by Tessa Dale
“I have just the man, sir, but can’t you just leave the packet of photographs with the guard, or in the mail coach for us?”
“Not a chance,” Cecil Thomas said. “If your murder case involves some top socialites, I want my best crime reporter on site!”
“You understand that we can’t divulge anything to your man at this stage, Mr. Thomas, don’t you?”
“Of course I do, Sergeant Jones,” the editor replied. “My fellow is perfectly capable of unearthing his own sources of information. Although, I must say this; if the case breaks, and you make arrests, I expect a courtesy call from you. That way, we get a head start, and you get my undying gratitude… and guaranteed future cooperation.”
“That sounds fair enough, sir. I’ll keep in touch, as much as I can.”
“See you do, young man. My paper is read by almost three million people every morning. Treat us right, and you will have a powerful weapon at your disposal. Good evening, Sergeant Jones.”
Having the Daily Mirror in your corner was an inviting prospect, Jones decided. He would tell his Guv’nor about it, as soon as he had completed his list of other jobs.
The sergeant delegated DC Stanton for the collection of both photographs and reporter, reminding him not to discuss the details of the case with the news man.
“He’ll try and pump you for some titbit or other, Stan,” he said. “Consider everything you say to him. If he asks for the name of a decent hotel to stay at, recommend the Excelsior or the Castleburgh Arms pub on the High Street.”
“What about the Railway Hotel, Sarge? It’s the closest to…”
“No. Not the Railway. Tell him the bar is better at the other two places… or… well, just steer him clear. We don’t want him in the same hotel as a material witness.”
“A witness to what?”
“Never mind about it now, I’ll bring you up to scratch tomorrow morning.”
“He watched as DC Stanton went off to arrange transport for later that night, then took Eleanor Catesby, together with her small overnight bag to the Railway Hotel.
“Hardly the Ritz, Sergeant Jones,” she joked as they entered the hotel foyer. “Will your strange boss pay for champagne and lobster?”
“I doubt they even have that here, Miss Catesby.”
“Ellie,” she said. “Friends call me Ellie.”
“I’m Dan.”
“There, that makes us friends now,” she told him. She leaned into him, and a waft of perfume made him giddy. “Am I a murder suspect, Dan?”
“More like a possible witness, I‘d say,” Jones replied, cautiously. The workings of Clever Dick’s convoluted mind were difficult to follow, but he seemed clear on one point alone; Eleanor Catesby was nothing more than an innocent bystander, who might have a fragment of information hidden in the recesses of her mind, added to which, the woman, despite running a brothel, seemed to be a very nice person. Not to mention, very beautiful. Dan took several sly looks, and would have put her at no more than early thirties, had he not known differently.
“I don’t know what else I could possibly tell him,” she said, earnestly. “Peter Fornell abandoned me when I fell pregnant. I gave the child away as soon as he was born, and saw him again almost twenty three years later. I thought it was Peter Fornell when I first saw him. The likeness was uncanny.”
“Yes, I believe so,” Jones said.
“He seemed very happy to have found me, at first. Then, he realised what business I was in. He was disgusted at how I earned a living, and demanded to know all about his father. I told him the absolute truth… that his father was tried, and hanged for murder. He wouldn’t accept that, and called me some rather unpleasant things.”
“I can imagine,” Dan Jones said.
“Can you?” she replied. “Your son telling you that you were filthy, nothing but a slut, and a whore, is rather hurtful. I told him to get out of my sight forever, and that he was every bit as bad as his damned father.”
“You believed Peter Fornell was a murderer then?”
“My Peter? No, he couldn’t have done it,” she said. “The Peter I knew was lovely, but he was also a terrible coward. He could never stab someone, whatever the reason.”
“You never came forward at the trial.”
“I wasn’t asked. Besides, I was a fallen woman. What jury would believe me for one second, Dan?”
“I believe you.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” Ellie replied. “I made my living how I could. My son, Ralph was born twelve years ago. His father is a rich coal mine owner from Northumberland. He pays for my son’s education, and sends me presents of money, now and then. I don’t do too badly.”
