by M J Porter
Smythe sighed, quite dramatically, but then stood, all the same.
“Very well. I’ll arrange to return when Mr Owl is available and have a discussion with him. In the meantime, we thank you for your assistance. Please don’t mention our conversation to anyone for the foreseeable future. It could compromise a significant investigation.”
Simon nodded, a look of relief on his face, even as Mr Lemmings twisted his mouth in dismay.
“Good day,” Smythe finished, and he stalked from the room. Sam lingered, watching the interplay between the two men, aware that Smythe would be speaking to Lydia to arrange an appointment to return.
It was becoming stranger and stranger, and it had already been an incredibly perplexing and complicated case. And it was far from solved yet.
Chapter 13
“Well,” it was Smythe who broke the silence between them as they entered the car. “That was not at all what I’d expected.” Sam didn’t feel he needed to respond to such an obvious statement.
“It can’t have been that Simon fellow. He wasn’t even born back in 1919.”
“No, it’s inexplicable.”
“It’s frustrating that Mr Lemmings wouldn’t give us access to this ‘archive’ about which Simon spoke. Is it possible he’s merely been copying something that the real murderer drew? And if he has, then why would the drawings be at the custard factory?”
These were all excellent questions, and yet Sam still had no answer for them.
“Lydia has made an appointment for Friday. It’s bloody inconvenient,” Smythe mused to himself. At the same time, O’Rourke carefully pulled the car into the small flow of traffic, mainly consisting of buses and trams, and began reversing their earlier journey.
“Is there any way of finding out who they’ve previously employed?” Sam eventually asked.
“Well, I asked Lydia about that, but she was not forthcoming. It seems that Mrs Babbington and Mr Lemmings have decided they’ve been as helpful as it’s possible to be without involving their managing director.”
It was discouraging. Sam had believed they’d been close to finally solving the cases. He knew he’d cautioned himself, but all the same, he felt deflated to be returning to Erdington none the wiser. O’Rourke was silent at the front of the car, hands tightly holding the large steering wheel, and he realised that she must be feeling the same.
What did it all mean?
“We’ll just have to wait and see what we discover when we manage to speak to Mr Owl.” Sam tried to infuse his warmth with conviction, but one look from Smythe told him he’d failed and failed miserably.
What none of them was expecting was the arrival of Mr Owl himself at the police station the following morning at 11 am. Heavy rain thudded against the roof, and Sam had decided he wasn’t leaving the station that day, even if the air raid siren did make one of its now sporadic calls to take shelter.
“The Superintendent wants you,” Williams announced to Sam when he entered the back room, and instinctively, O’Rourke stood as well. Sam had no reason to tell her to stay behind. On entering the office, he only just managed not to show his shock.
“Ah, Chief Inspector Mason, this is Mr Owl,” Smythe wasted no time in making the introductions, a glint of something that looked like triumph in his eyes, although his tone was modulated.
Although it wasn't that easy to tell, Mr Owl was a man of middling years, perhaps older than Mason. He made a note that he’d ask O’Rourke later on. Mr Owl had a full head of black hair, shimmering with oil, and which Sam hazarded half a hope, wasn’t entirely his natural colour. But for all that, he was a pleasant enough looking man, fierce blue eyes watching from beneath furrowed black eyebrows. He was neither fat nor slim, and Sam realised that, whatever his age, he’d not succumbed to the temptation of indulging in excess bowlfuls of sweet custard.
“Good day, Mr Owl,” Sam extended his hand to the man, and the handshake was firm and perfunctory.
“I thought it better to get this matter dealt with sooner rather than later. I’m afraid you quite put the wind-up Mr Lemmings and Mrs Babbington. I would have been content if they’d handed you this portfolio.”
Sam looked at the large black case that even now rested against the chair leg that Mr Owl sat within.
