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

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Her lip wobbled and she lit a cigarette with shaky hands.

  ‘You poor kid,’ muttered Jack.

  She gave him a grateful, if watery smile. ‘Thanks.’

  ‘Where’s Mr Askern now?’ asked Bill. ‘At his club?’

  ‘Yes. It’s the Reynolds in St James. Uncle Daniel and Colin have both come up to see him today. I came on a different train and they don’t know I’m here. Both Uncle Daniel and Colin more or less forbade me to come and see you. They think my latest idea’s crazy, but I don’t see why I should have to do exactly what they say.’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ said Jack. ‘Excuse me, what is your latest idea?’

  ‘I mean, I know I’m living with Uncle Daniel and Aunt Maud,’ she said, ignoring the question, ‘but, after all, Uncle Daniel isn’t my father or anything and, as for Colin, we’re not engaged, and even if we were I’d still have come. Colin thinks the fact his mother’s alive proves I was making it all up, but it doesn’t prove anything of the sort, does it?’

  Bill cleared his throat. ‘Have you anything to tell us, Miss Wingate? Anything new, I mean?’

  She nodded vigorously. ‘Oh, yes. That’s why I’ve come. Only …’ She broke off and pulled nervously on her cigarette. ‘I want the truth. I want everyone to know I was telling the truth about what I saw that night, and most of all I want everything back to how it was between Colin and myself. That’ll only happen once we find out who was murdered in the cottage that night.’

  ‘That’s very true,’ said Bill with commendable patience. ‘And your idea is?’

  ‘I thought of it this morning.’ She swallowed. ‘I’m not going to say I’m certain, because I’m not, and you’ll probably think I’m as crazy as Uncle Daniel and Colin do, but when I woke up this morning, I’d been dreaming of that night in the cottage and … and …’ She braced herself and looked him straight in the eye. ‘I wondered if the woman I’d seen could be the woman who fainted on the steps of the exhibition.’

  Nine

  There was a long pause, then Jack threw back his head and laughed.

  Betty flushed angrily. ‘If all you’re going to do is laugh at me, I might as well have listened to Colin and not come.’ She picked up her bag and made to stand up.

  ‘No, please stay,’ said Jack, gently pushing her back into her chair. ‘You don’t realise, but we’ve just been talking about that very possibility. The coincidence, if that’s what you want to call it, struck me as funny, that’s all.’

  ‘You’ve been talking about it,’ corrected Bill. ‘Not me. Miss Wingate, whatever gave you the idea?’

  ‘I’ve been thinking about it, obviously,’ she said. ‘If it wasn’t Signora Bianchi who was murdered, then who was it? I wondered if it was someone who lived in Whimbrell Heath, but, if it was, they’d be missed and their absence talked about. I know I only saw her for a brief second, but there was something vaguely familiar about her. I couldn’t swear to her face, but I think it was her posture, the way she was slumped on the sofa. That made me wonder if she was someone I’d met, and if so, where? It came to me this morning. It was the woman at the exhibition. I remembered how she looked, sprawled out on the steps, and I couldn’t help thinking it was the same woman.’

  Bill leaned back in his chair. ‘How do you account for her being in the cottage that night?’

  She looked at him helplessly. ‘I can’t.’

  ‘Fair enough,’ said Bill, nodding. ‘Well, Miss Wingate, thank you very much for coming to see us. I very much appreciate the effort you’ve made. I’ll certainly think about what you’ve said.’

  ‘So you don’t think I’m crazy?’

  ‘Certainly not,’ said Jack. ‘Do you have to rush back, Miss Wingate, or will you let me buy you lunch?’

  She stopped, obviously surprised, then smiled at him. ‘That’s awfully nice of you, but I really should get back.’ She hesitated. ‘It really is nice of you, Mr Haldean. Perhaps another time?’

  ‘I hope so,’ said Jack. He got up and opened the door. ‘I’ll look forward to it.’

  He waited until she was safely down the stairs and out of earshot before returning to the desk. ‘Well? What d’you think?’

  Bill looked at him with a knowing smile. ‘I think you’re in danger of falling for her, that’s what I think.’

  He had the pleasure of seeing Jack lost for words. ‘How on earth d’you work that out?’ said Jack eventually. ‘I feel sorry for her. It sounds as if she’s having a rotten time at home. She’s a nice enough girl, I grant you, but that’s all.’

