The Curious Mind of Inspector Angel

by Roger Silverwood

  The traffic lights changed to green and the bus pulled away.

  Mary wondered what the girl had been up to. The wall she had come over must have been the perimeter of the garden of the end house on Creeford Road. It was not the usual way for a visitor to leave a house. She couldn’t ignore it, her husband being an inspector in the local constabulary. The girl had looked very furtive; her method of leaving the premises left Mary in no doubt that she had been up to something dishonest, and she was considering what next to do. She made a decision. She would phone her husband on her mobile and let him deal with it.

  She reached into her handbag for the phone, when she noticed the bus was slowing down again. It stopped. She looked up. Apparently, it was a regular bus stop for passengers to alight only. One elderly lady was getting off. Mary suddenly decided to alight also and she leaped out of her seat and followed her down the steps. The doors swished shut, the bus pulled away and she watched it go wondering if she had done the right thing.

  There was nobody around. A few cars whizzed past in both directions. She waited for her opportunity, crossed the road and walked back to the end of the alley. She looked up it and around about. There was no sign of the girl, or anybody else. She walked the few paces up the alley to the spot where she had seen the girl fall. Several tufts of grass had been pulled out of the old wall, and it had fresh scrape marks where she had caught her shoes on the way down. She looked down to where she thought something had been dropped. Sure enough in a clump of grass, there was something shining back at her. She reached down and picked it up. It was like a pair of scissors with a small box on one of the blades. She realized at once that it was a candle-snuffer. It looked very old, and being silver, she considered it might be quite valuable. She snapped it a couple of times. It seemed to be all right. She put it into her shopping bag and looked round to see if anything else had been dropped. There was nothing.

  Mary walked back to the road junction, went round the corner onto Creeford Road to the first house. It was a big, detached Victorian pile with double wrought-iron black-painted gates standing wide open. She walked through the gates and along the short drive that was surrounded by dark evergreen bushes of several types. Then up four stone steps to the freshly painted black door.

  There was a door knocker and a china bell-push. She stuck out a finger and pressed the bell. Nothing happened. After a short wait, she reached up for the door knocker, gave it a few bangs and then pressed the bell-push again for good measure.

  There was still no reply. Looked like there was nobody at home.

  She dug into her bag for her mobile and tapped in her husband’s phone number. He soon answered and she told him the story about the girl coming over the wall, the finding of the candle-snuffer and her attempt to return it to the householder. He thought it needed following up promptly, so he told her to wait there and he’d be along right away.

  She sighed and stuffed the mobile in her bag, and then strolled under the small parapet to see whatever there was to see in the garden.

  A big car suddenly roared through the gates driven by a man in a hurry. He saw Mary Angel by the front door and was surprised. He slammed the car door and rushed up the steps.

  She stared down at him. He was almost certainly the wealthy man who lived there, and she was pleased that she might be able to tell him the story, return the silver snuffer and press on with her shopping.

  ‘Good morning,’ he said pleasantly, his eyebrows raised. ‘Did you want to see me?’

  ‘Good morning,’ she said. ‘I do if you live here.’

  ‘Indeed I do,’ he said pulling out a bunch of keys and making for the door.

  ‘Good. Then I can give you this. I believe it’s yours.’

  He turned back.

  She reached into her bag, pulled out the candle-snuffer and handed it to him.

  He took it from her, stared at it, gasped, turned it up and down, and then very seriously said, ‘Well, thank you very much, but how on earth did you come by it?’

  She began to tell him the events of the morning to which he listened most attentively. He was thanking her when another car came through the gate. She was relieved when the driver smiled reassuringly up at her. She acknowledged the smile with a small wave of the hand.

  ‘You know the gentleman?’ he said quickly.

  She smiled. ‘It’s only my husband. It’s all right. He’s a policeman.’

  The face of the man holding the candle-snuffer suddenly changed. His eyes bounced. ‘Oh,’ he said.

  Angel got out of the car and came up the steps. ‘Good morning, sir.’