“It’s been part of our stock of drawings for some time, I think about seven years. And what I can tell you is that I bought it at auction. There was just something about the way the artist had drawn the young people that appealed to me. I’d thought we might use it when I was considering changing the packaging for the blancmange, but I changed my mind. I hadn’t even made the connection that Simon was basing his advertisements on these older drawings.”
“Can you tell us the name of the artist?” Smythe asked, but Mr Owl was already shaking his head.
“No, I’m afraid I can’t. It was an auction house in London. I can’t remember which one. I’ll have the details somewhere. I’ve asked Mrs Babbington to hunt down the receipt for you. I’ll have her send it to you if she manages to track it down. I confess, I can’t even remember why I attended the auction in person, but it certainly wasn’t to buy drawings. I imagine the artist’s estate was being sold off to pay taxes or some such. It’s often that way. These relatively unknown artists. Their equipment is worth more than their life’s work. A shame, really.” Mr Owl had a slightly loud voice, as though perhaps his hearing might have been damaged by gunshot or cannon during the Great War.
“But you can keep them. I have no more use for them, and Simon assures me he’s already devised the entire campaign, and so I have no need for them. I hope they help you answer your questions. I’d be grateful if you could keep my company's good name out of any reporting you do. The situation at the moment is perilous enough, what with people having to use their ration coupons to purchase our custard and blancmange. The business will surely fail if there’s any hint of a scandal.”
“Now, I bid you a good day, and if you do have further questions, please telephone me immediately. Mrs Babbington has strict instructions to track me down, wherever I am, and I’ll do what I can to help you.”
At that, Mr Owl stood, dipped his head, and made for the door. O’Rourke held it open for him and then rushed to see him out to the front of the station. Sam caught sight of a goggling Jones at his desk and realised he probably had the same expression on his face.
“Well,” Smythe glanced from the portfolio to Sam, “let’s get these in the backroom and see what we’ve uncovered now.”
Sam hardly needed telling twice. He bent and took hold of the black portfolio, threading one arm one way around the case and the other on the far side so that he could clasp his hands beneath it.
“It’s quite heavy,” he commented, standing and feeling his back twinge again. He’d regret his eagerness. He should have waited for O’Rourke or summoned Williams.
He didn’t expect Smythe to follow him to the centre of their investigation in the back room, but neither was it a great surprise when he did.
By the time he’d worked the strap loose, O’Rourke had returned as well, and it was her gasp of horror that rang through the room as they all glanced at the first drawing.
It was far more graphic than the resultant advertisements that Simon had created. There was no denying that the picture was of the Inverness victim, Esme, or that it was also the basis for the advertisement for custard from which his wife had made the connection.
“Bloody hell,” Sam expelled his pent-up breath, turning to check that O’Rourke was okay before turning to the next image. It wasn’t like Smythe to be sensitive to such niceties, but it was a disturbing sight. It made a mockery of Mr Owl’s sentiment that the children looked so alive in the artist's drawings.
The next image was definitely of the McGovern boy.
“Well, we’ve found our offender,” Smythe acknowledged, but even he sounded shocked by what they were seeing.
“Now we just need to decipher who they actually were.”
&nbs
p; Sam nodded, words beyond him, as he turned to the next drawing and the next after that.
It was impossible to deny the meticulous attention to detail, and Sam shuddered. He couldn’t understand why Owl had purchased the collection. It was far too evident to him that the drawings had been sketched once the victims were already dead. They were almost lifeless. Neither could he understand how Simon could have found inspiration from them. They were far too morbid.
But of course, Sam reasoned, they’d lacked the knowledge that the drawings had been done of children who’d had their lives taken from them by the artist.
“Goodness me,” O’Rourke eventually exclaimed, her voice reflecting the shock. “These are so graphic.”
“Yes, they are,” Sam agreed. Like Sam and O’Rourke, Smythe was turning through the portfolio, looking at each drawing, and then slowly shaking his head. It was a great deal to absorb.
“What worries me is that some of these drawings are not amongst our current roster of victims.”
