Off the Record

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘It was a very convenient burglar, wouldn’t you say?’

  Lewis stood up and walked to the sideboard where, his movements made clumsy by his bandaged arm, poured himself another drink. He turned around, obviously sunk in thought, then came to a decision. ‘Look, Inspector, I might have been stupid but I’m damned if I’m going to carry on being stupid. If Gerry really did attack Uncle Maurice, then he deserves everything he gets. I’ll tell you something else, too. I knew what Ragnall had seen. If Ragnall told Gerry as much, then I’m in danger.’ He took a long drink.

  Perhaps it was his injured arm or perhaps it was his nerves, but Stephen Lewis had gone very white. ‘I don’t think I’m a coward, but that scares me.’

  Jack believed him.

  FOURTEEN

  The Reverend Matthew Meldreth, Vicar of St Ambrose, Stonecrop Ash, Oxfordshire, looked at Joseph Woollard with a puzzled frown. Mr Meldreth had been vicar of St Ambrose for the last seventeen years and Joe Woollard had been the sexton for twenty-two, but neither of them could remember a situation quite like this.

  The Reverend Meldreth picked up his pipe from his desk and absently stuffed it with tobacco from the old and dented pewter jar, a sure sign he was perplexed. Part of the trouble was that he knew so little about Colonel Willoughby. The Colonel had received him with a certain reluctance when Mr Meldreth had called to welcome his new parishioner last September. The Colonel had plied him with a chota peg, a Scotch of ferocious strength, complained about the cold, compared England adversely with India and said that no offence taken, he was sure, but he didn’t have much use for parsons in the general way.

  And that, thought Mr Meldreth, lighting his pipe, more or less amounted to the sum of his knowledge of the late Colonel. About Mrs Tierney, the Colonel’s housekeeper, he knew even less. A Roman Catholic, Mrs Tierney took no part in parish life. Even if she had been one of his flock, the Colonel’s severe bronchitis, which had plagued him since his return to England, would have kept her tied to the house. However, although he had never been through the doors of St Ambrose, the Colonel was still a parishioner and when he died – a truly shocking business, that! – Mrs Tierney had asked for the Colonel to be buried with the due rites and ceremonies of the church. Mr Meldreth had called upon Joseph Woollard, Sexton, who, in addition to digging out the graves, was also the undertaker.

  ‘I saw Mrs Tierney the day after the Colonel passed away, Reverend,’ said Woollard. ‘She told me that the Colonel’s nephew wanted him to be buried properly, as you’d expect. I fixed him up with a nice bit of elm, with brass handles, as right as a trivet. I called this morning to tell her it was all done and to arrange for the coffin to be taken back to his bungalow, so he could be buried from his own house, which she said was what she wanted. And then, as I’m telling you, she wasn’t there. She was gone.’

  Mr Meldreth sucked deeply at his pipe. ‘When you say gone, Joe, are you sure you mean gone?’

  ‘Yes, Reverend,’ affirmed Joe Woollard vigorously. ‘Gone to London, so Martha Giles says – she’s next door but one and friendly with Mrs Tierney – and no one seems to know when she’ll be a-coming back. That was two days ago now, and the funeral’s the day after tomorrow, as you well know, and I don’t know what to do with the body.’

  ‘But dash it, man, she must have left some instructions. She can’t have just disappeared.’

  ‘But she has. I don’t know, but London could have gone to her head, like, and she might have clean forgot her duties. Things happen in London.’

  Mr Meldreth recalled Mrs Tierney and shook his head. The idea that the pleasant, homely, middle-aged woman should have been seduced by bright lights and wicked ways was too fantastic for words and said more about Joe Woollard’s choice of Sunday paper than his sense. In a way, though, he was right. Things happen in London. ‘She could have met with an accident, I suppose.’

  Joe Woollard acknowledged this less sensational explanation with a downturned face. ‘She might have done at that. But what do I do with the Colonel? He can’t be buried from his bungalow, not if no one’s there to see him off.’

  ‘He’ll have to be buried from your workshop, Joe. You’ll do it all properly, I know. I’d better get in touch with this nephew of the Colonel’s. I presume he’s coming to the funeral.’

  But that was more than Joseph Woollard knew; nor did he know the Colonel’s nephew’s address or even his name. And Reverend Meldreth, completely at a loss and after two hours delay, reluctantly telephoned the police.

