‘Ruth,’ said Joe Straddling, ‘you remember that I was guard on the four o’clock milk train to Croydon on the fourteenth, the night that Mr Barnes was murdered up at the works?’
‘Indeed I do, and it was the third night shift you’d been given in a row. It’s not right, Joe, and the company ought to be ashamed of themselves. Twenty-five years you’ve been a guard on those trains—’
‘What I’m trying to say, Ruth, if you’ll give me a chance, is that a man boarded that train here at Carshalton just after a quarter to four. You don’t often get passengers on the milk trains, on account of them being so early, which is why I noticed him. He’d got a ticket right enough – he must have bought it sometime late Monday evening – and he sat by himself in a cold compartment while we went up the line to Croydon. I’ve been wondering whether he had anything to do with Mr Barnes’s death.’
Ruth Straddling paused in her task of clearing away the breakfast things.
‘What sort of a man was he? What makes you think he had anything to do with the murder?’
‘Well, he was a burly man, well built – not young, though. He was wearing a merchant seaman’s black jacket, and a cap with a glazed peak pulled well down over his eyes. Bearded, he was. You couldn’t see much of his face.’
‘A workman, was he?’
‘Yes, he was. He was carrying one of those big carpet bags. Maybe he had tools in it. I just wondered who he was, and what he’d been doing here in Carshalton in the middle of the night. Do you think I should tell Inspector Perrivale?’
‘I think you should, Joe. It’d be just as well. He’d have had to leave the train at Croydon, wouldn’t he, because that’s as far as that milk train goes?’
‘That’s right. I watched him when he got down, lugging his carpet bag down after him on to the platform. It was still dark, of course, so all the station lamps were still lit. He crossed the bridge to Platform Seven and stood there, waiting for the London train. There were a few other men there, and he just merged in with them, if you know what I mean.’
‘So he’d have gone up to London Bridge—’
‘No, Ruth: Platform Seven’s for the through train to Victoria. It makes you think who he was, and what he was up to. He’d have got into Victoria at seven minutes past six.’
Mrs Straddling glanced at a clock on the window sill.
‘You’re going to be late, Joe. Best get your coat on. Yes, I’d tell Mr Perrivale about it. Mind you, when you think about it, the conservatory door at Wellington House was open when the police came – their maid, Mary, told me that. There was no sign of a break-in. So what was Abraham Barnes doing, going in there in the middle of the night, fully dressed?’
‘Well, how should I know?’
‘He was meeting someone, you mark my words, and that “someone” murdered him. He was supposed to be a great pillar of society, but everybody knew that Mr Barnes had some very peculiar friends. In another five minutes, Joe, you’ll be late. You’d best be going. See Inspector Perrivale on your way home.’
As always in mid-morning, the back bar of The Grapes public house in Aberdeen Lane was crowded with plain-clothes policemen. They sat at tables in the discreet glazed booths, drinking beer, smoking, eating pies, and talking earnestly in low tones. None of them cared much if the others heard what they were saying, as they were all serving police officers from the Rents, or from the old headquarters of ‘A’ Division in Whitehall Place.
Box and Knollys nodded to one or two of the men, and sat down in an empty booth.
‘What’s your pleasure, Mr Box?’ asked the bar waiter, a rather greasy young man who had carefully folded a grubby napkin over his arm.
‘Two India pale ales, and two beef pies, with plates and knives. Put it on the slate, Louis.
‘I had a note from Sergeant French in Clerkenwell this morning,’ said Box, after their food and drink had been deposited on the table. ‘You remember that the police surgeon never turned up? Well, apparently, he came in the police hearse, and viewed the body just after you and I had left. He agrees that the time of death was about seven in the morning. Perhaps a bit earlier, but certainly no later.’
The ale was strong and cool, and the beef pies flavoursome and garnished with jelly. Box sighed, and sat back in his chair. Around the two of them the other customers continued to mutter their professional secrets to each other. Although it was hot and stuffy in the back bar, it was a welcome change from the Rents.
