After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery)

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

‘We’re not burglars,’ said Jack, this time with a great deal more emphasis.

  Bill produced his official card. ‘Relax, man. As Major Haldean says, we’re not burglars. I’m from Scotland Yard.’

  Constable Shaw looked at the card incredulously. ‘And you’ve come all the way from London for a burglary? God strewth, you got here quick, didn’t you? How did you know it had happened?’

  ‘We haven’t come about the burglary,’ said Bill, with as much patience as he could muster. ‘We’ve come about the disappearance of Signora Bianchi.’

  ‘Whatever for?’

  Bill sighed. ‘There was an eye witness account of a murder.’

  Constable Shaw stared at him. ‘A murder? Here, you mean?’ He gave a low, rumbling dismissive laugh. ‘You’ve got the wrong end of the stick there. It was nonsense. That was just some young woman who’d had a bad dream, that’s all.’

  ‘We think there’s a case to be investigated. As we are here, I want to know about this burglary. What happened?’

  Constable Shaw looked at Mrs Hatton. ‘You’d better tell them what’s what. You reported it.’

  Mrs Hatton bridled. ‘Burglars!’ she sniffed in an undertone.

  ‘Now, never you mind about that,’ said Constable Shaw with heavy encouragement. ‘It’s all right,’ he added, seeing Mrs Hatton still wasn’t convinced. ‘If these gentlemen are from Scotland Yard, they’re not burglars, are they?’

  ‘Well, you can see why I thought what I did,’ said Mrs Hatton defensively. ‘It seemed so strange, a burglary coming on top of your visit, and I was that upset, because Constable Shaw said as how I shouldn’t have let you in yesterday, not knowing who you was, even if Miss Wingate was with you. I blamed myself, but I don’t see how I could’ve known, even if you did know about the key.’

  ‘You didn’t do anything wrong, Mrs Hatton,’ said Jack easily, taking a chair and sitting down. ‘You’re quite right, though. It is strange, to have a burglary on top of everything else. Will you tell us what happened?’

  His voice was gentle and his smile held nothing but anxious, sympathetic enquiry. A smothered laugh behind him made him guiltily aware that Bill knew only too well he was exerting the full force of what Bill half enviously, half mockingly, referred to as his Devastating Charm.

  There was another smothered laugh as Mrs Hatton said, ‘Oh!’ and, sitting down, patted her hair and smoothed her apron into place. ‘What is it you want to know, sir?’

  ‘Just what you saw and heard, Mrs Hatton,’ said Jack, unleashing the smile once more. ‘You’re a very valuable witness.’

  ‘Well, I don’t know what there is to tell, really.’ She gazed into his eyes. ‘Not now I know you didn’t do it, which,’ she said earnestly, still gazing into his eyes, ‘I’m sure you didn’t. When I arrived this morning, I came in here to put the kettle on and then I went into the parlour and the window at the back was smashed in. I stood and screamed, so I did, then I went and got Constable Shaw here. I didn’t want to stop here a minute. I thought the burglar might be upstairs. I couldn’t wait to get out.’

  ‘It must’ve been very frightening.’

  ‘It was,’ she said, looking at him gratefully. ‘I was fearful.’ She rolled her eyes and clasped her throat to indicate terror.

  ‘That was really rotten for you.’

  Mrs Hatton looked gratified. ‘It was. Awful. Anyway, Constable Shaw came back with me, and we’ve gone through the house to see what’s missing. I mean, as I said to Constable Shaw, the place could’ve been ransacked. I took on ever so at the very thought of it!’

  ‘And was it ransacked?’

  ‘Well, no, it wasn’t,’ said Mrs Hatton, slightly put out. ‘But it could’ve been.’

  ‘There was one item you said was missing,’ put in Constable Shaw ponderously. ‘To wit, one cash box.’

  ‘A cash box?’ repeated Jack.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Mrs Hatton. ‘You know the type. It was metal and black with a gold and red line round it, with a handle and a key. She didn’t keep money in it, mind.’

  ‘Do you know what Signora Bianchi did keep in it?’

  ‘Papers,’ said Mrs Hatton vaguely. ‘Exactly what, I couldn’t say. Oh, and I’ve just thought of something else that’s gone. There was a picture of Mrs Bianchi, a photo what Mr Askern took. It was on the sideboard in the parlour. She was going to have it framed.’