“The Coventry police are on to you now, Ellie,” Jones told her. “They’ll not let you carry on running a brothel anymore.”
“Never mind,” she said, shrugging. “I’ve got a few thousand in the bank, and I own both of the houses in Coventry and another one in Birmingham. Being a madam is hard work. I might just retire and move back home.”
“Where’s that?”
“Why, here, of course. I was born three streets away from this very hotel. I grew up poor, living in a two up and two down with my mum and seven other brothers and sisters. My dad was a trawler man, who drank and seldom came home. When he did, he would beat my mother and take me or my older sister to bed. I used to pray he’d choose Nora instead of me, but I was prettier, and that was my bad luck.”
“The bastard!”
“Yes, I can still remember the stink of him. I was fourteen when he fell into a dry dock and broke his neck. The family had lost its main support, so mum asked me to sell myself to keep us all fed and with a roof over our heads.”
“Your own mother pushed you into prostitution?”
“She thought it was a good idea,” Ellie said. “I did like I was told, but kept back some of the money. Once I had enough, I was going to run away to London. Then I met Peter, and he took a shine to me, I realised that he was my ticket out.”
“Well, this is your room key… lucky seven. Good luck with the relocation, Ellie.”
“I don’t know why I told you all that,” Ellie said. “Maybe I just wanted you to know that, sometimes, life makes the choices for you.”
“I’m not judging you,” Dan Jones replied. “Life happens, and we have to play the cards we are dealt.”
“How old are you, Dan?”
“Thirty, next week.” the policeman told her.
“Married?”
“No. I’ve never met the right sort of girl,” he confessed. “It takes a certain type of girl to be a copper’s wife.”
“Perhaps you need a woman,” she teased. “I’ll need friends when I move back here. Real friends. Someone who I can rely on to understand me, or forgive me if necessary.”
“I doubt you’ll want for company,” Dan Jones said. He suddenly realised that he had walked full the length of the first floor corridor, and was now standing outside room number seven. “Ah, here we are. Number seven. Sleep tight, Ellie.”
“Sleep tight?” She smiled and touched his elbow. “Come inside and tuck me in, Dan.”
“It’s against regulations.”
“You stopped being a copper once you delivered me to my room,” she said. “You are on your own time now. Come in, Dan.”
“I shouldn’t.”
“Shouldn’t is better than mustn’t,” she said and, going up on tiptoe, she kissed him. “There, that didn’t hurt, did it?”
Dan Jones could hardly stand as the kiss, and her expensive perfume, overwhelmed his senses. He found his arms around her and, with little effort, he raised her in his arms and entered the neat little room.
“After all,” she whispered into his ear, “ten years difference is nothing.”
He lay her gently down on the big double bed, and turned to close the door. She raised herself up on one elbow and smiled at the big man’s uncertainty. He looked like a bear considering just where to hibernate for the winter.
“Close that door, Dan Jones, and there’s no going back,” she told him, offering him one last chance to lumber off. The sergeant paused for a moment, then pushed the door shut. He was really off duty now, for the first time in eleven years of service, and hoped he would not regret it.
Vincent Morant was regretting all sorts of things as he sat in the back room of one of his public houses. He was regretting being Archie Morant’s nephew and his heir. He was also regretting ever meeting Chief Constable Alan Herbert, a powerful man, quite capable of destroying him on a whim, and above all, he regretted sending Ginnie Thrower to Blackpool.
He should have killed her. Archie would have, despite being blood related, and dropped her weighted down corpse into the Irish Sea. Vinnie was made of less stern stuff, and had gone for the easier option. Daft Ginnie and her secret had finally come back to haunt him. It was not fair, he thought, after all, it had been Black Archie who had taken the baby’s body, and tossed it into a furnace.
His uncle had then decided to make a note of it in the copious diaries he kept. Vinnie had come across it whilst digging for more dirt on Alan Herbert. His uncle had felt guilt afterwards, and had donated large amounts to a local orphanage to assuage his feelings. Ginnie had been kept around, primarily to satisfy his uncle’s carnal desires, but she became madder each week, and Archie had lost all patience with the pretty young woman, and had thrown her out onto the streets.
