Questioning of the station staff satisfied him that no one had been left standing on the station platform when the train had departed and no one had come running up, complaining that the train had gone. It was Constable Young’s belief that the young couple – if couple they had become – had either most likely adjourned to the local pub or found themselves some place or other where they could be private. It was also most likely, he thought, that when the young man had had his bit of fun, he’d have caught the next train out and the young woman, likewise, would have gone on her way.
However, whatever he might think about the situation – or the morals of young people today – a degree of sensitivity, brought on by recalling how precipitous he might have been when younger, had discouraged George Young from broadcasting this interpretation of events. He had no wish to bring the reputation of either into disrepute.
But George Young was also a man who knew his duty, and if a Scotland Yard inspector requested that he have another check, make sure the young man was not still on Constable Young’s patch and that no harm had come to him while he was there, then Constable Young saw it as his reluctant duty to go and investigate.
Eventually.
The request had actually been made a week ago. Constable Young had made a few enquiries at the local hostelries and questioned a few locals who lived near the station in case they might have noticed anything untoward, but he’d told himself that he didn’t have the resources for a full-scale wild goose chase.
He’d pretty much put the matter out of his mind, confident that there was nothing to be done. Until this morning. This morning everything had changed and Constable Young’s lot was certainly not happy as he anticipated the phone call he was about to make to the Scotland Yard inspector.
They had deposited the body in the disused dairy at a local farm, that being the only available space cool enough and with a door solid enough to keep the curious at bay. Constable Young had decided not to cover the high windows, which were barred but unglazed, hoping that the through draft might diminish the stench, the body in question now being ‘well rotten’, as Jed Fox, the farmer’s boy who’d come across it, had said.
‘So, you were rabbiting.’ Constable Young had already heard the tale but he wasn’t eager to make the telephone call and thought he’d do well to check the facts again.
‘Like I said. I’d got two brace and I’d promised to take a brace over to old Jenny Webster. Poor old lass could do with a couple for the pot. So I cross the field where the water turns back on itself, away from the railway track. Water’s been high, as you well know, but it’s dropped a bit this last day or two. Sally was running on ahead, sniffing, like she does, and all of a sudden, like I told you, she picked up a scent and she took off, wouldn’t come back when I called her or nothin’.’
Sally, hearing her name, lifted her head and regarded the constable with solemn brown eyes. She was part spaniel, part something larger and longer-legged, but she always had her nose to the ground when Constable Young saw her.
‘And Sally led you to the body.’
‘Started barking, didn’t she? Sally don’t ever bark. She knows better when she’s out with me. Barking’s for night-time, when strangers might come near and not be about proper business. So I run up and there she is, standing by the water and there’s the body, half in and half out of the water, and at first I think it’s someone half drowned, trying to lift theirselves out, but then I see it’s a dead ’un. And he stank, didn’t he? Stank to high heaven.’
He did indeed, Constable Young thought. Stank as much as any corpse would that had been sitting in or close to water for three or more weeks and was now also coated in mud from water that had been stagnant for most of that. He did indeed stink to high heaven and then some.
Jed had run to the farm and brought his boss and foreman back with him. They’d taken a tarpaulin and tumbled the body into it, dragged and carried it back across the fields and roused the constable. He’d taken charge and commandeered the disused dairy and taken statements, and now he had to telephone the inspector.
Knowing he could put things off no longer, Constable Young dismissed young Jed, telling him he’d have to make himself available when the inspector arrived. Then he called the exchange and made the trunk call to Scotland Yard, knowing that the story would be round the district by now and news of his phone call would be following the tale within minutes.
He was relieved to discover that Chief Inspector Henry Johnstone was out and that Sergeant Hitchens, who took his call, was a little less austere.
‘I take it,’ Mickey Hitchens asked, ‘that you are formally requesting the help of a murder detective?’
‘Well, I suppose I am,’ Constable Young confirmed. ‘So, when can I be expecting him to arrive?’