  The man smiled. It wasn’t a great smile. Angel had seen more convivial smiles on a corpse. He knew the expression. It was the practised smile of a man who wanted to scream and run.

  The man said, ‘I’m afraid there’s been some mistake.’ He handed the candle-snuffer back to Mary. ‘This isn’t my property. I don’t know who it belongs to. Thank you for showing it to me. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I will have to be off. I have an appointment. Good morning.’

  He went in the house and closed the door.

  A few minutes later Angel drove the BMW up to the front of the five-storey building that had once been a wool mill. He locked the car door and glanced up at the big, old stone building. He noticed the large door in the wall on the top floor, and the metal arm and pulley that used to swivel out to function as a simple hoist to move wool and whatever else from one floor to another. He also observed that all the upper floors seemed deserted, indeed, some of the windows needed the attention of a glazier, but that the ground floor seemed to be fully occupied by a second-hand car showroom and motor repairers, a double-glazing window makers and, with a tiny frontage on the corner, an antiques dealer with a sign that showed that David Schuster was the tenant.

  Angel walked up to the old-fashioned shop door and turned the knob. A bell on a spiral spring hanging from the low ceiling bounced and rang out loudly. He stepped down into the cramped, dusty little shop and looked around at the pictures and animal heads on plaques adorning the walls, the piled-up sticks of furniture, and mixture of modern and old household clobber packed and stuffed wherever it would fit. Piles of framed paintings, two crude sculptures, dusty curtains and curtain rails were piled up on one side and six ancient fire extinguishers were occupying floor space by the glass counter.

  Angel sniffed and wondered if he had come to the right place.

  A man in a Victorian smoking hat and scruffy suit shuffled through a bead curtain in a cloud of cigarette smoke. He smiled, put a lighted cigarette in an overfull ashtray, placed both hands on the counter, leaned over it and said, ‘Now, sir. What can I do for you?’

  ‘Are you Mr Schuster?’ Angel said.

  ‘My name is on the shop. I cannot deny it, sir. David Schuster, antiques, restoration and second-hand furniture. Also house clearances a speciality. Alas, there aren’t many genuine antiques around these days. I have to diversify like most everybody else.’

  Angel pointed to the curtains and the fire extinguishers. ‘You certainly deal in a wide variety of … things.’

  Schuster smiled. ‘Yes, I must be mad. I have just cleared out the Bransby Art Gallery, which Bromersley council have closed down. These curtains, fire extinguishers and other things came with the deal. I will find a customer for everything in time, I expect. If those fire extinguishers are in your way, I will move them.’

  Angel leaned down and pushed them to one side.

  ‘Thank you,’ Schuster said.

  Angel straightened up. ‘I have been told that you are an expert on silver.’

  Schuster pursed his lips and struggled to look modest. For him, it wasn’t easy. ‘I know a bit about silver, sir. Yes.’

  Angel opened the paper bag he had been holding, pulled out the candle-snuffer and offered it over the counter.

  Schuster took it slowly from him, held it out disinterestedly, turned it over, then back again, then put it on the counter between them.


  ‘Do you want to sell it?’ he asked, nonchalantly.

  Angel shook his head.

  ‘It’s not mine to sell, Mr Schuster. I am a police officer. DI Angel. This has come into my possession. I simply have to find out its value.’

  ‘Ah,’ Schuster said. ‘Just a valuation you want?’

  ‘Whatever you can tell me.’

  ‘Right,’ he said and reached up, dragged at a coiled metal contraption that looked like a snake. He pressed a switch at its neck and the snake’s head lit up. Angel could see that it was an angle poise lamp.