  ‘She’s a nice enough girl who’s just swanned in, Mr I-feel-sorry-for-her Chivalry, fingered Mrs McAllister as the victim and told us that John Askern has taken unexplained amounts of money from his bank account and has now decamped to his club. But instead of wanting to race round to see John Askern, your first thought was to take her out to lunch. Apart from anything else, we’re waiting for the results from Records. Where’s your detective instinct?’

  ‘Damn my detective instinct,’ said Jack crossly. ‘I can figure things out and still retain the rudiments of manners, I suppose?’ He would have said more, but the telephone rang.

  ‘Records,’ Bill breathed to Jack as he picked it up. There was the crackle of a voice on the other end. ‘Well,’ he said, hanging up the phone. ‘You were right about the McAllister woman having a record. She’s never been convicted, but she’s also known to us as Mrs Joan Morton, Mrs Joan Manning and Mrs Joan Middleton, all of whom are wanted in connection with thefts from the various households where she was employed either as a cook or a housekeeper. She first came to our attention fifteen years ago. The latest incident was eighteen months ago, when a Mrs Joan Middleton disappeared from a Dr and Mrs Pratchett’s house in Canterbury, Kent, with about a hundred and fifty quid’s worth of jewellery and forty pounds in cash.’

  ‘Does she have any associates?’

  ‘Apparently not, more’s the pity. Anyway, I’ve got a few more names to fire at John Askern. If he’s ever employed a cook or a housekeeper whose initials are J.M., I’ll be interested, to say the least.’ He got up and handed Jack his hat and stick. ‘Come on, let’s go.’

  ‘Where to?’

  ‘To see Askern, of course. We’ve every reason to believe the murderer is associated with Lythewell and Askern. You worked out the victim could be Joan McAllister. Miss Wingate thinks the same. You worked out that if the victim is Joan McAllister, then the motive is blackmail. Miss Wingate’s just told us that John Askern, who couldn’t be more associated with Lythewell and Askern, has unexplained amounts of money missing from his account. I can’t help feeling the very least we should do is ask him about it, don’t you? And by the time we’ve done that and had lunch, with any luck the warrant for the chantry should’ve arrived and we can really start getting somewhere.’

  ‘Okey-doke,’ agreed Jack mildly, taking his hat and his stick. ‘I feel as if I’m in the presence of a suddenly awakened human dynamo. Lead on, old thing. I’m right behind you.’

  Colin Askern was with his father in his room at the Reynolds, a brooding, unfriendly presence. However, if it hadn’t been for Colin, Jack doubted they would have got any sense at all out of John Askern. He looked as if he’d aged years since yesterday and he moved like an old man. He didn’t, Jack thought, really register who they were.

  ‘Questions?’ said Mr Askern vaguely. ‘Yes, I suppose I can answer some questions.’ He looked at them hopefully. ‘Have you come from my wife? From Daphne?’

  ‘No, Dad,’ said Colin Askern firmly. ‘This is Chief Inspector Rackham and Mr Haldean.’

  John Askern passed a hand over his face. ‘I’d hoped Daphne would’ve sent a message. Daphne’s always been so sensible. Such a nice, sensible woman. I don’t know why she was so upset about Carlotta.’

  ‘You can’t blame her for being shirty, Dad,’ said Colin, appeasingly.

  Shirty, thought Jack, was a magnificent understatement.

  ‘It must’ve be
en a nasty shock for her,’ continued Colin, looking at Jack and Bill. ‘My stepmother is a sensible woman, though. I’m hoping she’ll forget about it and we can all let things settle down.’

  Bill cleared his throat. ‘Mr Askern, did you give Signora Bianchi any money?’

  ‘Money?’ Askern looked evasive. ‘What money?’

  ‘I believe an unexplained amount of money has gone from your bank account.’

  ‘How d’you know that?’ broke in Colin angrily. ‘You can’t go rummaging in my father’s accounts. He hasn’t committed any crime.’

  ‘Bigamy’s a crime,’ Bill reminded him. ‘Quite a serious one.’

  ‘That was years ago! For heaven’s sake, Rackham, you know the circumstances.’

  ‘Nevertheless, I’d like to have this missing money explained. Mr Askern?’

  John Askern passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Money? Missing, you say? I … I must’ve lost it.’

  ‘How, sir?’

  There was a pause. ‘You gave it to me, didn’t you, Dad?’ stated Colin firmly. ‘Don’t you remember?’

  ‘No, I …’

  ‘You gave it to me, all the same,’ repeated Colin. ‘It was a hundred pounds, wasn’t it?’

  ‘Askern,’ said Bill warningly, ‘can I remind you this is police business?’