  Jack took it from his pocket. ‘As a matter of fact, I picked it up yesterday,’ he said, smiling at Mrs Hatton’s reproachful look. ‘I didn’t intend to steal it, though. I just wanted an idea of what she looked like. Is it a good likeness?’

  ‘It is, sir. It’s just like her, that is. Why, looking at that, she could be sat here.’

  ‘That’s useful to know, Bill,’ said Jack, with a glance at his friend. He turned back to Mrs Hatton. ‘Will you show us where the window was smashed?’

  ‘Of course I will.’ She stood up and, leading the way, took them into the parlour.

  Bill dropped behind with Jack. ‘You should bottle that manner of yours,’ he murmured. ‘You had her eating out of your hand.’

  ‘Don’t be vulgar,’ said Jack softly. ‘It worked, didn’t it?’

  He clicked his tongue in disappointment as he saw the parlour. The glass had been swept up and, apart from the smashed window itself, there was nothing to show that the room had been broken into.

  ‘Constable Shaw said as how I could clean everything up,’ said Mrs Hatton in response to a question from Bill.

  ‘There’s nothing to be gained from looking at broken glass, is there?’ said the Constable. ‘It’s clear enough that the malefactor smashed the window, put his hand in, caught hold of the catch and raised the window that way.’

  ‘So he obviously didn’t know about the key under the plant-pot, then,’ said Jack.

  Mrs Hatton gave a defensive wriggle. ‘As a matter of fact, I put the key under the mat yesterday.’ She looked at Jack. ‘I thought, what with you knowing all about it, others might too.’

  ‘Let’s see if there is any evidence left,’ said Bill. He took a bottle of mercury powder from his bag, tipped some into an insufflator and puffed the powder onto the window-frame.

  ‘Here!’ said Mrs Hatton indignantly. ‘What are you doing, dirtying my woodwork?’

  ‘I’m checking for fingerprints,’ said Bill. ‘Unfortunately, our man seems to have been wearing gloves.’

  ‘If I was going to smash my way through a window, I’d want a pair of gloves, too,’ said Jack.

  ‘Yes, but it was worth checking, all the same.’ Bill turned to Mrs Hatton. ‘Where did the Signora keep the cash box?’

  ‘In the drawer of her dressing table, in her bedroom.’

  At their request, she took them upstairs, although, as she said, what they were going to tell by a-looking where it had been was more than she could say.

  The dressing table, the conventional type of dark oak with an attached mirror, held a fine leather box.

  ‘What’s this?’ asked Jack. ‘It looks like a jewellery box.’

  ‘It is.’ Mrs Hatton looked at it with a puzzled frown. She opened it up. ‘Look, the jewellery’s still inside it. Now I come to think of it, it’s funny that wasn’t taken. Still, thank heaven for small mercies, that’s what I say.’

  Signora Bianchi’s jewellery consisted of four necklaces of semi-precious stones, three brooches, three sets of ear-rings and five rings. She did have other jewellery. Some of it, according to Mrs Hatton, was lovely. The Signora had probably, thought Jack, taken her other jewellery away with her.

  A thorough search of the cottage ensued but, despite all their efforts, they were no wiser as to who Signora Bianchi was, or who her friends or associates were, at the end of the search than at the beginning.

  The only items that seemed personal were a few books with Carlotta Bianchi written on the fly leaf. There was some cash – four pounds in notes and a few coins – in the dressing table drawer but no letters, no documents and
no passport. They must’ve been, agreed Jack and Bill as they walked away from the cottage, in the stolen cash box.

  ‘And you can’t tell me,’ said Bill, ‘that any thief who leaves jewellery, even cheap jewellery, and cash, is an everyday crook. According to Mrs Mop back there, the only thing taken was that cash box with the papers in. Somebody was looking for something very specific indeed.’

  ‘Either that, Bill, or someone wanted to prevent us from finding it,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘I wonder which one it was?’ He stopped at the cottage gate. ‘What’s our next port of call?’

  ‘I think we’d better see Colin Askern next. In the light of what we both thought yesterday, that Askern could easily be our man, I wouldn’t mind letting him know this is now an official investigation. And, granted we haven’t found any other pictures of Signora Bianchi, I need to ask his permission to use his photo for the Police Gazette.’