‘And there was a note from Dr Miller at Horseferry Road,’ Box said. ‘He’s had the honey from young Walsh’s mouth analysed. It was just ordinary honey, he said, the kind you could buy at any grocer’s. So that’s that.’
‘What are you going to do now, sir?’
‘I propose that you and I, Jack, pay a visit to this other chemist, the one who had business dealings with Abraham Barnes at Carshalton. What was his name?’
Box produced his notebook, and rapidly flicked over the pages.
‘Yes, here it is. When I searched through Barnes’s desk, I found four little envelopes containing small quantities of what looked like sand or mortar. There was also a note – or the copy of a note – saying that the contents of the envelopes had been analysed by someone called Bonner, whose premises were in Garrick Flags, which is just behind Charing Cross Road. Let’s call upon this Mr Bonner this afternoon, and show him those envelopes. They’re bound to mean something to him.’
*
Inspector Perrivale knocked on the door of Mr Stanley’s boarding-house in Queen’s Lane. His feet were hurting him, because it was years since he’d pounded so many pavements as he’d done that day. He’d visited six of the seven small hotels and boarding-houses in the Hackbridge area of Carshalton, to no avail. No one had accommodated a burly, bearded workman in a black jacket, accompanied by a large carpet bag. Mr Stanley’s establishment was the last of the seven.
The door was opened by Mr Stanley himself. He was in his shirt sleeves, and had evidently been polishing cutlery, as he still held a fork in one hand and an ample cloth in the other.
‘Mr Perrivale! Come in. What can I do for you? Is it about the man with the carpet bag?’
‘It is, Mr Stanley,’ said Perrivale, entering a narrow hallway containing an enormous hall stand and an aspidistra growing in a glazed pot on a stand. There was a strong smell of cabbage emanating from some unseen quarter of the house behind the stairs.
‘He came here on Monday,’ said Mr Stanley, a genial, balding man in his fifties. ‘He said he wanted a room for the night, and offered to pay cash in advance. Well, that was fine, of course, so I took him upstairs and showed him one of the little attic rooms at the back. He said he didn’t want a meal, and that he’d be out quite late. I gave him a latch key, and left him to his own devices.’
‘How did you know that I was trying to find where this man had stayed?’
‘Joe Straddling’s wife told my wife. I don’t know who told Mrs Straddling. Do you think he was the man who murdered poor Mr Barnes? Just think! We might have all been murdered in our beds!’
‘What was he like, this bearded man?’
‘He seemed very respectable to me. Well set up, if you know what I mean. His cap and coat were obviously brand new, and so was his carpet bag. I offered to carry it upstairs for him, but he said to let well alone. He spoke quietly, and I got the impression he’d been well educated. He was probably a skilled tradesman of some sort. He was the kind of man who didn’t encourage questions, and I never asked him any.’
‘When did he leave, Mr Stanley? Did you see him go?’
‘No, I didn’t see him go. He’d left the house long before I got up. In fact, I’m not sure that he ever returned from going out late that evening. His bed hadn’t been slept in, though he’d evidently lain on the top of it for a while. He’d left the latch key on the edge of the wash-stand, together with a florin gratuity, which was very handsome of him, since I’d done nothing for him but provide him with a room and bed.’
&
nbsp; ‘I supposed he signed your register? What name did he give?’
‘Michael Shane, living at 4 Cobb’s Buildings, Hackney. He asked me to write it for him, as his wrist was strained.’
‘Well, thank you very much, Mr Stanley,’ said Perrivale, ‘you’ve been a great help.’
‘Will you go after this Michael Shane?’ asked Mr Stanley. ‘Do you think it was he who murdered poor Mr Barnes?’
Inspector Perrivale smiled, but refused to be drawn. As he walked away from Mr Stanley’s boarding-house, he thought: there’ll be no such man as Michael Shane, and no such place as Cobb’s Buildings, unless I’m very much mistaken. I’ll telegraph the name and address to Mr Box at Scotland Yard, but it’s information that will lead nowhere.