Mickey glanced at the board that listed those on call. Protheroe was first up, but Mickey doubted he would mind if he and Henry took the shout, as they were already informally involved. ‘You can expect us on the morning train,’ he said. ‘We’ll need to see where the body was found and interview those who found it. And, Constable, it’s a shame it had to be moved, but there’s no help for that now. Just make sure it’s not further disturbed until we get there.’
Constable Young assured him that no one was likely to want to disturb it further and, anyway, he had the only key. He ended the call feeling slightly relieved that he’d not had to speak with the grumpy one.
Mickey replaced the receiver and stared thoughtfully at the phone. They’d have to tell Abraham, he thought; tell him that his worst fears had been realized and that it was now up to Mickey and Henry to find out the how and the why.
EIGHT
‘I have to come with you tomorrow,’ Abraham insisted. ‘He’s been alone too long. Someone has to watch over the body until burial. Someone has to prepare him for the grave …’
Henry held up his hand and Abraham fell silent. ‘I can’t take you,’ he said. ‘This is a murder investigation and you have to let us do our job. If his next of kin are in London, then we will arrange for the body to be brought here and the post-mortem carried out by one of the pathologists on our list, probably at Barts or St Mary’s … I can’t promise where, but close by. Abraham, that’s the best I can offer.’
‘But someone must be with him.’
‘And once he’s brought back, we’ll do what we can to accommodate that,’ Henry promised. ‘We should notify his next of kin.’
‘I can do that.’
‘It should be made official,’ Henry objected. He caught Mickey’s look and relented. ‘Very well. You can inform your brother and the fiancée, but I’ll need to speak with everyone concerned upon our return.’
‘But they have done nothing—’
‘No one is being accused,’ Henry snapped. He sighed.
‘What the inspector means is that we have to speak to the family in all cases like this – see if they can shed any light. People often think they know nothing, but a small fact, something out of place, can often as not lead to us finding out the rest of it.’
Abraham leaned back in his chair and rubbed his face wearily with his palms. ‘I do understand,’ he said. ‘I will do whatever is needful.’ He shook his head sadly. ‘Nothing prepares you for death, not even the expectation of it. I still dared to hope that he was safe.’ He looked once again at Henry. ‘You are certain it is him?’
‘Unless someone else wore his coat, went missing at the same time, fetched up dead in the same place he was last seen.’
‘Then I should come and identify him.’
Henry and Mickey exchanged a glance, and Mickey said gently, ‘It may well be that a final identification is made by dental records. Perhaps you could find out the name of his dentist for us?’
Abraham stared hard at Mickey Hitchens, allowing the implications of his words to sink in. ‘He is so badly—’
‘It’s been three weeks or more, Abraham. He’s been out in the open and some time in the water.’
‘I
see,’ Abraham said. ‘No, of course, I should have thought of this. Of course, I should have anticipated …’
Mickey got to his feet and clasped the man by the shoulder. ‘We must be going,’ he said. ‘We’ve an early start and you’ll be wanting to contact your brother and such like.’
‘I was harsh,’ Henry acknowledged as they closed the front door and stood for a moment on the step.
‘That you were.’
They walked on in companionable silence for a while. ‘Well,’ Mickey said, ‘I’m off that way and home. You’re welcome to come and have a bite to eat.’
‘Thank you, but I promised I’d call in and see Melissa this evening and then I must pack my bag ready for the morning. You are all prepared?’
‘As if we were first on the board,’ Mickey said, referring to the time they’d have to be ready if they had been first on call. He had no doubt that Henry was similarly fixed but guessed that the inspector needed to go through the motions of packing and sorting to get his brain in order. Whatever had disturbed his equilibrium needed dealing with in Henry’s own way, and Mickey had no doubt that his boss would reveal all in good time. ‘Give my love to young Melissa,’ he said. ‘Tell her it’s been a while since I had one of her wonderful letters.’