  They walked along the field path to Lythewell and Askern, coming out, as before, opposite the chantry. This time, thankfully, there was no Henry Cadwallader to impede them. They were guided to the workshops, a horseshoe of single-storey buildings enclosing a cobbled yard, by the sound of hammering. A blue-painted gate, large enough to admit wagons and lorries, stood open and they walked into the yard.

  An intelligent-looking, khaki-overalled man, a clipboard in his hand, was standing in the entrance to one of the buildings, totting up the numbers of a pile of barrels and long wooden boxes.

  ‘Bill,’ murmured Jack, indicating the pile. ‘I know we were interested in the chantry, but you could easily fit a body in one of those barrels.’

  Bill grinned. ‘So you could, you old ghoul.’

  The khaki-overalled man finished his calculations. ‘All right, Harris,’ he called to someone at the back of the shed. ‘You can get them loaded onto the carts, now.’ He turned as Bill and Jack approached. ‘Can I help you, gents?’ he asked. ‘I’m the foreman. Were you looking for the offices?’

  ‘We were actually looking for Mr Askern,’ said Bill. ‘Mr Colin Askern.’

  The foreman pushed his cap back and scratched his head. ‘I saw him go up to the house,’ he said after a few minutes’ thought. ‘At least, that’s where I think he was off to, but if it was about an order, though, you’d be better going to the office. They can get in touch with Mr Askern for you.’

  ‘It isn’t about an order,’ said Bill. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a police officer and we’re looking into a report of an incident that happened on Saturday night.’

  ‘An incident? Here, you mean?’

  ‘The incident actually happened in Pollard Wynd,’ said Jack, ‘but we wondered if anyone reported a car, say, waiting in the road near here on Saturday night.’

  The foreman shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. There wasn’t anything to do here on Saturday night, as far as I know. You’d better talk to old Stroud. He’s the night-watchman. He might have seen something, I suppose. He doesn’t start till six o’clock but he lives in Bryce Street, if you want a word. I’m not sure of the number, but it’s next to the Guide Post pub.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bill. He took out his cigarette case and offered it companionably to the foreman. He nodded at the wooden boxes. ‘What’s in the crates, Mr …?’

  ‘Jones, Andy Jones,’ said the foreman, taking a cigarette. ‘Thanks very much.’ He took a light from Bill’s match and leaned his elbow on the boxes. ‘This is a consignment of church pews going up to …’ He inclined his head to look at the label on the nearest box. ‘Liverpool.’

  ‘That’s a fair old way,’ said Jack.

  The foreman grinned. ‘That’s nothing. We ship stuff from here all over the world. Australia, South Africa, New Zealand … You’d be surprised. Mind you,’ he added, ‘those are usually single items, carved wood and statues and the like.’

  ‘Can you take us through the routine?’ asked Bill. ‘What happens when an order comes in?’

  Mr Jones nodded affably, nothing loath to take a few minutes off. ‘I organised the way we do things. Someone places an order, maybe from the catalogue or perhaps after having corresponded with the office, for a custom-made piece, then the exact details of what’s to be made up are sent down to the yard. This is wood and stone I’m talking about, you understand. Mr Askern sees to anything that you might call fine art, pictures and such-like, but all the craftwork is produced here.’

  ‘It’s all despatched from here, though, isn’t it?’ asked Jack. ‘To the customer, I mean?’

  Mr Jones nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all checked by me.’

  ‘So say I’d ordered a wooden pew. What would happen?’

  Mr Jones pointed across the yard. ‘First it would be made in the wood shed, then it would be carved and varnished. Once it’s finished, one of the bosses, Mr Askern, say, will take a look if it’s a single item, or, if it’s part of a larger consignment, I’ll check it over to see it’s up to our standards. Then it’ll be marked as passed and taken to the packaging shed where it’s crated up and labelled. All our crates are custom-made for each item, of course. As each piece is made, there’s a label attached.’ He smiled. ‘We don’t want anything going to the wrong address, as you can imagine.’

  ‘No, I can see you wouldn’t,’ said Jack, looking at the hefty crates.

  ‘After it’s crated up, the final despatch labels are fixed on, and it’s brought here, to the despatch shed. Then it’s loaded onto the wagons and taken to the railway station.’

  He tapped his clipboard. ‘I’ve got copies of all the labels of the goods we’re working on here. Then, when they’re despatched, they’re filed away with a note of the carrier. If it’s only a small package, such as a statue or a wood carving, that’s the end of it, but for larger items, such as these pews, for instance, we send a team of workmen to the church or chapel in question and make sure everything’s assembled and in place to the customer’s satisfaction.’