  The first Jack Haldean knew of Mrs Tierney’s disappearance was when his landlady, Mrs Pettycure, told him that Mr Rackham was on the telephone and would appreciate a word.

  ‘Jack,’ said Bill, his voice tinny on the phone, ‘this is just a thought, but when you drove Gerard Carrington to meet his uncle, Colonel Willoughby, did you come across the Colonel’s housekeeper, a Mrs Tierney?’

  ‘That’s right, Bill. I had quite a long conversation with her. She seemed a very pleasant woman.’

  There was a pause. ‘Would you recognize her? If she was dead, I mean?’

  ‘Good God, what’s happened?’

  ‘That,’ said Rackham grimly, ‘is what I want to find out.’

  The mortuary attendant pulled back the grey cotton sheet from the face of the body on the narrow wooden table. Jack swallowed. ‘That’s her, all right.’ Rackham nodded to the attendant who replaced the sheet.

  Jack was silent until they regained the street. He was thankful to be out of the building. In a way, the waiting room, with its scrubbed deal table and institutional chairs, where he had spent minutes that seemed like hours while Rackham completed the paperwork, had been worse than the whitewashed mortuary itself. There was a vase of sweet peas on the table. At least no one had tried to pretend the mortuary with its lonely occupant and air laced with formaldehyde was anything but clean, cold and depressing.

  ‘There’s a pub across the road,’ said Rackham. ‘Come on. I think we both need a pick-me-up.’

  In the Dog and Duck, Jack swallowed quarter of his pint of Bass in a single gulp. ‘My God, I needed that,’ he said with feeling. ‘The atmosphere of that place seems to stick to your clothes, doesn’t it? I’m sure I stink of disinfectant.’

  ‘I hate seeing a woman come off worse.’ Bill was pale with emotion. ‘It’s wrong, Jack. You told me she was a decent, kindly soul, and she looked it. How anyone could wish harm to a woman like that beggars belief.’

  ‘What on earth happened to her?’ asked Jack.

  ‘She fell under a number eleven bus outside Paddington Station two days ago.’

  ‘The same day Hugo Ragnall was shot.’

  ‘Yes, at half past ten that morning. You didn’t see the report in the newspapers?’ Jack shook his head. ‘It’s no great wonder. The papers have been so full of Gerard Carrington that the fact an unknown woman was knocked down and killed hardly scraped in. Compared to Carrington, I don’t suppose it’s very important,’ he said bitterly. ‘The conductor and the driver, both of whom were very shaken, said there was absolutely no chance of avoiding her. She staggered into the road and sprawled in front of the bus.’ He took a long drink. ‘Exactly, they say, as if she’d been pushed.’

  Jack let his breath out in a sigh. ‘Did they see anyone with her?’

  ‘There was a crowd round the station entrance, but they didn’t see anyone in particular. We’ve asked for the public’s help, but so far, no one’s come forward. We might have more luck now we’ve got a definite person rather than an unidentified victim, but I doubt it.’

  ‘Didn’t she have any identification on her?’

  ‘Not a thing. I imagine she had a bag of some sort but my guess is that whoever pushed her – and I’m going to take it she was pushed until it’s proved otherwise – took her bag and scarpered. But what’s getting to me is why would anyone want to kill her? By anyone, I mean Gerard Carrington, of course. It seems so pointless.’

  Jack ran his finger round the top of his pint
glass. ‘It could be security. You know I said Colonel Willoughby half-recognized him? Carrington explained that at the time by saying he took after his mother. The Colonel agreed that must be it. But what if Carrington, thinking it over, sees there’s a danger? What if, prompted by his visit, the Colonel realized that Carrington was the burglar? Who would he talk to?’

  ‘Mrs Tierney,’ said Rackham slowly. ‘Damn it, Jack, that makes sense. But look, if Colonel Willoughby knew, or thought he knew, that Carrington had attacked him, why didn’t he tell the police?’

  ‘Family loyalty?’ suggested Jack. ‘He was very ill, too, and might not have been strong enough to talk to the local police. We don’t know the Colonel did rumble him. That doesn’t matter. All it needs is for Carrington to work out Mrs Tierney is potentially dangerous to him.’

  ‘Dangerous,’ repeated Bill. ‘Carrington’s dangerous. Dangerous and clever. According to a Mrs Martha Giles, who’s a cook in one of the neighbouring houses and friendly with Mrs Tierney, Mrs Tierney was deeply moved when she received a letter, apparently from the Colonel’s solicitors. The letter said the Colonel had left her a substantial legacy. Mrs Giles saw the letter but can’t remember the name of the solicitors. The address, she thinks, was somewhere in Holborn.’