  Schuster directed the light onto the candle-snuffer, took a 10x loupe out of his pocket, set it into his eye, closed the other and then picked up the silver. He took a full minute casting his eye over it. He tested the action of the blades, then he put the piece down, switched off the light, put the loupe back into his pocket and said, ‘Well, it’s very old. Maybe 200 or 300 years or even more. Very unusual design. The tips of the snuffer are like a pair of hands. Cannot bring to mind what the hands represent. I’m sure it’s something significant, but I can’t think what. Delicately traced. It would have been done in the days when a silversmith was an artist and didn’t charge by the hour. High standard of silver, but not English. Almost certainly made on the Continent. In good condition. Very much polished. Shows it came from a house with lots of servants. Probably polished every day. Not that useful. I mean, who uses candle-snuffers these days? Might be very interesting to a museum though. Hard to say. I wouldn’t pay more than thirty pounds. Hmm. That would be my top price. In a classy auction house, like Flumen’s, on a good day, you might get a bid of a hundred or even more. Now, if only it had been a pair of vine scissors. They’re all the rage now, especially if they are antique.’

  Angel was disappointed. ‘Any idea where it might have come from?’

  ‘Some big house on the Continent, where they regularly used candles, had plenty of servants, say during the seventeenth century.’

  ‘Well, thank you, Mr Schuster. What do I owe you?’

  ‘I’ll put it on the slate, Inspector,’ he said. ‘It’ll be a friendly smile and a hot cup of tea if ever you see me in the cells.’

  Angel raised his head in surprise.

  It was 8.28 a.m. when Angel arrived in the office. He threw off his coat, glanced at the pile of post on his desk and pulled a face. He fingered through it, opened one of the envelopes, sniffed and then cast it aside.

  He picked up the phone and stabbed in a number. It was answered by Police Constable Ahmed Ahaz.

  ‘Come in here,’ Angel said.

  Ahaz was a sensitive young man, only twenty years of age and was recently promoted from cadet to probationary police constable. He was courteous, obliging, enthusiastic and intelligent. He had been on Angel’s team since joining as a cadet three years ago. The inspector liked him and thought he showed great promise.

  ‘Now what about that misper?’

  ‘Nothing, sir.

  ‘You’ve searched everywhere?’ Angel bawled.

  ‘Yes sir,’ he said. ‘There’s no match on the national computer, and I’ve been back through every issue of the Police Gazette for the past six months.’

  ‘Have you tried the Salvation Army?’

  Ahmed frowned. ‘They’re always asking us, sir.’

  ‘Well, let’s ask them for a change,’ he quipped.

  ‘Do you mean nationally, sir?’

  ‘Start at their head office in London. But for god’s sake get a move on and find out who he is, before he’s recorded as “unknown”, and has to go in a pauper’s grave.’

  Ahmed pulled a face.

  Angel noticed. ‘That’s what happens if the body can’t be identified.’

  ‘Not very nice, sir.’

  ‘No. Well, crack on with it, then.’

  Ahmed opened the door.

  ‘And send Ron Gawber in,’ he called after him.

  ‘Right, sir.’ He went out.

  Angel watched the door close. He sighed, rubbed his chin, leaned back in the swivel chair, looked up at the ceiling and squeezed the lobe of his ear between finger and thumb. He wasn’t a happy bunny. He liked being a policeman, but he didn’t like crime, especially not in his birth town of Bromersley, which had more than its fair share. He sighed again. Bromersley was just a big wet hole with ugly buildings and no style. Its people were mostly good-hearted except those that weren’t, of which there were too many. He wanted better for the community, for his wife and for himself.

  There was a knock at the door.

  He lowered the chair. ‘Come in.’

  It was Detective Sergeant Ronald Gawber.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Yes. That tramp. Still no ID. You were on the scene first, Ron. Tell me about it again. Sit down.’

  Ron pulled out the chair by the desk. ‘Got an anonymous triple nine, sir. Man’s voice. Simply said there was a dead man under the railway bridge arches on Wath Road, Bromersley. When I got there the place was deserted except for that body. It was on the deck in a sitting position, head down. Looked drunk at first … until I got close up. The blood—’

  ‘Yeah. Yeah. I saw the photos. What about the scene?’

  ‘There was nobody there, sir. There were a few beer cans, a brandy bottle, newspapers, cigarette ends and so on. They were all gathered up, labelled by SOCO. There’s sure to be prints on the stuff.’

  Angel wrinkled his nose. ‘Anything else?’

  ‘I felt his neck. Stone cold. I phoned SOCO and waited until they arrived. They took over.’