Henry made his slow way to Cynthia’s house. He chose to walk rather than taking bus or taxi, knowing that he needed to get what Cynthia called his grumps under control before he saw his niece. He wished Cynthia was back; he’d had a letter from her that morning, announcing her intention to take her husband travelling for a little longer, and Henry realized that he missed her terribly. Cynthia was his foundation, the one constant in his life, a steadying influence that not even Mickey could match, and he had to admit that Cynthia’s letter was one part of what had upset him that day. The second had been a brief encounter with Clem Atkins when Henry had gone to view the spot where the boy had been attacked.
He’d had the news that morning that the family had come looking for him; news of the assault had travelled and the family had already been out looking for the boy and checking hospitals. They had finally made their way to St Thomas’s.
While Sergeant Young had been on the phone to Mickey, Henry had been talking to the boy’s parents and trying to persuade them that the action they viewed as their right was indeed unwise and that he would have no hesitation in pursuing them should they venture into Clem Atkins’ territory looking for revenge.
He and the matron had eventually calmed the scene, but he had no doubt that they would get just as riled up again later when the bandages came off and they took the boy home. The seeds of conflict had been sown and they would reap the harvest, whatever he said.
He had therefore gone to view the scene himself, and although he knew that Mickey had already spoken to Clem Atkins, he felt he should add his presence. The least he could do was to make Atkins fully aware that he was being watched – from all sides.
Henry disliked the man far more than he had ever disliked Josiah Bailey – senior or the son of the same name – and he could not quite explain to himself why this bothered him so much. After all, he wasn’t exactly meant to like the criminal classes with which he had to deal, day in, day out. Bailey had been a mean, vicious and unpredictable individual, given to violence and bouts of rage. Atkins – although Henry had no doubt he was equally vicious – exercised a tight and uncanny control over his own moods. He was intelligent, Henry allowed, in an animal sort of way. And every bit as dangerous as Bailey. The difference was Bailey had been impulsive, given to mistakes – making an exhibition of those who crossed him. Atkins, Henry sensed, was craftier, more skilled at hiding his play, and he filled Henry with revulsion in a way that Bailey, even in his excesses, never had.
But now it was more than that, he reminded himself. During the conversation, Clem Atkins had compared the two of them, himself and Henry, and it had played on Henry’s mind for the rest of the day, adding to his restlessness and pointless irritation at the fact that Cynthia would be staying away longer than he’d hoped.
‘Two sides of the same coin, we are. I’ll make a bet with you that we had the same childhood – the same bastard fathers, the same weak mothers. I could have been standing where you are and you could be standing in my place, Inspector Johnstone.’
‘No,’ Henry said softly as he stood at his sister’s door. ‘No, we are not.’
Henry had Cynthia to guide him, to protect him, to ensure he became the man she trusted he would become, and that made all the difference.
Melissa and Nanny were eating supper by the fire in the nursery. Henry joined them, sinking down into one of the comfortable old leather armchairs that had been in Albert’s study before they became too tired and worn. Melissa had claimed them then and Nanny had crocheted afghans for them both.
‘You look as though you’ve had a long day,’ Nanny told him. ‘I’ll get cook to send up some sandwiches and tea for you.’
Henry thanked her, leaned back in the chair and closed his eyes.
‘Are you tired, Uncle Henry?’
‘I suppose I am. And I have to catch a train tomorrow, up to Lincolnshire.’
‘So, someone is dead, I suppose.’
Henry opened his eyes and regarded his niece thoughtfully. ‘Do you think that’s the only reason I go anywhere?’
She thought about it. ‘Usually,’ she said. ‘I mean you’re not like Mummy. You don’t exactly like to go on holiday, do you?’
Henry laughed. ‘No, I probably don’t. Maybe I should. I had a letter from your mother this morning.’
‘So did I. She and Daddy are staying away a bit longer. I thought they might do.’
‘Oh? And why is that?’
