by R. N. Morris
‘No!’ cried the priest.
Quinn gestured for Inchball to put the gun away. At a further signal from Quinn, the two policemen swept, with the stealth and suddenness of spiders, towards the sacristy door and threw it open.
The door on the other side of the room was open inwards, giving a glimpse of brick wall outside. An empty camp bed, the blanket discarded untidily on the floor, was the only sign of Spiggott that they found.
Sergeant Inchball jerked his head towards the open door. ‘I suppose you want me to . . .’ But before he could give chase, the little priest darted across the room and outside.
A Question of Conscience
A moment later, two men returned. The priest and a young man with a lean, unhappy expression.
‘I managed to prevail on Peter to come back. I told him you would listen to his side of the story and not prejudge him.’
‘I didn’t kill Amélie,’ Spiggott insisted.
‘Did you rape her?’ asked Quinn.
‘Rape her?’ Spiggott’s face was already drained of colour. It turned from white to grey. His whole being seemed to shrink in on itself. ‘She was raped?’
‘Sweet Mary, mother of Jesus, as if that poor girl hadn’t suffered enough . . .’
‘Wait till I get my hands on that monster.’ A grim intensity sharpened Spiggott’s stare.
‘Who do you mean, monster?’
‘Blackley, of course. That’s who did it. Blackley raped her. I’d swear on it. And he killed her. He must have.’
‘Benjamin Blackley? Benjamin Blackley Senior, just to be clear?’
‘Yes.’
‘Those are very serious accusations, Mr Spiggott. If you have information concerning Mr Blackley and Amélie, why did you not come forward before now?’
‘Because I knew you wouldn’t believe me.’
‘But why run away?’
‘To get away from Blackley. You don’t know what he’s capable of. I was afraid. I needed time to think. As soon as I heard about Amélie’s death I knew he was responsible. But I couldn’t go to the police. Blackley would just deny it and I had no evidence. Somehow he’d turn the tables on me. I needed to think things through. To come up with a plan. I knew this was the one place that Blackley would never come. I knew that Father Thomas would be sympathetic.’
‘You were afraid, you say? Of your own father?’
‘You know about that? Who told you?’
‘It doesn’t matter. You’ve been making trouble about it. There are plenty of people who have heard you.’
‘He is my father. All I have been doing is stating the truth.’
‘But he doesn’t acknowledge you?’
‘Of course not! He has his reputation to maintain. I first came to him five years ago. After my mother died. She told me on her death bed what my true heritage was. Of course, Blackley denied it then. But he tried to buy me off all the same. He gave me that pathetic job to shut me up. Why would he have done that unless he felt guilty?’
‘Perhaps he felt sorry for you. That doesn’t prove you were his son. I imagine a wealthy man like Blackley has all sorts of individuals making claims on him.’
‘But my claim is valid!’
‘That was five years ago, you say?’
‘More or less.’
‘And you kept quiet about it until recently? Kept your head down, got on with the job? Is that so?’
‘Yes.’
‘Why the change?’
‘That day when I first went to him he refused to acknowledge me, of course. He was angry. He swore. He threatened me. Then, when he saw I wouldn’t be browbeaten, that I was determined – he changed his tune. Oh, he still wouldn’t admit it, though he did admit that he remembered my mother. He seemed quite upset by the news of her death. And then he offered me the position. I thought, I allowed myself to hope, that one day he might acknowledge what he could not then. I felt as if I was on probation – to see if I would pass muster as his son. “We’ll see,” he had said. “Come and work for me and we’ll see.” Those were his final words of that first interview. No doubt he wanted me in the store so he could keep an eye on me. I do believe I was being spied on. There was a man. A curious man with a monocle. But I didn’t mind. I had invested all my hopes in the half-promise of that “We’ll see”. But I came to realize that he had no intention of acknowledging me, ever, no matter what I did. “We’ll see” was just to keep me in line. To make sure I behaved myself.’
‘And then you met Amélie?’