“No.” Smythe’s voice was thick, and he paused, coughed and then began again. “No, they’re not. I think there are three we’ve never seen before; there’s another football one, a netball one and I think, a rowing one. But we can only work with what we have. If we find the identity of this person, then we can go from there.”
But Sam already knew it was going to be difficult. He’d searched on the first drawing for some sort of artist’s mark, but there was nothing, well, there was, but it was merely two initials, S and M, two tiny letters in the shadows beneath the corpse. He considered that’s what had drawn Simon to the images in the first place; some sort of connection, even as tenuous as it had been, between his initials and that of the original artist.
Sam found the same on the second and the third, and then he pointed it out to the others.
“Some of them don’t have it,” O’Rourke confirmed from those drawings she’d been examining.
“And some of them do, and I think the style is similar enough that this SM must have drawn them all. I imagine that’s how the auction house sold the drawings.”
“SM could be anyone?” Sam tugged at his hair in frustration.
“It could be, yes, but the net is certainly closing,” Smythe commented, his fierce eyes directed at Sam. “We can’t give up now, not when we’re so close to solving this. We’ll wait for the details from Mrs Babbington.
“Yes, we could do that,” O’Rourke agreed, “or we could just take them to Sotheby’s. If their art expert is the same person, they would be able to look up the details anyway.”
“Why Sotheby’s?” Smythe asked.
O’Rourke grinned.
“A man like Mr Owl isn’t going to just walk into any old auction house. I’m sure of it. So, it can only be Sotheby’s or that other, oh, I’ve forgotten the name, which is why I said Sotheby’s.”
“Christie’s,” Smythe offered. “Then I’m going to send you both to London tomorrow, on the early train. I’ll call ahead and have an appointment set up at Sotheby’s.” Smythe’s decision brokered no argument.
Sam groaned at the prospect of another train journey and then brightened.
“We need only take some of the portfolio with us, surely?”
“Yes, just three, they’re damn heavy. I can’t have you walking around London with all of our evidence. I’ll leave it to you as to which ones you take, but I suggest the ones for which we can’t yet account.” Smythe turned away as he spoke, his gaze resting on the map of Great Britain once more.
“What a bloody mess,” he harrumphed and only then left the room.
Chapter 14
O’Rourke walked beside him as they exited the train. Sam was not enamoured of the hustle and bustle of London, but he’d managed to overlook the fact that the war still raged. As such, he found the place to be quieter than expected, and as they made their way towards Mayfair, it grew quieter still.
He’d instructed O’Rourke not to wear her police uniform, unlike when they’d visited the Picture Post head office, and so both of them merely looked as though they wore their best clothes, as they came closer and closer to the affluent area in which they’d find Sotheby’s.
Smythe hadn’t been able to arrange an appointment the day before. The telephone line had been busy all day, causing the Superintendent to curse in frustration before instructing them to make the journey anyway. Auction, or no auction, Smythe had informed them that there was police work to be done, and it was going to get done.
Sam appreciated his superior's support, but it made him apprehensive as they paused before the auction house's large double doors. He hoped Smythe had since managed to make an appointment for them, but if not, he was going to have to offer a great deal of explanation before he managed to speak to the person they were after.
“Well, let’s get it done,” and he walked forwards and held the door open for O’Rourke.
Inside the door, plush carpets stretched out all around, and a beautiful receptionist, with her hair styled in the latest fashions wearing bright red lipstick, walked directly towards them.
“Can I help you?” She had a pleasant voice, for all she sounded as though she’d been raised at Buckingham Palace. Sam detected iron behind it. She was used to keeping out the riff-raff.
“Good day. I’m Chief Inspector Mason,” at his words, her smile faltered just a little.
“You are the people Superintendent Smythe from Erdington police station telephoned about?”
“Ah, he managed to get through, did he? It was impossible yesterday.”
