.’ Which was a simple answer and Blades thought it odd that Renshaw had taken so long to give it, though Renshaw seemed less worried now for some inexplicable reason. ‘Oh, yes, I was at home all evening.’

  ‘Can your wife confirm this?’

  ‘She was out at her mother’s and had the children with her, so she can’t.’

  ‘Leaving you on your own?’

  ‘I was doing paperwork for this place. There’s a lot of it.’

  ‘But no one can confirm you were at home that evening?’

  Renshaw took another draw of his cigarette as he considered. ‘No.’

  ‘Did you know Miss Wright?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘Miss Evelyn Wright of Elmwood Hall, Birtleby.’

  Renshaw now had a look of what seemed forced nonchalance on his face. ‘No.’

  Blades said, ‘I see.’ He watched Renshaw drum his fingers on the arm of his chair. ‘Well, I’ve asked you as much as I need to for the moment.’ He allowed the words ‘for the moment’ to linger.

  ‘So, what was this information you received?’ Renshaw asked him.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir. That’s confidential. Oh, and can you give me your home address? And, as nobody can confirm your alibi as you’ve agreed, you won’t mind if Sergeant Peacock takes your fingerprints, will you?’

  When Blades and Peacock departed, they left a harassed Peter Renshaw still attempting to look careless.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

  Philip Middleton, the railway station clerk, had always avoided police stations and here he was in one for the second time. It was a gloomy enough place, with its bare, whitewashed walls and linoleum floors. Philip was sitting in a waiting room while they assembled the suspects. Well, one of them was the suspect but they had said they would round up more who looked similar.

  The door opened, and a constable walked in. ‘Thank you for waiting, Mr Middleton. The line-up is ready now, so if you would just come through.’

  Philip had felt so sure before but, in all the time he had been sitting there, had not been able to recall an image of the man he’d seen, and Philip wondered if he was going to be any help at all. He had not realised at the time what offering information would lead to, and he was wishing he had never said anything. When he stood up to follow the constable, he was not sure for a moment whether his legs were going to do what they were told but was very glad when they did.

  The men were standing in a row side by side and facing forwards. To Philip’s relief, there were also two policemen in the room. Philip had been told to put his hand on the shoulder of the person he recognized and was nervous about the reaction he might receive. The men were on the other side of the room from where Philip entered, so Philip had a general look at all of them before the constable who had brought him in signalled to him to walk in front of the men one by one to study them.

  ‘Please walk forward now, sir.’

  So he did. They were all dressed in a similar fashion: in jackets that fitted in with Philip’s description of what the man he had seen had been wearing at the ticket office. The first man was nonchalant as he stared ahead of him as Philip assumed the police had instructed him to be. Philip would not have described that man’s hair as fair but a shade of brown, so he knew this was not him. The second man was stout. The third was too tall. The fourth was the right height and weight, had the correct colour of hair, and it lay across his forehead in the way that Philip remembered. The fifth was the right height, weight, and again had the correct colour of hair, but also had a squint. The sixth was the wrong age. Philip supposed the police had done their best to get a line-up of men who fitted the description but, as far as he was concerned, there was only one man who looked anything like the man he had seen. Philip stood in front of the fourth suspect again, looked him up and down, and tried to think of anything that was not right. He did fit what Philip remembered but he still hesitated. There was something. What was it? Oh yes. The eyes. Had they been blue? He cast his mind back and tried to picture again the man he had seen. To his relief, a picture came, but the eyes were unclear in it. Had they been blue or grey? He supposed that after that length of time he could have become unsure about anything. Trust your gut feeling, a voice inside him said and, apparently unbidden, his right hand rose and placed itself on the suspect’s shoulder.

  * * *

  Blades and Peacock were seated watching the parade when Philip picked out Renshaw and they were delighted at this. This was, however, only the first part of the identification process. There were two other witnesses who would walk up and down in front of these men and say yea or nay. The constables had kept the other witnesses apart before the parade and would keep them separated after they had done their parts. The men stood in their line-up silent and tense, still under the instructions of the two policemen in the room. Then the next witness was brought in.

  Isobel Wharton was still wearing the mistreated but fortunately dead fox fur around her neck as she strode into the room. Her eyes glanced everywhere before settling on the men in their uneven row. Then they slowly swept from one end of the line to the other as they condemned what they were looking at. When motioned to, she stepped forward then strode along beside them. She scrutinised the men, who still looked ahead, and did their best to avoid meeting her gaze. She stopped twice. She stared at the eyes of the fifth man, shook her head, made to walk on, changed her mind and stepped back in front of him again. She made as if to raise her hand to put it on his shoulder, then shook her head and walked back in front of the fourth man. After gazing for what seemed a remarkable length of time she nodded and placed her hand on his shoulder with such decisiveness that the man winced with the contact. Then she looked at the constable who had led her in, he nodded, and she proceeded to leave the room.

