Dead Letters

by Joan Lock

  ‘Go on, man. Go on!’

  ‘Did you and Alice ever have any money problems?’

  ‘Money problems? What d’you mean?’ She pulled irritably at the glove frills. ‘How could we? She had none!’

  There was a short silence while her dismissive words hung in the air.

  Best took a deep breath. ‘What I mean is, did you ever find Alice out in any dishonesty?’

  She looked at him aghast.

  ‘No! What a terrible idea.’

  ‘It’s not unheard of with servants,’ Best insisted. ‘Just a few coppers here and there … Not necessarily anything very serious but—’

  ‘Down south it may not be!’ she spat out. ‘Or with people who are not close, like us. But Alice and me. Never!’

  ‘If she hates the south and southerners so much, what is she doing here?’ muttered Best, as he and Smith walked back to Wood Green Police Station.

  ‘Do you think she really had no idea she was being rooked?’ asked Smith, scratching his head. ‘She seems sharp enough to me.’

  ‘Well, it would be wiser not to tell us if she did know, wouldn’t it? Might make us suspicious.’

  ‘Oh yes, I suppose so.’ He scratched his head again. ‘But she’s hardly going to kill her over a pound of mincemeat and half a dozen eggs, is she?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know,’ said Best. ‘These things can wear a person down. Being taken for a fool can enrage a person.’

  As they sauntered along the leafy avenue in a companionable silence, Smith muttered suddenly, ‘A thought has just come to me.’

  ‘Ah. Fire away. We need all the thoughts we can muster here. This is a very puzzling business.’

  ‘Mrs Herring.’

  ‘Is there one?’

  ‘I dunno. But if there is …’

  ‘Jealousy? Oh, yes, that’s always a good motive. Better than any we’ve got right now.’

  Obtaining the search warrant the following morning proved more time consuming than they had expected. The local magistrates were reluctant to be seen to be giving in easily to arrogant Scotland Yard men.

  Then there was the disagreeable idea that a murder could have been committed in these sylvan groves. If such a notion got abroad it would do nothing for the builders and estate agents of ever-expanding Wood Green, one each of whom were represented on the bench of three magistrates.

  Consequently, there was much fussing and prevaricating before, pressured by the Clerk of the Court who told them they had no option, they finally gave in and issued a warrant. Best and Smith were thus in need of sustenance before they proceeded to Chilton House to beard Miss Forrest.

  ‘Odd that her dress wasn’t crêpe,’ Smith muttered as he finished his spotted dick pudding and Best fished out his cigarettes.

  The inspector was used to Smith’s occasional odd pronouncements about women’s clothes. The lad’s mother had taken in washing which had afforded her son an unusual insight into the subject. His knowledge had proved useful on other occasions; crucial even, in the Regent’s Canal murder case.

  ‘Don’t follow you.’

  ‘Well, she’s trying to be respectable, isn’t she? And respectable mourning dresses are always made of crêpe, aren’t they?’

  Best raised his eyebrows. ‘Don’t know.’ What he did know was not to rush the lad when he was slowly teasing odd strands of esoteric information from his brain.

  ‘Well, you remember when we first saw her, she was getting her dress fitted – all them pins down the side?’

  Best nodded, ‘Y-e-s …’

  ‘It was made of barathea. Which meant it was just an ordinary day dress she was having altered.’

  ‘So? Maybe she doesn’t care about being respectable after all?’

  ‘But why didn’t it fit her in the first place?’

  ‘She’d lost weight?’

  ‘Huh.’ Smith was frowning, struggling for enlightenment.

  ‘I wish you’d tell me …’

  ‘And why –’ Smith banged his spoon handle on the table, as his thoughts crystallized – ‘why does she always wear gloves? Even indoors?’

  ‘Only lacy ones,’ Best pointed out. ‘Maybe it’s a northern habit.’ Even to him that didn’t ring true. Something was also tugging at the back of his mind. Suddenly, everything slid into place for both of them.

  They stared at each other, open-mouthed, and exclaimed in unison, ‘Kate Webster!’

  ‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Best. ‘What fools we are!’

  They stumbled to their feet, crashed out of the pub and hailed a growler.

  ‘Chilton House!’ Best shouted.

  Egged on by the promise of a generous tip, the cabbie made almost as much haste as a sleek new hansom. But it was too late.

  There was no answer to their knocking and all appeared deserted beyond the heavy curtains. They noticed that the drawing room now looked somewhat bare of clocks and the smaller, choicer ornaments.

  The bird had flown.

  Chapter Eighteen

  ‘So it wasn’t the servant Alice who died, but Maud, the mistress.’ Best sighed. He and Smith sat opposite each other in the somewhat denuded Chilton House drawing room.

  ‘And Alice took her place – just like Kate Webster with Mrs Thomas.’

  ‘We should have guessed. It’s not that long ago.’