‘Yes. I dared to hope . . .’ Spiggott corrected himself: ‘We dared to hope . . . that we might one day marry. If that was to be, I realized that I needed to improve my prospects. So I went back to Blackley and restated my claim. His position hadn’t changed. I’d done everything he’d asked, but he still wouldn’t acknowledge me.’
‘Why did you run away just now?’
‘I didn’t run away. I went outside for a breath of fresh air. I was only in the passageway.’
‘But Father Thomas had locked the door.’
‘Yes, and he left the key in it.’ Spiggott swung the door to, revealing the key still in place on the inside.
‘Well, that explains that little mystery!’ said Father Thomas cheerily.
‘I didn’t realize I was a prisoner.’ Spiggott glared resentfully at the priest.
‘It was for your own good, Peter. I was worried about you. Some of the things you said last night . . . I was worried what you might do.’
‘You hate Blackley as much as I do. You called him the devil incarnate.’
‘Yes, and I am sure that he will be judged and receive his punishment in the next world.’
‘I don’t believe in the next world. I want him punished now.’
Quinn intervened. ‘What exactly were you worried about, Father?’
The look Father Thomas directed at Spiggott was unexpectedly stern. ‘Peter said some rash things last night. I had a duty to take them seriously.’
‘Please be more specific.’
‘There’s no need to be.’ The priest spoke with quiet authority. ‘The crisis has passed, I am confident.’
‘He threatened to kill Blackley? Is that it?’ said Quinn.
‘It doesn’t matter. I took precautions to ensure it didn’t happen. Mr Blackley is still alive, I presume?’
‘Though evidently you didn’t take precautions,’ Quinn pointed out. ‘You left the key in the door. Perhaps secretly you hoped he would go through with his threat. Your subconscious mind sabotaged the conscious act.’
‘Is that psychology?’ asked Father Thomas. His air of innocence seemed intended to mask a hostile sarcasm.
‘You mentioned before that you were Amélie’s confessor?’
‘Yes. However, you’ll understand that I’m not at liberty to disclose what has been revealed to me in the sanctity of the confessional.’
‘I’m afraid that English law no longer recognizes the priest-penitent privilege, Father.’
‘Ah, but it’s a question of conscience, isn’t it, Inspector? I’m sure you wouldn’t want to force me to do anything that goes against my conscience.’
‘And I’m sure that won’t be necessary. You’ve talked these matters through with Mr Spiggott?’
‘To some extent, yes.’
‘But not in the confessional box?’
‘No.’
‘So you can have no compunction about revealing what has been discussed between the two of you?’
‘That’s . . . true, I suppose,’ Father Thomas conceded reluctantly.
‘Very well. What was the nature of the relationship between Amélie and Mr Blackley Senior?’
‘A complex one. That of an employer and employee. Of a master and servant, you might say – or more accurately, slave. Of a powerful bully of a man and a meek, lonely, submissive girl.’
‘Was she his mistress?’
‘Mistress? What a word is that for what goes on between a man like Blackley and a girl like Amélie!’<
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‘He bought her things, I believe. Expensive gifts.’
‘Are you saying she was his whore?’
‘Oi, language. An’ you a man of God,’ said Inchball, with deadpan and deliberate irony.
‘You cannot serve God fully unless you are well versed in the workings of the Devil.’
‘But their relationship was of a sexual nature, was it not? And had been going on for some time?’
‘For long enough, I suppose.’
‘And you, Mr Spiggott – you were in love with Amélie, were you not?’
Spiggott clenched into a knot of misery. ‘You have no idea how painful this is for me.’
‘Were your feelings for her requited?’
‘I believe so, yes. I had reason to hope. Until . . .’
‘Until Amélie found out about your relationship to Blackley? That you were his son, or believed yourself to be. That was the day you went round to the mannequin house and were witnessed arguing with her, was it not?’
‘Yes. I . . . had no idea about . . . well, about her and Blackley. I decided to tell her that I was Blackley’s son because . . . well, because it’s true . . . but also because I thought it might change her view of what my prospects were. As Blackley’s son, I have a right to expect a quarter share of the company when he dies. He has three other children with his wife.’