  ‘That seems a very thorough system,’ said Jack.

  ‘It’s not bad,’ agreed Mr Jones thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could organise the way we do a few other things. This is a great business, you know, but …’ He broke off, shrugging. ‘It’s not my place to offer suggestions. Anyway, I’ve worked here for nearly ten years and we’ve never had a consignment go astray yet.’

  ‘That’s an impressive record,’ said Bill, finishing his cigarette. He glanced at Jack who nodded in agreement. ‘Can you direct us to Mr Askern’s house?’

  ‘Go out of the yard,’ said Mr Jones, pointing, ‘turn left, and walk along the road for a little while and you’ll see a big house. Heath House, it’s called. It’s less than ten minutes’ walk. You can’t miss it. Don’t,’ added the man helpfully, ‘take the turn to the right or you’ll come to Whimbrell House. That’s Mr Lythewell’s. It’s easy to get the two mixed up, but Heath House is smaller.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bill easily. ‘Much obliged.’

  Jack was thoughtful as they walked away. ‘It’s difficult to see,’ he said eventually, ‘how a body could be slipped into a crate without Mr Jones noticing.’

  ‘I knew you were trying to work that out,’ said Bill with a laugh. ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it? There’s lots of crates and boxes and it’d seem easy to get rid of it that way, but I just can’t see it, Jack, not with every crate made to order for the individual item. They do know what they’re crating up. No. If there’s a solution to where this body has disappeared to, I think we’re going to find it a lot closer to home.’

  A butler opened the door of Heath House to them. ‘Mr Colin Askern, gentlemen? I will enquire if he is at home.’

  ‘I’m aware of the social conventions,’ said Bill, ‘but if he is at home, we need to see him. I’m from Scotland Yard and this is official business.’

  The butler, startled out of his deferential imperturbability, allowed his eyebrows to rise. ‘Indeed, sir?’ He coughed. ‘I do believe Mr Askern is partaking of morning coffee in the garden. If you follow me, sir, I w
ill take you to him.’

  They went through the house and came out onto a delightful, sun-filled terrace where, under the shade of a tree, a stout lady, dressed in pastel violet, together with Colin Askern and Betty Wingate were sitting at a table with a tray of coffee. Askern had his back to them, but Betty started and gazed at them apprehensively.

  The butler coughed politely. He was about to announce them when Colin Askern turned round and got to his feet in surprise. ‘That’s all right, Kingsdown,’ he said, dismissing the butler. ‘I know these men. Rackham, Haldean, what on earth are you doing here?’

  ‘Colin,’ chided the stout lady. ‘That’s not the way to greet guests.’ She adjusted her lorgnette and gazed at them. ‘Won’t you introduce us?’

  Colin took a deep breath. ‘This is Chief Inspector Rackham and Major Haldean. I knew Rackham in the war. This,’ he said rapidly, completing the introductions, ‘is my stepmother, Mrs Askern, and you know Betty, of course.’

  ‘I remember you mentioning both Mr Rackham and Major Haldean, Colin,’ said Mrs Askern. ‘Pleased to meet you …’ She stopped, obviously taking on board Colin’s unease and Betty’s awkward silence. ‘Excuse me, did you say Chief Inspector?’

  ‘That’s correct, Ma’am,’ said Bill. ‘And I’m sorry to say, we’re here on official business.’

  Betty’s startled squeak was amplified by Mrs Askern. ‘Official business?’ she repeated waveringly.

  Colin turned on Betty Wingate accusingly. ‘Betty! You didn’t ask Rackham to come here, did you?’

  She nodded dumbly.

  ‘Well, of all the …’ said Colin in disgust. ‘For heaven’s sake, Betty, we’ve been through this endlessly.’ He looked at Bill apologetically. ‘You’d better sit down. All I can say is that I’m sorry you’ve been dragged down here on a wild goose chase. You too, Haldean. This,’ he explained to Mrs Askern, ‘is about Betty’s nightmare,’ adding, seeing she was still flummoxed, ‘when Betty thought she saw a murder.’

  ‘Good heavens! But that was just a dream, surely?’

  ‘Unfortunately,’ said Bill heavily, taking a seat, ‘we have good reason to think it wasn’t.’