by James Andrew
When the bell at the servants’ door rang, Mary picked up her bag and trudged off in answer. Her mother was there as arranged, with a virtuous expression above her cheap and worn coat, and she took Mary’s hand in hers as they trotted off.
Lunch in the servants’ hall, which Janet’s kitchen doubled as, was never a grand occasion but was even less so with only two of them. Janet ladled pea and ham soup into bowls as she and Katy sat and supped in gloomy silence.
Eventually, Katy asked, ‘Did you know anything about what Miss Wright was up to in Leeds?’
‘Not a thing,’ Janet said. ‘That’s not something the mistress would share with the likes of us.’
‘And there’s me not allowed to have a boy round to pick me up on my night off. I had to meet up with anybody somewhere else.’
‘It’s true. She didn’t encourage followers. She’s let girls go for that.’
‘And that’s what she got up to.’ Katy didn’t notice that her voice was becoming louder the more she moaned. ‘And her so goody-goody and behaving as if she was some sort of saint. She thought she could get away with that just because she had money. Not that it did her any good. Look how she ended up.’ They both ate more soup. Katy contemplated each mouthful as if expecting wisdom to be found in it. ‘Who do you think did her in?’ Katy said.
‘Never trust a man,’ Janet said, ‘and you can take your pick of three here.’
‘I never liked the look of that Digby. He was a ghoul.’
‘A lot of people do like him,’ Janet said. ‘They say being put in touch with a loved one’s a blessing.’
Katy thought about this. ‘You said it was a con to get money out of people.’
‘I was talking to Cavendish our grocer. He lost his son at the Front, and his wife swears by Digby Russell. She says her son spoke to her through him, and says it was definitely his voice, and how could Digby put on the voice of someone he’d never even met?’
‘You said you still think he could have done the murder?’
‘I don’t know what to think,’ Janet replied. ‘The whole thing’s a mystery. But it wouldn’t surprise me. Nothing would.’
‘And Charlie Falconer! The paper must be right. He must have known something. Did you hear anything on the night Miss Evelyn was done in?’
‘I was down in the basement. Anything could have been going on up there and I wouldn’t have heard it. And Charlie never spoke about anything to do with the murder with me. I don’t know what he knew.’
‘Nor me.’ Katy was waving her spoon about above her plate while eating none of the soup. When she became aware of Janet staring, she put it down.
‘Eat some of that instead of worrying on so,’ Janet said. ‘It’s good soup.’
‘Sorry,’ Katy said, and picked the spoon up again to help herself to some. Then she said, ‘Did you ever see anyone like that Peter Renshaw around here?’
‘No.’
‘Nor me. And I wouldn’t mind seeing what that Jack Osgood looks like. He sounds a bit of a card.’
‘Wouldn’t touch him with a barge pole.’
‘Nor me.’ But there was something wistful in the way Katy said this.
Janet thought back to the household and the tasks that would have to be assigned. She and Katy were still working for someone, Evelyn’s brother. Would he keep the household on or not? He had his own in Harrogate and Janet wondered how attached he was to it. Still, after a lifetime of service, doing household tasks was a habit and it was easier not to break it.
CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT
Information usually came from a variety of people, some of whom Blades had put behind bars himself, and others he knew ought to have been put in jail if proof had been more forthcoming. These were the grafters seeking payment for information they had or did not have, but who could be helpful with their inventions. Blades did also meet law-abiding people earnestly trying to help, unremarkable men or women who looked around nervously as they sat in front of him and behaved towards a police officer with the utmost respect. He also met his share of pure fantasists leading lonely lives, and who seemed in need of company. Some witnesses were poorly dressed and in need of a wash; others had obviously made the effort to dress respectably for a police station. Few were anything like the pair Blades now saw in front of him. They were a fashionable-looking couple, he with his jaunty cravat, and she with her outré cloche hat, and they sat in front of Blades in his office. He was tapping a brass-topped cane absent-mindedly, while she dabbed a lace handkerchief to an eye before returning it to a silk purse. Blades felt underdressed for his own police station.