“We had a large auction taking place. I’m afraid that all three phone lines were busy all day long. But, we’re expecting you, and I’ve informed our modern art expert that you require some time with him. Now, if you’ll come this way, I’ll get you set up in an area where you’re unlikely to be disturbed.”
“Thank you,” Sam responded quickly.
He went to follow the receptionist, only to realise that O’Rourke wasn’t beside him. He turned and found her, mouth agape, staring at part of the display in the foyer.
“Look at that,” she gasped, pointing.
“Yes, it’s a piece of needlepoint showing Louis XIV of France,” the receptionist trilled. “It’s been sold, but we’re displaying it for the time being. Please, don’t breathe on it incorrectly.” Her words snapped with irritation.
“Breathe on it wrong?” O’Rourke mused while Sam shrugged. It was a strange thing to say, but perhaps it made sense to the receptionist.
“It sold for two hundred thousand pounds,” the receptionist offered, holding open an opulent door for them, which disappointingly opened onto a room that wouldn’t have looked out of place in the dour police station in Erdington. “I really wish they’d keep it behind a screen, but you know, they say they know best. Now, can I get you tea, coffee? Biscuits, and I’ll inform Mr Rain at the same time.”
Sam asked for tea and biscuits, as did O’Rourke, and then they settled themselves in the chairs waiting for Mr Rain to appear.
It was an odd room, a lone green-leafed plant inhabiting one of the corners. But there were no windows, and it felt cool, too cold as they’d been on a train for close to three hours and had then walked from Euston to Mayfair while the wind had whipped their coats and hats. The train had been delayed, first of all by a signalling problem, and then because they’d had to wait for a freight train laden with coal to pass them.
There was a low table and also a high table, and they sat around it, choosing an end each, with the slimmed-down portfolio between them. Sam stifled a yawn. It had been an early start, and he’d not thought to sleep on the train journey, even though he probably should have done. O’Rourke had buried herself in an Agatha Christie book for the length of the train ride, and he’d had little to do but consider what they knew so far. The solution felt tantalisingly close but also very far away.
“Here you go,” the receptionist returned before Mr Rain arrived, and the purpose of the lower table became
abundantly clear as she placed the tea tray there.
“It’s better to keep fluid away from canvas,” she offered, with half a smile. “He won’t be more than five minutes,” she assured them and then left again.
O’Rourke looked at the teacups, but Sam leapt to his feet first and expertly made the tea before offering a biscuit to her. Perhaps they should have found somewhere to eat breakfast first, but Sam had wanted to get to Sotheby’s, just in case Smythe hadn’t been able to speak to anyone yet. He would have been frustrated if they’d eaten and then been sent away to wait for an hour or two. How then could they have filled their time?
“Oh,” and the receptionist popped her head back through the door, startling Sam. “If the air raid sirens do go off, we’ve converted the basement to a shelter, not that it’s happened for many months now, but it’s best to know. Just come into the hall, and you’ll see us all making our way downstairs. Not that I think it’ll happen, not today, and I always get a feel for these things.”
As she went to close the door, Sam heard muted conversation and then someone he assumed to be Mr Rain entered the room. He was a man of perhaps sixty or so, a full head of hair turned to silver, and with wide crinkles around his eyes that denoted a man who liked to laugh and smile a great deal. His clothes were excellent but dated. Sam knew the type well.
“Good day, Chief Inspector Mason and Constable O’Rourke. I’m Mr Rain, head of art acquisitions at Sotheby’s. I understand you need my assistance with something.”
“Yes, please. We believe these images might have come from a portfolio you sold about seven years ago to a Mr Owl. We hoped you might be able to tell us about the artist.”
“Well, I’m not sure I remember a Mr Owl, but I have no memory for people and names, only drawings and paintings.”
O’Rourke opened the catch on the portfolio, and the first of the images could be seen, the one that showed the young girl playing netball, the ball in mid-air, after she’d thrown it. Sam watched Mr Rain, and he knew that the man remembered the drawings with just a swift glance.