‘Yes. I have met his eldest son, Benjamin Blackley Junior.’
‘No! I am older than Ben Blackley! I am Blackley’s first child!’
‘What was Amélie’s reaction when you broke this news to her?’
‘It was not what I had hoped for. She became very upset. She said it could never be. I couldn’t understand. And then she told me.’
‘About Blackley?’
‘Yes.’
‘And your reaction to that?’
‘I don’t know. I was numb. I knew that I hated him even more.’
‘So it was over between you and Amélie?’
‘Was it? I hoped she would finish with Blackley. I believe that’s what she intended to do.’
‘Why do you believe that?’
Spiggott cast a sly but revealing glance towards Father Thomas.
‘Oh, I see,’ said Quinn. ‘It is acceptable to reveal the secrets of the confessional to this young man, but not to an officer of the law?’
‘No,’ said Father Thomas. ‘You’re wrong. It was not like that. But I did offer Peter guidance. He came to me as a troubled soul. My assistance was of the most general kind.’
‘But informed by what you had heard in the confessional?’
‘I knew that Amélie was determined to break off with Blackley. If necessary, to leave the House of Blackley altogether. I encouraged her in this. A conversation that was begun in the confessional was continued outside it.’
‘Do you have any idea when Amélie was intending to break with him?’
‘We talked about it last Sunday. The situation had reached a crisis. She was desperately unhappy. We speak of a girl being ruined. But she was, in a very real sense, a ruin of the beautiful person she had once been. The girl she was when I first met her.’
‘When was that?’
‘Not so long ago. A year at the most. That’s all the time it’s taken for Blackley to destroy her.’
‘You are convinced that Blackley is to blame for this?’
Father Thomas’s gaze was unwavering. ‘Absolutely.’
Quinn turned to Spiggott. ‘Where were you on the night of Tuesday, March the thirty-first?’
‘You’re not serious?’
‘I must ask the question. I would be failing in my duty if I do not.’
‘I was in the men’s dorm at Blackley’s.’
‘Can anyone vouch for you?’
‘I suppose someone must have seen me. Davies? He’s the fellow who has the bed next to mine.’
‘Mr Davies went to bed early with a headache that night. He has no recollection of seeing you in the dorm.’
‘I don’t know. I suppose I must have spoken to someone. I don’t have many friends at Blackley’s. I keep myself to myself. I’m not sure anyone would have noticed if I was there or not.’ Spiggott must have detected the scepticism that his answer provoked. He switched tack. ‘Tuesday night, you say? I remember now, I did go out. I just walked the streets. Trying to get my thoughts in order. It was late when I got back to Blackley’s. Past the curfew. But that doesn’t matter. There’s a window in the staff quarters. The fastening doesn’t work properly on it. You can get it open if you know how.’
‘And you know how, working in Locks, Clocks and Mechanical Contrivances?’
‘It’s nothing to do with that. All the chaps can do it. Some of the women too.’
‘It would have been better if you had not gone out that night,’ said Quinn. ‘We could have eliminated you from our enquiries. As it stands . . .’
‘I didn’t kill her! I loved her.’
‘But what if you couldn’t have her? What if she decided to finish with both you and Blackley? She could hardly be blamed if the thought of sexual relations with both father and son was repulsive to her. Had she denied you what she gave willingly to Blackley? She gave herself to him in return for furs and jewellery that you could never afford. Because, let’s face it, Blackley is never going to acknowledge you. All your talk of inheriting a quarter of the House of Blackley was just a dream. Did she point that out to you? Did she mock you? Did she make you feel worthless because she had chosen the man you hated most in the world over you? She had chosen to grant your enemy the privilege that you most desired! That you truly deserved! How you must have hated to think of him and her together.’ Quinn’s mouth contorted itself around his words, which were shot through with a personal bitterness. He was thinking of another him and her, from a distant, unhappy time in his own life. ‘There could be no way out of it, could there? Other than to kill . . . someone . . . her . . . him . . . it doesn’t matter. Both would be preferable.’
