‘What makes you so sure of that?’
‘I’m sure because even Margie didn’t know she’d be going to her grandmother’s at that time. If you remember, it was only at the last minute that her father decided to let her leave early.’
‘Of course,’ Drayman agreed. ‘So the killer came across the girl purely by chance.’
‘Yes. And that’s the problem in a nutshell, you see,’ Blackstone said. ‘Because nothing was planned, there’s nothing for us to get our teeth into.’
‘What about the murders of all those girls who had their hands and feet cut off?’ Drayman asked. ‘Were they carefully planned?’
‘Yes, I think they must have been.’
‘The killer can’t have known all the girls.’
‘No, but he must have known of them. If they’d been random murders, or crimes of opportunity, the victims would have come from all kinds of backgrounds. But they didn’t. They were all young ladies. And that means that they were carefully selected. That means that he knew exactly what he was going to do long before he actually did it.’
‘In other words, those cases are the exact opposite of this case. Is that what you’re saying?’
‘More or less.’
‘Which means, according to what you’ve told me, that the bobbies investigating them must have one hell of a lot to get their teeth into. So what progress are they making?’
‘The last I heard, they’d made about as much progress as we have,’ Blackstone said gloomily.
Five
There was nothing he could have done to save the girl, Blackstone told himself, as he walked up Marston Lane. Nothing at all! She had been dead even before he’d known that she was missing.
Yet, despite the logic of the argument, he was still weighed down by a sense of personal failure. As if it were his fault that he was not godlike and all-seeing—as if he could have actually have done something to prevent the tragedy, if only he’d tried a little harder.
The numbing effect of the whisky he had drunk with Inspector Drayman in the Townshend Arms was already beginning to wear off, and what he needed most in the world, he decided, was to go straight to the Red Lion and get a top-up of the golden anaesthetic.
His heart sank when he saw Walter Clegg standing at the top of the alley that led to his back yard, the more so because Clegg wore an expression on his face which clearly stated that Blackstone’s return was just the event he had been waiting for.
‘You’ve timed that well, Inspector,’ Clegg called out, as Blackstone drew level with him. ‘The kettle’s just about to come to the boil. We can go inside an’ have a brew.’
In all probability the kettle had been on the boil for hours, Blackstone thought. It may even have boiled itself dry a couple of times, while Clegg waited for his honoured guest from London to return.
The problem with Walter, he decided, was that while he was a nice enough bloke, he worked far too hard at trying to be your mate, and the result was that you quite soon found his presence almost suffocating.
‘Yes, I could just fancy a cuppa,’ Walter Clegg said.
‘If you don’t mind, I don’t really feel like a cup of tea right at the moment,’ Blackstone said.
‘Fair enough,’ Walter Clegg agreed easily. ‘Now I come to think about it, I’m not sure I fancy one myself. But there’s still some whisky left in that bottle you bought the other night. We could put that to rest instead.’
What a persistent bugger the salt-miner was, Blackstone thought. ‘I’ve got some thinking to do, Walter,’ he said aloud, ‘and I’d really much rather do it alone.’
Walter Clegg looked crushingly disappointed. ‘But I’ve got something to show you,’ he said. ‘It may be important.’
Blackstone sighed inwardly. Clegg had taken him under his roof and entertained him as best he could, so he supposed he owed it to the man to spend a little time with him. But—with the image of the dead Margie Thomas still fresh in his mind—it would have to be a little time. Then he’d have that drink he had been promising himself—and when he did, it would be without Walter hovering at his elbow like a faithful puppy.
Walter Clegg seemed much happier once they were safely inside the house.
‘Well, what’s it to be?’ he asked. ‘Tea? Or whisky?’
It would be easier to make his excuses and leave if they weren’t drinking whisky, Blackstone thought.
‘Tea,’ he said.
‘Right-oh,’ Clegg agreed chirpily.