Melissa pushed back a strand of auburn hair from a freckled face and for a moment she looked so much like Cynthia that Henry felt his heart cramp. He could not have borne it if Melissa had to suffer as her mother had done.
‘Because she needs to keep Daddy away until the men who want him to sign up to some rotten deal have left for New York, and I did as Mummy asked and forwarded the clippings on to her about the two men she’s trying to avoid. They haven’t gone yet. The newspaper said that one of them was staying on to do some car racing, so Mummy has to keep Daddy away from them a bit longer.’
Henry laughed. ‘Oh, my goodness, Melissa, you sound just like your mother.’
‘I think,’ Melissa told him, ‘that’s a good thing. Even Daddy says that Mummy is a very sensible and intelligent woman.’ She paused. ‘Mummy says they are going to Germany. That they are going to leave France and drive there.’
‘Yes, she told me that, too.’ Cynthia had not been too happy about it, but Albert had unfinished business and this seemed as good a time as any to get it tied up.
‘Mummy says she quite likes Mr Stresemann who is the foreign minister.’ Melissa said this as though she knew exactly what a foreign minister was. Maybe she did, Henry thought.
‘And she says that she is inclined to tolerate Mr Herman Miller. He’s the chancellor, you know, but she said she read an article by a Mr Hitler and she really doesn’t like him,’ Melissa said unexpectedly. ‘I heard her say that he was a dastardly man and she wouldn’t trust him as far as she could spit.’ She thought about this. ‘I’ve never seen Mummy spit, but I don’t think she’d be very good at it.’ She eyed her uncle thoughtfully. ‘What do you think, Uncle Henry?’
‘I think I’m inclined to agree with your mother,’ he said. In his own letter, Cynthia had been even more forthright. She had been urging Albert to slowly but surely sever ties with his German companies, but Henry knew she had to go carefully with this – drop hints, feed Albert with information until the idea seemed to be his own. Albert was a proud man, and Cynthia knew not to hurt that pride – not if she wanted to get her own way. He wondered if she would achieve what she set out to do on this trip.
Nanny appeared with sandwiches and a tray of tea and set them down on the little table beside Henry’s chair. ‘Time to
get ready for bed, my sweet,’ she told Melissa. ‘Give your uncle a big kiss.’
Henry hugged Melissa close. ‘Mickey sends his love,’ he said, belatedly remembering his sergeant’s message, ‘and asks for one of your letters when you have the time.’
‘I’ll write to him tomorrow,’ Melissa promised.
Nanny and Henry watched as she trundled off to the bathroom, trailing her nightdress and dressing gown like a train behind her.
‘Now,’ Henry was told, ‘eat up and I’ll pour the tea and you can tell me what’s on your mind.’
‘I’m not one of your charges,’ Henry objected.
‘Oh, yes, you are. Your sister told me to keep an especial eye on you while she was away, and tonight you look done in and bleak as winter.’
Nanny’s blandishments had not really worked. Henry was comfortable talking about himself with very few people, and although he knew the woman meant well, she was not one of them. Not wanting to hurt her feelings, he told her that he was tired and had a difficult case, and managed to shift the conversation back to the children, a subject she could never resist. It turned out that his sister’s nanny had worries of her own.
‘Little George is growing up so fast,’ she said. ‘Soon he’ll be going to school and won’t need me.’
Henry wasn’t sure what to say. ‘Children do grow up quickly,’ he tried.
‘And then the likes of us move on elsewhere. Once a family has done with us, that’s just the nature of things, I suppose.’
Henry was startled. It was a state of affairs he’d never actually considered. ‘You were with other families before you came here?’
‘Of course. Good families, but, oh, I will miss this one. Your sister is so kind. I feel as though this has been my home.’
Henry must have been staring at her because she reached across and patted his hand as though he might be the one needing comfort. ‘It’s not for you to worry about,’ she said. ‘It’s just that as you get older, I suppose you start hoping for a place to settle. It’s an itinerant sort of life.’
The Clockmaker Page 5