Vinnie had read his uncle’s copious diary entries, and recognised that the crazy young woman had become Castleburgh’s pram pushing derelict. He had torn out the pages concerning the terrible crime, and had gone to pay her a secret visit.
If the coppers ever got onto her, it would implicate his family name in the worst of all crimes. She rambled on, often making little sense, but she said enough to show that, somewhere in her clouded mind, dangerous secrets lay. Her rambling mention of Fornell, Vancleur and ’a nasty police inspector’ had set alarm bells ringing in Vinnie’s troubled mind. She had to go, and as quickly as possible, before things started to get out of hand.
A swift relocation to a nice seaside town like Blackpool, or even New Brighton seemed to be the way ahead, and Vinnie had suggested it to her, and then funded the move. Two of his best men had followed her to the bus depot, and watched as she, and her battered old pram were loaded onto the last bus out that day. They reported back, and a relieved Vinnie had poured himself a celebratory glass of scotch.
He was horrified to discover later, that the local police had taken her into custody, and he was now awaiting further developments. Whatever happened, he could see no overall happy solution, and considered only how to save his own skin. Perhaps it was time to cut his losses, and start negotiations with Detective Inspector Richard Clever. The man wanted a scalp, and he could provide a very important one.
If the Chief Constable found out, he was a dead man, but dangerous times called for dangerous actions. DCI Clever was no fool. He would protect him from the wrath of Alan Herbert.
Neil McFarland was surprised when his door bell rang at ten thirty that night. He crossed to the window and looked out into the ill lit street. A dark figure turned to the window and held up what looked like a bottle of whisky. The forensic scientist smiled as he recognised Richard Clever and crossed the room to let him in.
“Richard, this is a surprise.”
“I need to talk and think,” the DCI said. “I think I’m very close to unravelling our mystery. May I come in? A little scotch and a couple of games of chess might get my brain functioning properly.”
McFarland smiled and stepped to one side. It was going to be a long night… but, when all was said and done, what were friends for?
Chapter Twenty Two
“Good morning, Dan,” Clever said as he settled behind his office desk. “Rough night last might?”
“Not particularly, Guv,” DS Jones said. “What makes you say that?”
“You are still wearing the same shirt as yesterday, and there is a very noticeable stubble on your chin.”
“Electricity failure at my place, Guv,” he responded. “I couldn’t iron a fresh shirt, and I have one of them new Schick electric dry shavers.”
“Really? I prefer a nice wet shave myself, rather than trust my chin to a whirring blade,” Clever told him. “Did you escort Miss Catesby in safely this morning?”
“She’s waiting in Room 3 again, Guv.”
“Good. I hope she isn’t as exhausted as you. The track does pass right behind the Railway Hotel.”
“Yes, Guv. She slept very well,” Dan Jones said, almost squirming with embarrassment. “DC Stanton collected the Daily Mirror pictures for you. The paper sent a reporter along too. They are sniffing around for a story.”
“I expected nothing less,” the DCI told him. “If we manage to conclude our case, you can give them first crack. Not an exclusive, mind you! We don’t want to be seen as getting into bed with the wrong people, do we, Dan?”
“Absolutely not, Guv.”
“Excellent. Where shall we begin?” Richard Clever rose to his feet and crossed over to the window. The station’s car park was empty, except for a couple of squad cars. “Is Stanton in yet?”
“He brought the photographs, Guv.”
“Of course he did. Right, give him a shout. We are going to conduct an early morning raid.”
“Yes, Guv. On whom?”
“Vincent Morant’s mother’s house,” Clever said. “Didn’t I mention about it? Vinnie has his uncles old papers, and he’s just stupid enough to hide them at her place. He’d never trust a bank, and he can’t keep them at his home, as it is the first place any other copper would look!”
Twenty minutes later saw Clever, Jones and Stanton knocking on Mrs. Morant’s front door. It was clear that no one was home. There were two pints of milk on the doorstep, and a newspaper hanging half out of her letter box. Stanton wandered over to the front room window and peered in.