Blackstone sat down at the kitchen table that was the centre of Walter Clegg’s home, while Walter busied himself moving the hob back over the open fire and fetching the teapot.
‘I’ve had all sorts of people askin’ me about you, Inspector, but I promise you I haven’t told them anythin’ at all,’ Walter said, as the heavy iron kettle came to the boil.
‘No?’
‘No! I just said that you were up here on private business, and I couldn’t discuss it with them.’
Thus leaving them with the impression that I’d taken you into my confidence, Blackstone thought.
Walter brought two of the best china teacups from the sideboard and placed them on the table. Then he lifted the kettle off the hob and poured the scalding water into the teapot.
‘You said you’ve got something to show me that might be important,’ Blackstone said.
‘Oh, that’s right,’ Clegg agreed.
He said it as if it had slipped his mind entirely, but the inspector was not fooled. The ‘something important’ was his trump card—the hook on which he was keeping his guest dangling—and he was reluctant to give it up until he absolutely had to.
‘Well?’ Blackstone said firmly.
Walter Clegg sighed, walked over to the sideboard again, and came back with a sealed envelope.
‘It’s a letter of some sort,’ he explained.
The envelope was cheap and flimsy. Blackstone’s name was written on the front in block capitals. He slit it open and extracted the single sheet of paper that lay inside.
The note, like the envelope, was written in capitals, and though the writer did not appear to be an educated man, the message was clear enough:
WHY DON’T YEW ASK MISTER BICKERSDALE
WHY HE PAID MICK HUGGINS BALE.
‘Where did you get this from?’ Blackstone asked.
‘It was lyin’ on the mat. Somebody must have slipped it under the door while we were all out.’
‘Who’s Mr Bickersdale?’
‘Why? Is the letter from him?’ Walter asked, and he was almost bursting with curiosity.
Tom Yardley had been curious, too, Blackstone reminded himself—and that had probably cost the poor devil his life.
‘No, it’s not from Mr Bickersdale,’ he told Walter, ‘but it mentions him. So who is he?’
‘He’s a mine-owner,’ Walter Clegg said sullenly.
‘Where’s his mine?’
‘His mines. He’s got two of them. They’re about a mile an’ a quarter from the village.’
‘So he’s a local man, is he?’
‘No.’
He’d hurt the other man’s pride, Blackstone realized, which was something he’d never intended to do.
‘Listen, Walter,’ he said, ‘the reason I’m not telling you more is because, like Tom, I think there’s something nasty going on in this village—and I don’t want to get you involved.’
‘So you’re protectin’ me?’
‘That’s right.’
Walter puffed out his chest. ‘I don’t need your protection,’ he said. ‘I can look after myself.’
‘I know you can,’ Blackstone agreed, ‘but you’ve got your mother to consider. How would she cope if anything happened to you? Besides, Tom kept you out of it, and I think he’d want me to do the same.’
‘Well, if you’re sure that’s what Tom would have wanted...
‘I am.’
Walter Clegg nodded, and seemed to reconcile himself to the thought that he’d be kept in
the dark.
‘Mr Bickersdale’s not from round here,’ he said. ‘He turned up out of nowhere, about two years ago now. People do say that, before he came to the village, he’d already made himself a fortune somewhere abroad. Anyway, he obviously wasn’t short of money, because the first thing he did was to buy himself a share in the Jubilee Salt Works. That was quite a smart move, because when there’s a demand for salt, it’s not a bad little business.’
‘I thought you said he was a mine-owner, not a salt works-owner.’
‘I’m comin’ to that. The second thing he did was to buy the two mines off old Seth Updyke. The Victoria Mine, which is where Tom an’ me work...where Tom used to work, before he…before he...’
‘Where Tom worked before he was killed,’ Blackstone said gently.
Walter Clegg nodded. ‘That’s right. The Victoria Mine isn’t a bad little business either, but the Melbourne Mine, which is the other one he bought, is an entirely different matter. He should never have touched that—not even with the end of a six-foot barge pole.’