‘You say you’ve information for us?’ he said.
It was the gentleman who spoke. ‘I’m Arnold Hopkins,’ he said, ‘and this is my fiancée, Miss Eleanor Benson.’
‘Pleased to meet you,’ Blades replied. ‘I’m Inspector Blades.’
Then he waited to see what Arnold had to say.
‘Eleanor’s parents live on the same street that Miss Wright lived on.’ He paused as if choosing words with difficulty, though what he went on to say was unremarkable. ‘We were returning from an outing in town and I was seeing Eleanor to her home.’ But after that, he was at a loss for words.
‘What day was this, sir?’
‘It was the day of Evelyn Wright’s murder, July the 26th.’
‘That’s interesting. And about what time was it?’
‘I don’t know. About eight?’
‘Was there something that you saw?’
‘We thought nothing of it at the time. There wasn’t anything to notice. Though I remember it. It was a young man in a fashionable style walking up a fashionable street. Nothing you would remark on. What did strike me was how cheerful he looked, as if he’d just come into some good fortune or thought he was about to. When he tipped his hat to you in the passing, he did it so affably. I doffed mine in return and Eleanor nodded to him, and we bid each other good day. And why should I remember that? We were discussing our wedding. I thought it should be next June, but Eleanor thought it should be earlier, which is important to us; so why was my mind drawn so far away from that? The point is I noticed him, and he fits the description in the paper. After he’d passed us, I looked back at him, and he was turning into Miss Wright’s drive. And there was something so cocky in the way he did that. And I wondered what a young man like him could want with Miss Wright. She’s a neighbour of Eleanor’s and we know all about her, dowdy old thing that she was. And here’s a young man in his twenties, fit-looking, handsome, and with such a spring in his elegant step as he walked up her drive to see her. And that’s it. I suppose that’s why I remember it. It wasn’t that he was so remarkable in himself, but he was so incongruous there.’
Blades had seated himself further forward in his chair as he listened to each word and took in every nuance. ‘Would you describe him in more detail, please?’ he asked.
Now Eleanor spoke. ‘He was about average height.’
‘Tallish, but not as tall as you,’ Arnold said.
‘Fair-haired,’ Eleanor added, ‘and with a short, neatly cut fair beard as the newspaper said.’
‘That’s right.’
‘Oh he did have blue eyes, a very pale blue,’ Eleanor said, ‘and a charming manner. He’d a taking smile if it helps.’
Oh yes, Blades thought. It would have helped. A charmer. Just the sort Evelyn fell for.
‘Did he speak at all?’ Blades asked.
‘He didn’t say much,’ Arnold replied.
‘Good evening. Lovely weather, isn’t it?’ added Eleanor.
‘Something like that.’
‘Did you notice his accent?’
‘Not from round here. A southern accent, I’d say,’ Arnold said.
‘Cockney.’
‘Maybe.’
‘Visiting Miss Wright?’ Blades asked.
‘I did wonder about that at the time,’ Eleanor said.
‘And how was he dressed?’ Blades asked.
‘In a n
avy-blue coat,’ Eleanor said.
‘With a navy-blue felt hat,’ Archie added.
‘And a natty cane.’
‘Ebony with a silver handle and tip, and he swished it forward as he walked, tapping the pavement.’ Arnold demonstrated the movement of the cane with his own as he spoke.
‘And this was what time again?’ Blades was beginning to think he couldn’t believe his luck.
‘About eight on the evening the paper said Miss Wright was murdered,’ Arnold said.
‘Which was another reason you remarked on him?’
‘After reading the paper, yes.’
‘But you didn’t see fit to come forward before now. Why?’
Arnold and Eleanor looked at each other for support. Arnold eventually said, ‘Disbelief? Just reading about the murder was incredible. The thought we’d seen anything that might matter – it didn’t occur. And you don’t like, you know, the thought of being involved in something of that sort.’