  ‘Yes. Ta. Got SOCO’s report. It points out that the tramp was wearing handmade shoes. It might lead us somewhere.’

  Gawber nodded. ‘Anything in the pockets, sir?’

  ‘No. Nothing.’

  ‘Robbed, I expect. Hmm.’ Gawber pulled a face like the smell in a drunk’s cell on a Sunday morning, and said, ‘Who could go through a dead man’s pockets and take absolutely everything?’

  Angel could only think of the Inland Revenue.

  ‘Is that it, Ron?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Mmm.’

  He turned to go.

  ‘There’s something else,’ Angel said. ‘You’ve heard about the man at Number 2 Creeford Road?’

  Gawber smiled wryly then said, ‘Oh yes, sir. The chap who couldn’t decide whether that candle-snuffer was his or not.’

  ‘Aye. I’ve got Crisp getting the full SP on him. But have you any idea of the thief? It was a girl, with longish dark hair, slim, wears socks, like a schoolboy.’

  ‘Why would she wear socks like a boy?’

  ‘How do I know?’

  ‘You mean pulled up to just below the knee and then turned over?’

  ‘That’s the description my wife gave me.’

  ‘I’ve no knowledge of a customer like that, sir. But kids wear anything these days.’

  ‘Yes, but … a bit unusual for a girl. They always want to look … older, more sophisticated.’

  ‘How old was she?’

  Angel shrugged. ‘My wife said she could have been any age from about fifteen to twenty-five.’

  There was a knock at the door. It was Ahmed.

  ‘Excuse me, sir. Got through to the Salvation Army. They’re looking through their records. They’ll phone back tomorrow after they’ve made a thorough search.’

  ‘Right.’

  He turned to go.

  ‘Hang on a minute, Ahmed.’

  Angel looked at Gawber. Gawber stood up and said, ‘I’ll get off, sir. I expect SOCO will be able to release those shoes by now.’

  ‘If you’ve any difficulty, let me know. I’ll not have our enquiries held up. And think on about that girl.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gawber went out.

  Angel glanced at Ahmed. ‘Close the door and come and sit down,’ he said. Then he reached into the bottom drawer of his desk, took out a large paper window envelope printed with the one word EVIDENCE in red, and placed it on the desk in front
of him.

  ‘Have a look at that.’

  The young man opened the envelope and carefully took out the candle-snuffer. His face brightened. He turned it over and back again.

  ‘It’s very … elegant, sir,’ he said, looking at it carefully and deferentially. He ran his fingers along the delicate silver tracing, exercised the scissor movement twice and looked curiously at the moulded silver hands at the tips of the blades.

  ‘It’s for snuffing out candles, and for trimming the wick.’

  Ahmed nodded.

  ‘I want you to photograph it, put it on the stolen list on the NPC, also, I want hard copies sending to Matthew Elliott at the Antiques and Fine Art squad, the Police Gazette and Antiques’ World, with this caption.’ He handed Ahmed a used envelope with some handwriting on the back.

  Ahmed read it out.

  Silver candle-snuffer with hand motif on tips of blades. Found locally, believed stolen, thought to have been made in the 18th century on the continent. Any information to DI Angel, The Police Station, CID, Church Street, Bromersley.

  FOUR

  * * *

  The phone rang. Angel reached out for it.

  ‘Come down here, smartish,’ the voice bawled, and the line went dead.

  It was Superintendent Harker. Sounded urgent. It always did.

  Angel wrinkled his nose and wondered what the panic was. Everything was going on satisfactorily in his cases … a bit slow, maybe, but he reckoned he was making progress on all fronts.

  He dashed straight down the green painted corridor to the superintendent’s office, tapped on the door and went in.

  ‘You wanted me, sir?’

  ‘Ah,’ Harker groaned and pulled a face like an orangutan in the dock awaiting the judge’s sentence. He sniffed and pointed to a chair. It was the nearest Angel would ever get to a polite invitation to sit down. He eased himself into the chair facing the desk and looked across at the superintendent who was assembling four sheets of A4 in sequence before tossing them into the out tray.