‘It was a bad purchase, was it?’
‘About as bad as it could be. Even if the Melbourne had been the going concern that he thought it was when he bought it, he’d still have paid more for it than what it was worth. But the simple fact is that the mine hasn’t made a profit for years, an’ is never likely to again.’
‘Didn’t anybody warn him of that before he bought the mine?’
‘Somebody probably would have done—if he’d bothered to ask. But he didn’t.’
‘So what’s wrong with the Melbourne Mine?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Everythin’. Some mines are easy to work, an’ some mines aren’t—the Melbourne Mine’s one of the hardest there is. You see, when you’re...Walter Clegg paused for a second, as if searching for the right words. ‘Maybe the easiest way to explain it to you would be to draw it,’ he continued.
‘All right,’ Blackstone agreed.
Walter Clegg stood up, walked over to the sideboard and rummaged around in the drawers. When he returned to the table, he had a piece of paper and a pencil in his hand. He put the sheet of paper flat on the table and drew a series of parallel lines on it.
‘These are your beds of rock,’ he said. ‘The top one is made up of sand and clays. I did hear that it was laid down in the Ice Age, but I’ve no idea when that was, except that it was before my time.’
Blackstone smiled. ‘Well before your time,’ he said.
‘Now below the clays, you got the marlstone,’ Walter Clegg continued. ‘An’ below the marlstone you’ve got the seam of salt. Do you see how level an’ regular all the layers are?’
‘Yes,’ Blackstone said, ‘I do.’
‘In a mine like this one I’ve just drawn, all you have to do is sink your shaft down to the drift, then hack away to your heart’s content.’
Walter drew another set of lines on the paper, and this time the lines were stepped.
‘But there’s places where the layers of rock aren’t regular, because of a slippage that probably occurred when Moses was a lad,’ he continued. ‘An’ if you try to mine there, you’ve got problems.’
‘What kind of problems?’
‘As you can see from my second drawin’, the drift doesn’t run flat. Sometimes it goes up, an’ sometimes it goes down. So gettin’ the salt out takes a lot more time an’ a lot more labour, and that means it’s costin’ you more to extract it than you can sell it for.’
‘And the Melbourne Mine’s like that?’
‘Yes. An’ it’s not its only drawback. The Melbourne has always had a seepage problem. Mr Bickersdale has got a lot more pumps down there than you’ll find in any other mine, an’ he has to keep them runnin’ twenty-four hours a day. An’ that’s extra expense, an’ all.’
‘But even so, he still keeps it running, does he?’
‘In a manner of speakin’.’
‘What do you mean—in a manner of speaking?’
‘There were only a few lads workin’ there when he took over, an’ he moved them to the Victoria Mine. Then he brought in some fresh miners from outside to take over their jobs in the Melbourne.’
‘Why would he have done that?’ Blackstone wondered.
‘Beats me. The local lads were quite happy with the new arrangement, because it’s easier work in the Victoria, but even they couldn’t see the sense in bringin’ in strangers to mine the Melbourne.’
But maybe they were never intended to mine the Melbourne at all, Blackstone thought. Maybe that was just a cover to explain the presence of outsiders in the area—outsiders who knew nothing about rock-salt mining, but a great deal about smuggling stolen jewels!
‘Have you ever talked to any of these men that Bickersdale brought in from the outside?’ he asked.
‘No, I haven’t,’ Clegg said. ‘They keep themselves pretty much to themselves.’
‘But they must come into the village in the evening, if only to have a drink in the pub.’
‘Not as far as I know.’
‘What about their provisions? They have to buy them somewhere.’
‘Maybe. But they don’t buy them here.’
Which made sense, Blackstone thought. If they weren’t real miners, then the last thing that Bickersdale would want was to have them talking to men who were.
‘I’d rather like to have a word with this Mr Bickersdale,’ he said. ‘Where will I find him? At the salt works?’