  Indeed, it was only eighteen months since servant Kate Webster had quarrelled with her mistress, the reclusive Mrs Thomas of Vine Cottages in Richmond, and attacked her with an axe. She chopped her up, dropped her remains in the Thames and, while selling off the woman’s property, pretended to be Mrs Thomas herself. Kate’s own friends and acquaintances were informed that she had come into an inheritance.

  ‘I suppose we’ve had other things on our minds,’ Smith comforted. He didn’t like to see his old friend and colleague depressed.

  Mrs Thomas’s remains had soon been found but were not identified until a neighbour became suspicious of the comings and goings next door and the absence of Mrs Thomas. Kate Webster fled back home to Ireland, where she was eventually tracked down. She had sworn that it was not her but a man friend, John Church, who had done the dirty deed.

  ‘The clothes should have told us,’ said Smith.

  Best nodded. Class and clothes usually came into it somewhere, but he wasn’t quite sure what his clothes-conscious colleague was driving at this time.

  He remembered that when caught, Kate Webster had still been wearing Mrs Thomas’s clothes and jewellery but by the time she appeared in the dock alongside Church, she had been stripped of most but not all of them.

  Her jacket was of a shabby cloth trimmed with imitation fur and her dress of a material ‘usually favoured by respectable servants’, The Times had reported snootily. Her hat, however, was stylish and ‘quite out of keeping with a servant’s position’.

  The presumptuous woman was found guilty and hanged.

  Smith sighed. ‘Alice wore gloves to hide her rough hands and that dress that was being taken in belonged to her mistress, Maud.’

  Best could see they were going to have problems remembering which was which and murmured to himself, ‘Maud is the victim, Alice the killer.’

  ‘No wonder she didn’t seem at ease as the mistress of the house,’ Best said. ‘She wasn’t.’

  ‘And we thought it was just because she was from the north!’

  Best would rather he had not rubbed that in. He felt enough of a fool already. ‘Now that we know,’ he said with a slightly tart emphasis, ‘all the pieces fit.’

  ‘But why sell the jewels?’ puzzled Smith. ‘We’ve seen how much money there is in Maud’s accounts.’

  ‘She might have been having trouble with the signature. That’s if she can write at all.’

  Best and Smith contemplated each other silently. The prospect of the wrath of Cheadle hung over them like a fog wreathing the Thames’ bank on a still and wintry day.

  ‘We’re going to have to be clever when we make our report.’ Best muttered.r />
  Smith looked doubtful.

  ‘Don’t worry, little George Washington,’ he continued, ‘I don’t mean tell outright lies. We just have to find a way to distract the man.’

  They stared morosely at the carpet for a while, then said in unison, ‘How did she think she could get away with it?’

  ‘No one knew them down here,’ Best pointed out. ‘Remember, even the people next door weren’t sure which was the mistress and which the servant. If there had been any doubts, I expect they probably dismissed them, not wanting to raise anything which might lower the tone.’

  ‘Never thought of that,’ said Smith. The prospect of ever owning anything made of bricks and mortar was beyond his imagining. ‘And she was very clever,’ he admitted. ‘She knew she would be recognized in Commerce Road, so she sent the new cleaner down to the shops. Gave us a photograph of them both together. That might not have worked – but did.’

  ‘Yes. Yes. All right. Let’s not have a wake,’ exclaimed Best irritably.

  He believed in learning from experience but not in flagellating oneself unnecessarily. Better to occupy yourself finding a cunning way out.

  Best smiled in spite of himself. ‘You’re just a devious foreigner, my lad. Helen had always teased him. He had told her that foreigners had no choice but to become devious.

  ‘D’you think she was going to try to stick it out?’ asked Smith more gingerly. ‘Be Maud forever?’

  Best shrugged. ‘Who knows?’ He pulled at the ends of his moustaches which were in dire need of a barber’s attentions. ‘I expect she was seeing how much she might get away with.’

  ‘That accent will be hard to hide,’ Smith suggested hopefully.

  ‘Up here, in genteel Wood Green maybe, but not down in the Great Wen.’ He gazed at Smith, rolled the rogue ends of his wayward moustache into points, and said, ‘What we need to know now is how much Arthur knew. If he has any idea where she might have gone—’

  ‘Or whether he has scarpered with her,’ Smith finished for him.

  Best and Smith were still rifling through the remaining papers in the mock antique desk in the cosy parlour to the rear of the house, when Smith stiffened and looked up.

  ‘What’s that?’ he asked.

  ‘What?’

  ‘That noise.’

  They stood still and listened. A low murmuring sound met their ears. It grew louder as they entered the hall and walked towards the front of the house and was punctuated by the odd raucous shout.

  ‘Don’t open the door!’ exclaimed Best suddenly, grasping Smith’s outstretched arm. ‘In here, come on. Keep your head down.’