  ‘That’s a fat lot of good,’ put in Jack. ‘There’s hardly anything but solicitors in Holborn.’

  ‘Exactly. The letter said she would be met by a representative of the firm in the tearoom at Paddington Station. I think he met her, all right.

  ‘Who are the Colonel’s solicitors, as a matter of interest?’

  ‘I don’t know, but I’ll find out. The chances of this letter having come from them are non-existent, I’d say, but I’ll ask Stephen Lewis.’

  ‘When’s his uncle’s funeral?’

  ‘Tomorrow.’

  ‘I hope he’s safe,’ said Jack, suddenly worried. ‘He was downright rattled the other day.’

  ‘I don’t blame him. It’s his own fault, though. He should have insisted Ragnall told us what he’d seen at the time, rather than covering it up. However, I think I might arrange for one of my men to be present at the funeral. Didn’t you tell me that Carrington had a hankering after Lewis’s wife?’

  ‘I thought so, certainly.’

  ‘That’s another motive,’ said Rackham heavily. ‘Yes, I’ll definitely make sure an officer’s there.’

  Predictably enough, Colonel Willoughby’s solicitors, Grant, Thornton and Grant of Lincoln’s Inn, knew nothing of any letter sent to Mrs Tierney and she certainly didn’t have a large legacy; the Colonel had left her fifty pounds and four pieces of Benares brass. Stephen Lewis, too, did not profit to any large extent from his uncle’s death as most of the Colonel’s income was from a pension which had died with him. Less predictably, there was no incident of any sort at the funeral, a state of affairs about which Rackham had mixed feelings. It wasn’t that he wanted any harm to come to Stephen Lewis, but he had hoped that the funeral might draw Carrington out into the open. Lewis, visibly shaken by both Hugo Ragnall’s and Mrs Tierney’s deaths, moved back to Stoke Horam.

  It was, said Rackham, incredible how completely Gerard Carrington had disappeared. They were able to find out something of what he’d had done after he’d escaped after Ragnall’s murder. Carrington gone back to his own rooms in Tavistock Square, changed his clothes, packed a small suitcase and vanished into thin air. And that, despite Carrington’s face staring out of every newspaper, was that.

  It was Wednesday, two days after the funeral, that an entry in the agony column of The Daily Messenger caught Jack’s attention. Gerry. S.H. on Thursday. Evening. Half nine, summer house. Danger. M.

  ‘I’ve seen it,’ said Bill Rackham when Jack appeared in his office with the newspaper. ‘I telephoned Mrs Lewis and spoke to her as soon as I saw it.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘And she knows nothing about it.’ Bill picked up a pencil from the desk and twirled it thoughtfully between his fingers. ‘Or so she says. I’ve been on to the newspaper office. They haven’t got a note of who handed in the entry, which is what I expected. People who correspond through the agony column as often as not don’t want any record kept.’ He raised his eyebrows at his friend. ‘You reckoned Gerard Carrington was stuck on Mrs Lewis. What’s the chances of his feelings being reciprocated?’

  Jack pulled out a chair and sat down heavily. ‘I don’t know,’ he said after a few moments’ thought. ‘You might be right. She liked him, that was obvious, but everyone seemed to like him. I liked him, for Pete’s sake.’

  Rackham nodded. ‘Yes, but it’s her feelings I need to know about.’ He tapped the paper. ‘If this comes from Mrs Lewis, that means she’s in league with Carrington. That opens up a whole range of possibilities.’

  ‘Yes . . . Could Stephen Lewis have placed it? He was frightened, Bill. He might be trying to winkle Carrington out of hiding.’

  ‘Then I wish he’d tell us!’ Rackham stood up and stretched his shoulders. ‘How much does it take to convince someone that a murderer is a dangerous man? Surely Lewis has learned his lesson by now?’ He braced his arms on the desk. ‘Tell me I’m right. That entry has to have been placed by either Molly Lewis, or Stephen Lewis using his wife’s name. It can’t be some plan of Carrington’s can it?’

  ‘I doubt it. If Carrington did want to silence Lewis, he’d hardly warn him beforehand. Even if it’s an attempt to misdirect him, to lull him into a false sense of security, Carrington would be far better off saying nothing at all.’