‘I shouldn’t think so. He’s more of what you might call a silent partner in that business. Mr Watkins is the feller what actually runs it.’
Bickersdale wouldn’t need to run it in order to use it for his own purposes, Blackstone thought. All he had to have was unquestioned access—which was exactly what his silent partnership would give him.
‘So he’ll be at the Victoria Mine, will he?’ he asked.
But he was not all surprised when Walter Clegg said, ‘No, he seems to spend more of his time at the Melbourne Mine.’
Of course he did. It was only natural that he would want to stay close to the centre of his real business.
‘How do I get to the Melbourne Mine?’ Blackstone asked.
‘Your easiest way would be to go to the bridge, take the path down to the canal, turn left, an’ keep walkin’ for about fifteen minutes,’ Walter Clegg told him. ‘If you do that, you can’t miss it.’
Six
From his elevated vantage point on the canal bank, Blackstone raised his field glasses to his eyes and gave all those parts of the Melbourne Mine which were above ground a sweeping examination.
In many ways it looked very much like all the other mines in the area. It had its winding shed, and a boiler house with a brick chimney, which was belching out thick black smoke. There was a solid brick structure, which had a sign on it announcing that it was the office, and two other brick buildings—one half the size of the office, the other much smaller—neither of which gave any indication of its function at all. And the mine had its salt store, a big wooden building with a domed roof. It was only when the sweeping examination was completed, and a slower, more careful one begun, that the ramshackle nature of much of the complex became clear. The salt store—which should have been the very heart of the business—was clearly rotting away from neglect, and Blackstone was in no doubt that in a heavy rainstorm it would leak like a sieve. The carts and wooden trucks scattered haphazardly around the yard looked to be in very poor repair. And though he had been standing there for over half an hour, Blackstone had not once seen the winding gear bring any rock salt to the surface.
The door of the middle-sized building opened and a man stepped out. He was wearing a jacket and trousers, rather than miners’ overalls, and there was something about the way he walked over to the corner of the yard that told Blackstone that, while he might be a hard man in himself, he was not a man habitually involved in hard physical work.
Once he had reached the end of the yard, the man unbuttoned his trousers and urinated.
>
A second man stepped out of the shadows. He was not dressed like a miner either, and he was holding a double-barrelled shotgun in his hands.
The two men talked for a while. Then the man who had been relieving himself buttoned his trousers again and returned to the building he’d recently emerged from, and the man with the shotgun stepped back into the shadows.
So the middle-sized brick building was a hostel for the men that Bickersdale had brought in from outside the village, Blackstone thought. They could eat there and sleep there, without ever once risking meeting a villager and revealing how truly ignorant they were about rock-salt mining.
And the man with the shotgun was a guard—though why a salt mine should actually need an armed guard was an interesting question.
But, of course, it wasn’t a real salt mine, any more than the men whom Bickersdale employed were real salt-miners.
‘If this place produces enough salt in a day to flavour a workhouse soup cauldron, I’ll eat my hat,’ Blackstone said to himself, as he took the track that led down to the mine.
As he crossed the yard, Blackstone was aware that the man on guard duty was probably watching him from his hiding place. But he gave no outward sign that he was even aware of the man’s existence, and instead marched straight up to the office door and knocked on it as loudly as if he were executing a warrant.
The man who answered the imperious knock was in his middle-to-late forties, and balding. He had pinched features, and half-moon spectacles were resting on his nose. But what Blackstone noticed most about him—as he stood blocking the doorway of the outer office—was the fear in his eyes when he saw who it was who’d come calling.
‘What...What do you want?’ he asked.
‘I’d like to see Mr Bickersdale.’
‘Do you have an appointment?’
‘You’re his clerk, are you?’ Blackstone demanded.
‘I asked if you had a—’
‘Just answer the question!’
‘Yes, I’m…I’m his clerk.’
Blackstone and the Heart of Darkness Page 13