  ‘What does it matter?’ said Colin Askern impatiently. ‘What does a few pounds here or there matter?’

  Bill sighed and tried again. ‘Mr Askern, can I ask you about Mrs Joan McAllister?’

  If he was hoping for a reaction, he didn’t get one. Bill repeated the question but Mr Askern remained blank.

  ‘Who the devil’s Mrs McAllister?’ asked Colin. ‘What’s she got to do with anything?’

  ‘We’d like to question her in connection with thefts from the houses where she’s been employed. She’s also known to us as Joan Morton, Joan Manning and Joan Middleton. I don’t suppose you’ve ever employed a cook or a housekeeper called Joan whose surname began with an M, have you? She seems to stick to her initials.’

  ‘No, I can’t say that we have,’ said Colin, seeing his father wasn’t going to respond. ‘We’ve never had any trouble with dishonest servants, either. My stepmother’s always been pretty fortunate in that way. She’s a generous woman and the servants have all been with us for ages.’ He looked at Bill curiously. ‘I must say I didn’t expect to be questioned about cooks or housekeepers. It’s funny, though. The name rings a faint bell.’

  ‘Mrs Joan McAllister, to call her that,’ said Bill, choosing his words carefully, ‘is the woman who collapsed outside the art exhibition.’

  Mr Askern was so sunk in apathy it was doubtful if he had heard, but Colin smacked his fist into his palm angrily.

  ‘Betty’s been to see you! Damn it, I told her not to! She’s caused quite enough trouble as it is without coming up with another cock-and-bull story. There wasn’t a body in my mother’s cottage. There just can’t have been. The whole thing’s incredible and, as for it being that flag-seller, the idea’s utterly ridiculous.’

  Bill ignored him, turned to Mr Askern and tried again. ‘Mr Askern, do you know anything about a Mrs Joan McAllister? The woman who collapsed outside the exhibition?’

  Mr Askern took a deep breath. ‘No.’

  ‘It has been,’ said Bill, persevering, ‘suggested she was blackmailing you.’

  There was a disbelieving snort from Colin, but Bill waved him quiet.

  ‘Blackmail?’ John Askern’s voice wavered. ‘No. No, she couldn’t have been. I – I don’t know her.’ His voice grew distant. ‘Carlotta wanted money.’

  He gazed unseeingly at his son. ‘Carlotta loved you. You mustn’t think she didn’t care, but she found life very dull. She wanted money. I knew she wanted money and excitement. I couldn’t give her either. That’s why she went away with Bianchi. I thought … I thought once I had some money, something to offer her, she’d come back, but she’d gone too far by then.’ He looked at them helplessly. ‘I did it for Carlotta. Perhaps I shouldn’t have done it. She never did know what I’d done. I tried to tell her but she never knew. Then there was nothing for it but to carry on. It didn’t make any difference, not really. Carlotta didn’t come back.’ He buried his head in his hands. ‘I shouldn’t have done it.’

  Jack and Bill glanced at each other, puzzled.

  ‘Excuse me, Mr Askern,’ said Jack gently. ‘What shouldn’t you have done?’

  Colin moved uneasily. ‘I don’t think you should answer that, Dad.’

  ‘So much money,’ said Mr Askern. ‘Gone.’ He laughed. ‘Where? Did he hide it? Did he ever have it?’ He shook his head sadly. ‘It drove him mad.’ He lowered his voice. ‘He thought they were after him, you know. That’s why he hid it.’

  ‘Who hid what, Mr Askern?’ demanded Bill.

  ‘Dad!’ warned Colin. ‘Be quiet.’ He looked pleadingly at Jack and Bill. ‘You can see he’s not fit to answer any questions.’

  ‘Do you know what he’s talking about?’ asked Bill quietly.

  Tiny beads of sweat stood out on Colin Askern’s forehead. ‘No, I don’t. I’ve never heard of any hidden money.’

  Money? Hidden money? And Colin Askern was obviously not telling the truth. …

  With a flash of insight, Jack remembered what Henry Cadwallader had said to him in the chantry about old Mr Lythewell.

  There’s rumours that he buried a load of treasure before he died … Young Mr Askern, he’d like to find it. He’s been in here nosing round a few times lately.

  ‘Mr Lythewell’s treasure,’ said Jack slowly. He looked at Colin Askern. ‘That’s what your father’s talking about. This is all about the past, isn’t it? Mr Lythewell’s treasure.’ Colin’s reaction told him he’d guessed correctly. ‘You searched in the chantry for it.’