Box and Knollys saw the premises of the man called Bonner as soon as they walked into Garrick Flags from St Martin’s Lane. A tall, three storeyed warehouse was topped by a long painted sign, telling them that this was the place of business of William Bonner and Company, Assayers to the Building Trade and Mineral Merchants’ Samplers.
Bonner’s was a much larger undertaking than Walsh’s laboratory in Clerkenwell. In a cobbled yard at the side of the building they could see several wagons drawn up at a loading platform. A long, open-sided shed revealed rows of demijohns and carboys containing what Box judged to be deadly acids. A number of men were busy in the yard, and when the two policemen entered the building, they found themselves in a kind of open office, where a smartly dressed clerk rose from a desk to receive them.
Yes, Mr Bonner was available, and could see them straight away. It was a busy day, and Mr Bonner was in the main laboratory. Would they please walk this way?
When the clerk threw open a glazed door at the end of a passage, Box and Knollys could hardly contain a gasp of surprise. The laboratory was a room of vast proportions, containing an array of ten long chemical benches, at which a number of men in brown coats were working. Box was familiar with the delicate glass apparatus of chemical laboratories, but some of the devices set out in Bonner’s vast room were quite unknown to him.
‘Inspector Box? I thought you’d pay a call on us after what happened to Abraham Barnes. I’m William Bonner.’
Bonner, a tall, quiet man with silver hair, had emerged from somewhere at the rear of the laboratory. Like his employees, he wore a long brown laboratory coat buttoned up to the collar. He looked slightly vexed at having the routine of his laboratory disrupted, but his courteous voice held no tone of reproach. He stood for a moment observing his visitors with steady, unblinking eyes, and then essayed a slight smile.
‘In a moment, Inspector,’ said Bonner at last, ‘one of my assistants will be testing the compressive strength of a suspect mortar, using that device over there.’ He pointed to a machine that looked like a combination of book-press and anvil. ‘It measures the torque at the moment of compression, and once the test starts it can be very noisy. You and I had better talk elsewhere.’
They followed Bonner out of the laboratory and into a well-furnished office on the same floor. Bonner motioned to a couple of chairs, and sat behind a cluttered desk.
‘Now, what can I do for you?’ he asked. ‘I was astounded to read of poor Barnes’s violent demise. It must surely have been the work of a demented tramp or vagrant.’
Arnold Box saw Knollys hide a smile behind his hand. It was amazing how the public tried to foist off every violent crime on a mythical army of dangerous beggars.
‘First, sir, I’d like to know what connection you had with the dead man. Was he just a client, or would you have counted him among the number of your friends?’
‘Abraham Barnes, Inspector, ran a very old-established cement works. He was, perhaps, a trifle old-fashioned in his industrial processes, but he was meticulous in submitting all his batches to us for sampling. Cement— I suppose you know what cement is, don’t you?’
‘Well, sir, it’s—’
‘Cement, Inspector, or Portland cement, which is what we’re talking about in relation to Abraham Barnes’s works, is a finely ground powder of cement clinker, gypsum, and certain other materials. It’s the basic ingredient of concrete, mortar and stucco. Our company provides analytical and testing services to the cement industry in general. Abraham Barnes was one of my clients. I knew him well, but I’d not have called him a friend. Perhaps it would be more accurate to say that he was no stranger to me.’
From the laboratory beyond, a tremendous banging and crashing commenced. The two policemen winced. Mr Bonner smiled.
‘Sir,’ said Box, reaching into his inner pocket, ‘I have some samples here that I’d like you to look at. I found them in the late Mr Barnes’s office.’
A gleam of interest came to the steady eyes of the analytical chemist. He stretched out his hand, and Box gave him the four manila envelopes that he had found in Abraham Barnes’s desk, together with the two notes that he had discovered with them.
‘Oh, yes, Inspector,’ said Bonner, ‘these were very interesting. They were all specimens of mortar. Barnes wouldn’t tell me where he got them from, but he asked me to analyse them to determine which were ancient Roman, and which were modern. He came in here with them about a month ago, as I remember, on business to do with the works, and when we’d finished that, he produced these samples, and asked me to tell him what they were.’
‘Would such a task be part of your normal business?’