‘Inspector, are you quite all right?’
‘’Ere, guv. Take it easy.’
Quinn looked down at his hands. They were formed into a tense circle, as if gripping an imaginary neck to strangle it. He breathed out slowly and noisily. It was a moment before his fingers began to relax. ‘Is that not so, Mr Spiggott?’
‘I confess, I wanted to kill Blackley. Wouldn’t you, in my position?’
‘Your own father.’ Quinn’s tone was almost awed as he took in the implication of Spiggott’s admission. ‘Do you still want to kill him?’
‘Do you want to stop me? Bring him to justice. Prove that he killed Amélie. Get the rope around his neck, Inspector.’ A tremor of emotion passed over Spiggott’s face as he finished his exhortation. He drew his head up to an angle of challenge.
‘You may trust me to do my job. In the meantime, may I trust you not to do anything reckless?’
Spiggott looked down, without meeting Quinn’s eye.
Father Thomas placed a hand on Spiggott’s shoulder. It was as if the priest’s touch had transmitted a jolt of electricity.
Spiggott looked up and nodded.
A Confrontation
Macadam leapt to his feet as soon as Quinn and Inchball returned to the department. It was clear he was pleased to see them. Desperately so, it seemed. The time spent in DCI Coddington’s exclusive company had evidently taken its toll on him. But Quinn also sensed that Macadam was eager to share what he had learnt.
‘How did you get on in Lambeth?’
Coddington assumed the privilege of answering for Macadam. ‘Sergeant Macadam has made a significant breakthrough in the case, Quinn. I think it’s fair to say it has changed my thinking entirely.’
Macadam gave an eager nod; his eyes shone with the certainty that Quinn would not be disappointed. ‘I managed to track down Alf Spiggott to a disreputable public house that seems to pass for his place of work. You won’t believe what I learnt, sir. As DCI Coddington said, it puts the case in a whole new light.’
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‘Alf Spiggott is not Spiggott’s real father.’
Macadam was crestfallen. ‘That’s right.’
Naturally Quinn felt sorry for his sergeant. But he was merciless towards Coddington, determined to prove his superiority. ‘His real father is Benjamin Blackley.’
Macadam was shaking his head in bewilderment. ‘How did you know, sir?’
‘Spiggott told us.’
‘You’ve spoken to Spiggott?’ DCI Coddington’s moustache convulsed in agitation.
‘Yes, sir,’ said Quinn.
‘I see. I see. Right. I see. Very good. Good work. Spiggott. You found Spiggott. Good. Did you not arrest him?’
‘On what charge, sir? I thought your view was that the monkey caused Amélie’s death and there would be no point in pursuing the rape charge.’ Quinn kept his expression impeccably deadpan.
‘That’s . . . that’s right. But this new evidence of a connection between Spiggott and Blackley? We had not expected that, I think.’
‘And therefore? Because we hadn’t expected something, does it mean we must arrest someone? Isn’t that rather a knee-jerk reaction, if I may put it like that, sir?’
‘Well, yes, of course. Provided you satisfied yourself, Quinn, that Spiggott had nothing to do with either crime?’
‘I cannot be satisfied, sir, until I have proof one way or the other.’
‘Of course, proof. That’s what we need.’ Coddington became suddenly charged with energy, if the animation of his moustache was anything to go by. Only to collapse in disappointment. ‘Do you have anything?’
‘We have nothing to place him at the mannequin house on Tuesday night. On the other hand, he doesn’t have a definite alibi. And we simply do not know how skilful he is at picking locks. Possibly he could have let himself into the house without anyone seeing him. I think there are grounds to suspect him still. From a psychological point of view, I think it is possible to come up with a plausible motive for him. He was disappointed in love with Amélie. Perhaps he killed her to punish her, or to punish Blackley. Or perhaps his thinking was, if he couldn’t have her, no one else would. It wouldn’t be the first time I have encountered that convoluted mental process, sir.’ For a moment, Quinn’s focus was directed inwards.