  Blades and Peacock glanced at each other again with satisfied looks on their faces. Renshaw had now been picked out twice. They were able to place him in Birtleby due to Philip Middleton’s testimony, where, according to Philip, he had been asking the way to Miss Wright’s house which showed a connection with her. Isobel’s testimony proved more. She had seen Renshaw with Evelyn on that train to Catterick when they had been behaving like lovers, which suggested a very close connection. One witness to go. How would this work out?

  With his skinny frame, Alan Young looked his fourteen years, and out of place in this adult situation. He did as he was directed by the constable and was soon walking up the line, though he did that at no great pace. He looked at every man in the line-up with an anxious expression as if he might be put in prison himself if he got this wrong. Everyone was given the same length of stare, no one dismissed quickly. Blades did wonder if the boy was going to chicken out. Then Alan Young moved up to the constable and whispered with him. The constable nodded, and Alan walked past the line-up again. This was no quick fly-past either, but a sequence of concentrated gazes. Alan turned, strode back to the fourth man, and placed his hand on his shoulder. He did not
leave it there long, but the gesture had been clear enough. Blades sighed, and there was relief in it.

  ‘That places him in Evelyn’s garden, and we have him holding hands with her,’ Peacock gloated.

  ‘It’ll be interesting to hear what Renshaw says about what he told us. Everything he said is cobblers. He has been in Birtleby on his own and he did know Miss Wright.’

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

  Renshaw was seated in the interview room at Birtleby Station with its bare walls and floor, the only furniture a desk and chairs. Blades reflected that Renshaw did have a distinctive appearance with that wispy blonde beard, but, as he looked at his bleak stare, noted that there was nothing of the perky and natty about him now. To the right of Blades sat Peacock, notebook in hand, pencil ready.

  ‘You’ve been telling us lies, sir,’ Blades said to Renshaw. Renshaw grunted, which Blades took to mean disgust at what Blades had said, not agreement with it. Blades continued. ‘You may be wondering who the witnesses were who identified you at the identification parade?’

  Renshaw snorted now, then said, ‘I’ve never seen any of them before.’

  ‘The first one was a clerk from Birtleby Railway Station. In your statement, you said that, apart from a couple of day visits to the beach with your wife and children, you’d never been to Birtleby. The clerk identified you as arriving from Leeds and returning from the station to Leeds on your own.’

  In a discomfited voice, Renshaw said, ‘Perhaps it was someone who looked a bit like me.’

  ‘But the boy who identified you also saw you in Birtleby. He saw you in Miss Wright’s gardens walking hand in hand with her, a person you said you did not know.’

  Renshaw looked away. He scratched behind his ear, looking as if he were giving thought to something, stopped, then gave Blades a glare. ‘On the basis of seeing this person once, obviously from a distance, he’s confident about identifying me? He’s a boy. They tell stories to feel important.’

  ‘And our third witness, definitely not a boy, places you on a day’s outing to Catterick, on a train with Miss Wright, extremely close and particularly enjoying each other’s company.’

  ‘Catterick isn’t Birtleby, is it?’

  Though Renshaw’s tone was sharp, Blades thought he saw a more relaxed look in the eyes. He assumed this was because what the witnesses had said did not sound as damning as Renshaw had thought it would. So that meant he had been expecting to be placed in Birtleby on the night of the murder?

  Blades persisted. ‘Our witness states that on May the 5th she saw you on that train with Miss Wright. Were you?’

  ‘No.’

  Renshaw’s tone had now become dismissive, which annoyed Blades.

  ‘Can you tell us where you were then?’

  ‘Not offhand. No.’

  ‘Does your work take you away from home?’

  ‘Sometimes.’

  ‘Is there a diary you can check? We can arrange to have your work diaries brought here.’

  Renshaw muttered something indistinct, thought for a moment, then replied, ‘Let’s see. I think I might remember. Yes. That’s it. A sales conference in Harrogate.’

  ‘No doubt you have receipts that show this?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘I’m sure you put in expenses claims, sir.’ Renshaw looked nonplussed. ‘Did you go by yourself or did you have a secretary with you?’

  ‘I was by myself.’

  ‘As you were at a sales conference, no doubt you can produce witnesses?’

  Renshaw’s face now showed a mind working its way through a problem with difficulty. ‘I did travel to Harrogate, but I was ill on the day of the conference.’

  Blades was disappointed as he’d expected Renshaw to be sharper. ‘What was the name of the hotel you stayed in, sir?’

  ‘The Swan Hotel.’ This was said quickly but Blades noticed a new uncertainty in the tone. Then with a sneer, Renshaw said, ‘You’ll check, no doubt?’

  ‘Oh, yes, sir.’

  Renshaw shifted in his seat. He put his hand up to his mouth and chewed a thumbnail, became aware of this then put his hand back on the arm of his chair, where his fingers seemed to drum of their own volition. Then he stopped himself doing that. Not quite so relaxed now, Blades thought. There was a forlornness in Renshaw’s defiance as he replied, ‘So you’ll check.’ Then he shifted forward in his seat as something occurred to him. ‘Shouldn’t I have a lawyer?’

  ‘You’re not being charged with anything, sir. We’re asking questions, that’s all, but we can arrange a lawyer for you if you wish.’