“Nobody home, Guv,” he reported.
“What a nuisance,” Richard Clever muttered. “We don’t have a search warrant either.”
Dan Jones sniffed loudly, then stooped and, removing the newspaper, put his nose to the now empty letterbox. He looked up at his boss with a look of consternation on his face.
“I do believe I can smell gas, Guv!” he declared.
“Really?” Stanton said and stooped to have a sniff. He pulled back just in time, as Dan Jones heavy boot crashed into the door. It splintered and sagged open.
“Quick, there may be some risk to life and limb,” he said loudly, for the benefit of any nosey neighbours. He stepped inside, closely followed by Clever and Stanton, who was just beginning to grasp that he was party to a ruse.
“Very well, spread out and look for anyone who might be being overcome with fumes,” DCI Clever said. “Keep your eyes open for any boxes of files, or diaries too, whilst we are at it.”
Ten minutes into their scarcely legal search, Dan Jones found a carton in the back bedroom. He opened the top and found it to be full of old diaries, ledgers and receipt books. He closed the lid, hoisted it up onto his shoulder, and took it out to the waiting squad car, depositing it in the boot.
“Good work, chaps,” Clever said. “Have someone pop by and re-hang that door, Stanton, then join us in my office.”
“What about Miss Catesby, Guv?” Jones asked. “She might be getting a little restless by now.”
“I’m sure you can smooth any ruffled feathers, Dan,” the DCI said, ingenuously. “Now, let’s get back to the station and have a look at what we have uncovered.”
Dan Jones had a tea tray sent into Eleanor Catesby’s little room, with a word of apology. They would get to her soon. She accepted the delay without complaint, and settled down to wait. The big policeman had been a little reticent last night, but once he got going, Dan Jones was a thoughtful, and accomplished lover. He would, she had decided, do very nicely for when she moved back to Castleburgh.
The three detectiv
es split the contents of Black Archie Morant’s files into three, and began to read. Within a few minutes DC Stanton gave a small gasp and held up a diary dated 1912. The others paused to listen.
“Listen to this. ‘Cousin Virginia came by today. She had her dead child with her and wanted me to get rid. I obliged, and offered her my protection for a few nights. She’s not a bad looker. Had One Eyed Tom dump the parcel in an incinerator.’ Then, a few days later he writes ‘Ginnie is crying a lot. I’ve decided not to keep her around much longer. I’d be better sticking to one of my working girls. Less trouble!’ The damned swine.”
“That’s why Vinnie tried to silence her,” Dan Jones remarked. “Old Archie had his way after disposing of the child, then threw her out into the gutter. No wonder he started giving money to that orphanage. He must have started to regret his actions.”
“Vinnie got rid of Ginnie to save his own skin,” Clever replied. “He reckoned that we’d shut him down if we found out. Is there anything about… oh, I think I’ve found it!”
“What is it, Guv?” Jones asked.
“A ledger, detailing bribes made to local officials, from 1909 right through to 1928,” Clever said. “He was paying off half of the Castleburgh police for over twenty years. Then he’s handing out bribes to council officials, and at least one MP. No wonder he was left alone for so long. Ah, here we are. Monthly payments to named police officers. Inspector Alan Herbert… May 14th…. £50. June 15th…. Fifty pounds. Then we move on a page to; DCI Herbert… £100, and so forth. The last entry was in March, 1928, when Superintendent Alan Herbert was on £200 a month!”
“My God, the man is worth a fortune,” Jones said. “Do we still leave him alone, Guv?”
“We do,” Clever replied. “This is going to the Assistant Chief Constable, as it stands. Any action will be taken by him. I’ll not be responsible for ruining your careers, if things go wrong.”
“Thanks, Guv.”
“Bloody hell!” DC Stanton exclaimed. “Look at this here, you two. This account page, details over twenty thousand pounds coming in around the time Fornell was tried. The source isn’t named at first. It just says, anonymous donation. Then, in a different pen, Archie has added a name at the bottom. Look!”