‘Well, no, Mr Box, and I would normally have sub-contacted work of this type to people like poor young Gregory Walsh, at Clerkenwell. But Barnes was insistent that I should do the work myself, so I did. That’s my writing on the envelopes. I sent them back to him a week later. I’ve got the full analyses here, in the office, but what’s written on the envelopes is all that Barnes needed to know.’
‘Could you briefly explain what your comments mean?’
‘Well, the first sample was of a mortar made from freshly burnt lime, sharp sand, and water, used for slaking. It was indubitably ancient Roman mortar. The same applied to sample number three: undoubtedly Roman. Number two was modern mortar: I mean late nineteenth century. It contained neat Portland cement, something unknown to the Romans, and typical quantities of alumina. It was modern mortar. I did a full trade analysis on that one.’
‘And the last sample?’
‘I wasn’t too sure about that one. Some of the constituents suggest that it was made about 1660. But it was most definitely not Roman mortar.’
Somewhere in the deep recesses of Arnold Box’s mind a picture was forming. It was a picture that he did not much care for.
‘You’ve been of enormous help, Mr Bonner,’ he said. ‘I must say, it’s all very fascinating. And you charged him a guinea?’
Bonner laughed, and his sober face broke into a charming smile.
‘He was always very keen on money and receipts, was poor Barnes. Yes, I charged him a guinea, and he sent me a cheque through the post by return. He was old-fashioned in his approach to production, but he was a careful businessman.’
‘That other note, sir: it seems to be from a third party. Does it mean anything to you?’
‘“Barnes, can I trouble you to get these four done? I’m nearly there, and these four, if they show what I think they’ll show, will be the final proof.” Well, it obviously applies to these samples, and evidently Barnes had been asked by the writer to have them analysed.’
‘That note is signed with the initials CW. Do they convey anything to you, sir?’
‘Not a thing, Inspector. Evidently, CW was one of Barnes’s friends, and he was engaged on some kind of research into building-materials. He could be a scientist, I suppose. Abraham Barnes was a Methodist, you know, so maybe this CW was one of his co-religionists. Perhaps it would be a good idea to check up on that aspect of his life.’
What sounded like a thunderous explosion shook the wall of the office. Mr Bonner rose to his feet.
‘I must go back to the laboratory, gentlemen,’ he said. ‘They’re testing the ten
sile strength of a batch of cement briquettes – you may have heard the sound just now. I’m always here at your service if you want me, and all records of my dealings with Abraham Barnes are at your disposal. I must go. Let me bid you good day.’
7
Some Talk of Mithras
In the large front room of her neat semi-detached villa in one of the spacious new avenues in Finchley, Louise Whittaker was busy setting out the tea-things on a round table near the fireplace. In half an hour’s time, her little maid Ethel would bring in the teapot, and then she and her friend Mary Westerham, a renowned epigraphist, and a fellow lecturer at Maybury College in Gower Street, would settle down to an hour of refreshment and, possibly, enlightenment.
Mary Westerham always dressed in black, even in high summer. Her grey hair was drawn back from her forehead, and secured at the nape of her neck in a severe bun. But she was a woman of ready wit and genuine compassion, not just well respected, but well liked.
Miss Westerham’s sight was not of the best, and she was sitting at Louise’s paper-strewn working-table in the wide bay window, reading The Graphic newspaper with the aid of strong pince-nez.
‘I say, Louise,’ cried Mary Westerham suddenly, ‘have you read this report of the so-called Mithras murders in this paper? Where on earth did their reporter find all this detail? He certainly gives the impression of knowing quite a lot about Mithraism. I wonder whether he’s read Franz Cumont’s monograph on the subject? Incidentally, I didn’t know you read this kind of popular print. I thought you were a Morning Post woman.’
‘Why, so I am.’ Louise laughed. ‘My little maid Ethel brought me that, because she knew I’d be interested in it. The lady next door gives it to her when she’s finished with it, so that she can look at the pictures. Of course, anthropology’s not my subject – I’m more at home with Anglo-Saxon manuscripts – but it’s certainly intriguing.’
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