  ‘I know what they cost.’ Renshaw looked gloomy at the thought. Then he seemed to brighten up. ‘Anyway, I haven’t done anything. You’ll get bored and let me go.’ He sat back in his chair in a renewed display of insouciance.

  ‘Your alibi for the night of Miss Wright’s murder,’ Blades continued. ‘It’s weak. You said you were alone in your house all evening doing paperwork, but no one can confirm that.’ Now Renshaw appeared to have decided not to reply. ‘The obvious explanation for not having any witnesses is that you were in Birtleby doing the murder.’

  In answer, Renshaw glared at something just to the side of Blades’ head.

  Blades continued to press. ‘Your alibi for your Catterick trip isn’t going to hold up either, is it, sir?’ But Renshaw kept to his decision.

  Blades’ voice adopted a softer tone as he continued with his questioning. It didn’t do any harm and it might help make Renshaw drop his guard. ‘It’s not a crime to know Miss Wright but you won’t admit you did. Why?’

  Renshaw put an expression on his face that was as blank as he could manage, Blades supposed.

  ‘Let’s assume for the moment, unlikely as it may seem, that our three witnesses are wrong, you’re still not giving convincing alibis. Is there something else you’re covering up? If you’re having an affair with someone, that’s not a crime, and we’re not morally bound to tell your wife, but if a mistress did come forward, it would help you out.’ Blades did consider this a possibility, and if it was the truth, he did want to uncover it, but Renshaw still said nothing, as he and Blades sat and stared at each other.

  Then Renshaw said, ‘If there’s nothing else, can I go now?’

  Blades gave him his sternest look, then said, ‘There’s the small matter of your police record. You remember the embezzlement?’ Blades had been waiting for the right moment to play this card. He’d been pleased when Peacock had turned this up. Peacock himself had been grinning with pleasure as he laid a file on Blades’ desk and told him about the year and a half Renshaw had done for stealing from a firm he had been working for. Blades doubted if the owner of the garage where Renshaw now worked knew about it, and as far as Blades was concerned, it made Renshaw into a real grade A suspect. Now, as prepped, Peacock took over the interview.

  ‘You were eighteen at the time, sir, and working where?’

  Renshaw tried defiance again. ‘I’m sure my file tells you.’

  ‘Still, if you would recap for us?’

  Renshaw groaned. His voice now loud and showing real frustration, he said, ‘All right. It was in Croydon at a department store where I worked. As you said, I was very young. I was eighteen and not only broke but in debt. I’d taken up with some mates who were dead keen on the ponies and I dropped a ton at the racecourse. The gossip about the bookie I was in hock to was that he wasn’t averse to breaking a few limbs to get what was owed to him – and he was threatening to, so I stole money from the store. I was caught. I did my time. You’re not thinking of charging me for that again, are you?’

  ‘Obviously not, sir.’

  ‘Look I was young. I made a mistake. I know better now. I value the job I have. I don’t want to lose it.’

  ‘Saying you were only eighteen doesn’t cut it though, does it, sir?’ Peacock said. ‘You were an adult, old enough to know better, as you found out. You were sent to prison for that. And it shows the eye for the main chance. I bet you’ve
still got that, haven’t you?’

  Now Blades broke in. ‘You don’t know better, do you, sir? You’re going around selling mining shares!’

  ‘Who told you that?’ Renshaw asked, looking even more alarmed.

  ‘Which is all right as long as there’s a real mine,’ Blades continued. ‘Is there?’

  ‘Mining shares,’ Renshaw groaned as he gathered his thoughts. ‘Look, it’s a favour for a friend. He asked me to help him out, that’s all. Of course, there’s a real mine.’

  ‘In Argentina?’

  ‘Yes,’ Renshaw replied, but his voice held less conviction.

  ‘I dare say you still have some of those shares in your possession that we can inspect?’

  ‘Not with me, no.’

  ‘Don’t worry. We will get a search warrant for your house. We’ll also have your bank accounts checked. What is the name of your bank?’

  Reluctantly, Renshaw told him.

  ‘Were you ingratiating yourself to Miss Wright, to extract money from her?’

  ‘I don’t know her. Now have you finished?’

  ‘You’re an attractive enough young man. What else would you see in a woman her age but an opportunity to get at her money?’

  ‘I don’t know. I’ve never met her.’

  Blades was disappointed the defiance was still so strong, if not surprised. However, he did think they would probably get him for fraud. But he decided they had probably found out from him as much as they would for now.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  What happened next put all thought of Renshaw out of Blades’ mind. He found himself standing and inspecting another body, which lay in the centre flower bed at Elmwood Hall, where it had flattened some purple lupins, though that was the least of anyone’s worries. Blades recognized the body, even if the head was a crumpled mess. It was that of a man about forty, broad, of a muscular build, who had been a healthy physical specimen till the garden spade that now lay beside him had clattered him a few times, and it was Charlie Falconer. The murder of Miss Wright, Blades knew, had been done in one clinical blow with a follow-up just to make sure, by someone calm enough to be clear about exactly what they intended. This looked as if it had been done by someone in a frenzy. Or Charlie had shown more reluctance to die.