Eleanor squeezed Arnold’s hand as he simpered at Inspector Blades.
‘You’ve come forward now, and it’s useful. Thank you, sir. And was he someone you’d ever seen about the place before?’
‘No,’ Arnold replied. They looked at each other again, then almost in unison, said, ‘No’ again.
‘So you don’t know who he might have been?’
‘Unless he was a relative,’ Eleanor said. ‘I didn’t know she had that many, but you don’t know every single one people have, do you?’
‘No, indeed,’ Blades replied.
‘He might have been some sort of distant relation,’ Eleanor said.
‘Though later,’ Arnold added, ‘after reading what the newspapers said about Evelyn, we thought he might just have been one of her young men. Not that we’d have thought that of Evelyn. She seemed a bit dried up if anything.’
‘It’s surprising how much life people have about them. You’d never guess it sometimes,’ Blades said. ‘Have you seen him since?’
They agreed that they hadn’t.
‘So, this wasn’t something you remarked on at the time, but, in retrospect, you thought it might be of interest to us?’
‘Yes,’ Arnold said as Eleanor nodded vigorously.
‘Which it is. Thank you.’
And as he had gained from them everything there was, he closed the interview. ‘I’ll have you make a statement to my sergeant if you don’t mind.’
‘Of course,’ they said.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Though he hadn’t quite lost his perennial trace of doubt, Blades was starting to feel something akin to excitement. Could they be closing in on their man? There was one thing for sure, with the adrenalin surging through him, he would be giving this everything. They had a major missing piece where Peter Renshaw was concerned. He’d been placed at the scene on the day of the murder, and at the time of it. It was unfortunate that, once again, fingerprints didn’t match, but, even if he did end up being dismissed as a suspect, he’d been at the scene. He could have noticed something.
Blades decided to interview Renshaw at the police station, so he sent a constable to fetch him from his showroom. He was reluctant to come at first, but on being told he could come voluntarily or under arrest, he agreed. It caused consternation in the showroom as had been intended. The constable told Blades that the receptionist had given him a knowing look, and the other salesmen had looked pleased too. Blades suspected Peter Renshaw, for all his charm, was not popular at his place of work. This didn’t surprise Blades who thought that behind Renshaw’s smile lay an arrogant and insensitive individual. When Renshaw arrived at the station, he was shown to the interview room.
As Blades had made Renshaw wait, he was surprised to see the casualness of Renshaw’s slouch in the chair when he entered. He and Peacock seated themselves opposite him as Peacock took out his notebook and made a show of positioning his pencil ready to start.
Blades had found Renshaw so continually annoying and shifty it would give him pleasure to find proof against him, so he decided to put some pressure on. ‘You’ve already been told of the case we’re assembling against you for fraud,’ he said. ‘You’re now here to be formally interviewed as a prelude to a possible charge of murder, that of Evelyn Wright of Elmwood Hall, Evans Gardens, Birtleby. What you say may be taken down and used as evidence against you. You are entitled to a solicitor if you wish one.’
In reply to this, Renshaw cast a lordly eye at Blades and said nothing. It was then that Blades realised the extent of Renshaw’s arrogance. Blades would have expected some sign of nervousness, but Renshaw still looked as if he considered he had nothing to fear from the likes of Blades and Peacock.
‘Then we’ll continue,’ Blades said, though he didn’t, and instead treated Renshaw to some arrogance in return as he stared at him in silence and studied him further. When Blades did speak, he did so slowly and not without menace.
‘In a previous interview, you said you did not know Miss Wright. Do you still maintain that?’
Renshaw replied immediately and with an irritated rush of words. ‘Yes. You’ve got the wrong man. Again. It’s quite a reputation you’re building up, Inspector Blades.’
Blades did not allow the riposte to fluster him. ‘We’ve already had you in a line-up and you were identified then as someone who had visited Evelyn Wright in Birtleby and who had been seen going about with her elsewhere.’
‘I’ve no idea where you get your witnesses from. They’re very imaginative. Or are they just short-sighted?’