  ‘That’s what I thought. Well, I don’t know who’s playing games but there’s one thing for sure. I’m going down to Stoke Horam tomorrow and if Gerard Carrington comes to call, I’ll be waiting. D’you fancy coming along?’

  ‘Why not? I don’t like that entry in the agony column, Bill. I don’t like the way things are shaping up at all.’

  ‘There’s not much to like, is there?’ He looked at the clock. ‘I’ve got a meeting in couple of minutes. It’s a conference on the case, as a matter of fact. Why don’t you come round for a nightcap this evening? I can bring you up to date and we can plan out exactly what we’re going to do tomorrow.’

  But the plans which Rackham made, had, he said in disgust later that evening, gone up in smoke. ‘Stephen Lewis is an idiot,’ he said, topping up Jack’s glass. ‘We – that’s the Chief and I – took it for granted that he’d welcome police protection. I telephoned him to say as much and he hummed and hawed and eventually refused. Apparently he’s convinced we’ll be spotted and it’ll put Carrington off.’

  ‘Doesn’t he want to put Carrington off ?’ asked Jack, taking one of Rackham’s excellent Turkish cigarettes from the box on the table.

  ‘No, he wants to bring things to a head. He’s scared, I think, but going it alone is stupid in these circumstances and I told him as much. Anyway, whether he likes it or not, I’m damn well going down to Stoke Horam tomorrow and I’m taking some officers with me. If we have to stay outside the grounds, fair enough. It’s Lewis’s house and we have to do what he says, but my hope is we’ll nab Carrington on the way in.’

  ‘Do you think he’ll show up?’

  ‘There’s a chance,’ said Rackham with a shrug. ‘After all . . .’ He broke off as the telephone on the sideboard rung. ‘Excuse me,’ he said briefly, picking up the earpiece. ‘It’s the Yard,’ he mouthed across the room, then Jack saw his face change. ‘He’s done what? Right, I see. I think I’d better get down there right away. The local men are there, you say? Good. No, with any luck I’ll be able to come by car.’ He clamped his hand over the phone. ‘Jack, can you drive me down to Stoke Horam? Now?’

  ‘Yes, of course,’ said Jack, standing up.

  ‘Thanks.’ Rackham turned back to the telephone. ‘I’ll be there as soon as possible and I’ll be in touch as soon as I know anything definite. Tomorrow at the latest.’ He hung up the phone and turned to Jack. ‘That entry in the agony column could have been a blind after all. Gerard Carri
ngton’s just tried to murder Stephen Lewis.’

  It took them over two hours to get to Stoke Horam, the pace through the maze of the dark Hertfordshire country lanes frustratingly slow. The facts, as Rackham knew them, were simple. At ten o’clock, or as close to it as made no difference, Gerard Carrington had shot at Stephen Lewis in the garden of Stoke Horam house. Molly Lewis, who had telephoned Scotland Yard immediately afterwards, had actually seen Carrington. It was only a fleeting glimpse, but she was certain it was him. Although unharmed, both Stephen Lewis and his wife were badly shaken and the Hertfordshire police had been called in.

  ‘I doubt we’ll be able to do anything tonight, Jack,’ said Rackham, ‘but at least we’re on the spot to start a search tomorrow. The local men couldn’t find any sign of Carrington, but that’s only to be expected at this time of night. I only hope they haven’t destroyed all the evidence by blundering round the garden. Lewis is safe enough for the time being, as long as he stays indoors.’

  A constable was on duty at the gates of Horam House. Jack stopped the car and Rackham beckoned the man over. ‘I’m Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard. Have there been any further developments?’

  ‘No, sir, it’s all been quiet. Superintendent Clough’s here, with four of us men. There are servants in the house, too. I can’t see him coming back tonight.’

  ‘No, neither can I.’

  The policeman saluted and they drove on.

  ‘I’m not sure about having the place so visibly guarded,’ said Rackham thoughtfully. ‘Tonight, yes, that makes sense, but we can’t keep the house in a state of siege. If we can’t lay hold of Carrington tomorrow, I think I’ll ask the Superintendent to draw his men off. I want them around, but I don’t want them to be seen. I’d like to have Carrington try his luck again.’

  ‘Will Lewis go for that?’ asked Jack as he braked the Spyker on the gravel in front of the house. ‘After all, you’re more or less asking him to act as the tethered kid to Carrington’s tiger.’