  ‘All right, what if I did?’ said Colin. ‘It’s our chantry, after all. I didn’t find anything,’ he added grumpily. ‘Nor has anyone else, and if you want to know where any money vanished to, all you have to do is look at that damned museum old Lythewell built. That bloody chantry must’ve cost a fortune.’

  ‘Does your father know anything about old Mr Lythewell’s missing treasure?’ It seemed easier to ask Colin than the silent, distressed man beside him.

  Colin sighed impatiently. ‘No, he doesn’t. I’ve asked him. There’s rumours about hidden treasure but it’s all nonsense. It’s those stupid mottoes or whatever they are, engraved into the flagstones. They talk about treasure, but it’s not real treasure, the proper sort that you can spend. Old Lythewell was a religious maniac. He was talking about eternal life and his immortal soul, not pounds, shillings and pence.’

  ‘Treasure in heaven, you mean?’ said Jack.

  Mr Askern suddenly gave a high-pitched laugh that was horribly unsettling to hear. ‘Treasure!’ he exclaimed, and laughed once more.

  ‘For Pete’s sake,’ muttered Colin.

  Bill shifted in his chair. ‘I hardly like to continue, Jack,’ he muttered. ‘Not with Mr Askern in this state.’

  ‘I think,’ said Colin, ‘that you’d better leave.’

  ‘That was unpleasant,’ said Bill with feeling, as they walked down the stairs to the lobby of the Reynolds. ‘It strikes me that poor old Mr Askern is a fair way to losing his marbles.’

  Jack nodded. ‘I can’t help thinking Colin Askern feels the same.’

  ‘Colin Askern,’ said Bill tartly, ‘is becoming a real pain in the neck. I hope Mrs Askern is as sensible as they say. The sooner that Italian baggage takes herself off, the better for everyone. I don’t think Mr Askern does know anything about Mrs McAllister, though, do you?’

  ‘Not under that name, certainly,’ said Jack absently. He suddenly stopped and clicked his fingers together. ‘Got it!’ He turned to Bill, his face alight. ‘I think I’ve pinned down that memory!’

  He stepped to the kerb and, raising his stick, hailed an approaching taxi. ‘Fleet Street,’ he said to the driver as they got into the cab. ‘On
The Town magazine.’

  ‘What memory?’ demanded Bill as Jack hustled him into the taxi. ‘What’s all this about?’

  ‘It’s the reason why the name Lythewell seemed familiar. It was a phrase Colin Askern used. He called the chantry a damned museum. You know I write an occasional series for On The Town about historic crimes? Well, years ago there was something called the Great Museum Scandal, or something like that, and I’m sure there was a Lythewell connected with it.’

  ‘Daniel Lythewell?’ asked Bill hopefully.

  ‘I don’t know. It’s ages since I wrote the article but they’ll have it on file in the office.’

  A quarter of an hour later, they were in the dusty light of a small, book-lined room overlooking Fleet Street. ‘I think it should be in the winter issues of about three years ago,’ said Jack, pulling a bound volume off the shelf. ‘Check 1922, will you, Bill? I’ll take 1923.’

  ‘Right you are,’ said Bill. He blinked as the leather-bound volume, which looked as if it should contain a Bible or, at the very least, law reports, opened on the prismatic colours of the cover of On The Town. ‘I’m looking for a historic crime to do with a museum, right?’

  Silence followed, broken only by the rustle of pages.

  Jack grunted in disappointment and pulled another volume off the shelf. ‘It must be earlier than I thought …’

  More silence.

  Bill took a volume for 1921 from the shelf and, flicking through the magazines it held, read through the contents patiently. ‘Is this it, Jack?’ he asked, slewing the book round. ‘“The Great Museum Scandal that cost a man’s life! Number five in our series of enthralling real-life mysteries from the past. By Jack Haldean.”’

  ‘That’s the one,’ said Jack in satisfaction. He walked round the desk to Bill. ‘Of course! It’s a Victorian crime so it’s in the Christmas number. I don’t know why Victorians, crime and Christmas go together, but they do. I’ll read it out.

  ‘“On the ninth of November, 1868, Dr Jacob Anstruther, B.A., M.A., D.Phil (Cantab.), the highly respected curator of the Jannard Street Museum of Oriental and Eastern Antiquities, announced to his astonished audience consisting of distinguished and learned academics, interested on-lookers and gentlemen of the Press, that the technique of electroplating, far from having been invented by the Italian chemist Luigi Brugnatelli in 1805, had, in fact, been in use thousands of years earlier by the Qui Dynasty of Ancient China.” Gosh.’