‘We’ve unearthed another couple of them, sir. You were seen walking up Miss Wright’s drive on the evening of the murder.’
‘Was this before or after I’d been seen walking around in the gardens there with Miss Wright?’
‘At half past seven on the evening of the murder.’
‘I was at home that night working on some paperwork for the office,’ Renshaw said.
‘For which you have no witnesses.’
‘And you’ve found another pair of short-sighted witnesses, ones who don’t know which day it is.’
‘Really, sir?’
‘I’m writing every reply down,’ Peacock said.
‘You can deny as much as you like, sir, but we have a few witnesses now who can place you with Evelyn, and at her house, and that even on the night of the murder. It’s called a weight of evidence. One witness might be doubted but an accumulation of accounts usually does convince a jury.’
‘But you’ve told me I was trying to sell Miss Wright mining shares. Why would I kill her if I was trying to do that? Dead people are not good customers,’ Renshaw said.
‘Perhaps you could tell me, sir.’
‘I can’t.’
‘The evidence we have is enough to charge you with murder, sir. And then the prosecuting counsel makes his persuasive case and the jury decides. And you sound guilty to me.’
‘And me,’ Peacock replied.
Which was all bluff as Blades knew. Once you took the fingerprints into account – again, Blades thought – there was no case to answer. But he did not mention this to Renshaw. It was a comfort to Blades when Renshaw started chewing his thumbnail.
Then Renshaw spoke. ‘All right, I did know Evelyn. And I was there that night.’
Then Blades could feel the excitement returning. ‘So why deny it?’ he asked him.
‘Someone’s going to hang for that, and I don’t want it to be me.’ Peacock continued writing as Blades just gazed at Renshaw. ‘As I say,’ he continued. ‘I did go over that night. I thought I might convince her to buy shares, but I didn’t go into the house. She already had a visitor. There was a car in the drive. When I saw that I went away again. A wasted trip. But never mind. They happen.’
Blades considered that credible before he remembered another thing Moffat had said. Renshaw was a smarm merchant used to charming and talking his way past people. Was he playing on Blades to talk his way out of this?
‘And what did the car look li
ke, sir?’
Then Renshaw described the car.
CHAPTER FORTY
Blades did not like where he was with this case. He’d still found no suspect who was an exact fit. Perhaps if he reviewed the evidence and the exhibits? It was always something that had to be done. And he did.
First, he studied the photographs of the crime scene. Though he had looked at them so often they were inscribed indelibly in his mind, he still had the feeling he had missed something but, if he had, he did not find it. He reviewed the statements of all relevant witnesses and lamented the paucity of conclusive information. They had proved that Peter Renshaw had been at Elmwood Hall on the night of the murder but that did not establish that he murdered her because of the invisible man who they knew had left fingerprints on the murder weapon. Blades read the medical report on the body again. Two blows to the head: one to kill her, the second to be sure, but there was no record of who wielded the poker in the description of her cause of death. Blades smoked a few cigarettes and drank a few cups of tea as he went through the reports and statements again and again and looked at everything and anything in the evidence bag. Then he picked up some items, put them in his own bag, and found Peacock, who had been writing up a report.
‘Let’s have another look at that murder scene,’ Blades said.
They traipsed back to Elmwood Hall. After Janet had given them entrance, Blades and Peacock strode up to the drawing room, where Blades stood and perused the scene, Peacock beside him.
‘Let’s review what happened,’ Blades said. Then he strode over to a chair. ‘Evelyn Wright was seated here with her book when Digby Russell came in. She put that down, poured him some port and they chatted.’ Now Blades walked over to the fire. ‘Digby stood here, and at some point, Evelyn got up and moved towards him, leaving her glass on the side-table, half empty. When they had finished their conversation, Digby’s glass was completely empty and he left it on the mantlepiece. There was a mild disagreement, a simple faux pas according to Digby, and then Digby left, leaving Miss Wright – according to Digby’s evidence – hale and hearty.’