  They crept into the drawing room, ducking low as they went.

  When they reached the shelter of the heavy rose damask curtains which framed the front-facing window, they peeked out.

  In the gateway was an excited crowd – all staring at the house. The noise grew even louder. The word ‘murder’ could be discerned and there was much hissing. One or two cheekier souls, overcome by the drama of it all, were starting to edge forward into the grounds.

  ‘Let’s get out of here,’ hissed Best. ‘Keep low,’ he whispered. ‘Head for the back of the house.’

  Once out of the conservatory and into the back garden, they surveyed the possible escape routes.

  They contemplated slipping over into one of the adjacent gardens but decided that might not be wise. With all this commotion, the neighbours were bound to be on the alert and, besides, would recognize them from their earlier visit.

  Instead, they followed the wide sweep of the garden around the left side of the house, then began creeping forward under the cover of the blackcurrant and gooseberry bushes.

  ‘We’ll run for the back of that high hedge,’ Best whispered, pointing to the spot where the greenery separated the property from the pavement and the outside world. ‘Everyone is staring at the front of the house. They won’t notice us.’

  Smith wished he could be so sure.

  ‘I’ll go first,’ Best whispered as they crept forward. ‘Wait a moment, then you come. Filter into the crowd. See you down the road.’ He was gone.

  Smith couldn’t quite understand why all this lurking about was necessary. They were in the house legitimately, were even in possession of a search warrant. But if Inspector Best said he had to lurk about in this guilty manner, then he supposed he had no choice.

  He watched bemused as his superior officer made an undignified dash for the inside of the hedge, sidled along towards the entrance, then slid behind a man who was straining forwards and upwards trying to see through the sitting-room windows. No one had noticed him. That luck couldn’t hold out twice.

  Smith counted to twenty then made his run. Just as he had feared, when he reached the hedge a man at the forefront turned his head sharply, frowned and said, ‘Hey! What?’

  ‘Looks like there’s nobody at ’ome,’ muttered Smith as he strode forward and pushed through the crowd. ‘So that’s where I’m going. Excuse me. My dinner’s waiting.’

  Always look as though you should be doing what you are doing, and nobody will stop you, had been one of Best’s early instructions. Now, as he strode through the throng, Smith steeled himself to obey three other remembered Bestisms for escaping a possibly hostile crowd: don’t look as if you’re spoiling for a fight. Don’t catch anyone’s eye. When you’re past, don’t look back.

  ‘Couldn’t get caught up in all that business,’ murmured Best as a pink-cheeked, but relieved, Smith came alongside further up the avenue. ‘We need to get after Arthur as quick as we can.’

  ‘But what about the house? They might break in.’

  ‘I doubt it,’ said Best. ‘They know the police will be here any minute.’

  ‘Will they?’

  ‘Oh, yes. We’ll tell the first constable we see and if we don’t see any we’ll tell the nick. But I expect they know by now anyway.’

  Again, Smith wished he felt so sure.

  ‘Ah, here they are,’ said Best as a purposeful posse of policemen came marching along the avenue. ‘The neighbours will have sent their servants to fetch them. Can’t have rabbles in this neighbourhood, can they? Avert your face as they go by.’

  ‘But—’ spluttered Smith.

  ‘Do it!’ ordered Best.

  ‘He ain’t been ’ere today,’ announced Eddie, a fair-haired young cabbie heading the secondary queue at the station rank. ‘Not that I’ve seen, anyways.’

  ‘Does he always come when it’s his turn?’ enquired Best nonchalantly.

  The amiable young fellow shrugged. ‘Dunno. We comes and goes so don’t always see each other.’

  When Best asked who actually owned Herring’s cab the other drivers fell into an impromptu conference. Clearly, not all were happy to impart such knowledge to an outsider.

  Best was preparing to come the heavy policeman but there was no need. Eddie soon popped up his head and said, ‘Straker’s, down the High Street.’

  ‘Whereabouts?’

  ‘On the left goin’ up. Can’t miss it. Want a ride?’

  They could scarcely refuse.

  It transpired that Arthur Herring had not been at Straker’s that morning either. This was surprising, opined the sharp-eyed Mr Straker, because the fellow needed the money.

  Best and Smith glanced at each other, Best miming a gnashing of teeth. Clearly, they had been well and truly caught out. Best was painfully aware that one of the reasons for this was that he had not been working alone.

  It wasn’t Smith’s fault. He had not persuaded Best away from any likely lead nor determined path against his better judgement. It was merely that working with a colleague became just a little too companionable – a bit of a lark – which distracted Best and diluted the necessary sense of urgency. Two heads weren’t always better than one.

  To neither man’s surprise, Arthur Herring also turned out to be not at home at his lodgings at No.2 Railway Terrace.

  ‘He’s gone down to get his new licence,’ conf
ided his frowzy landlady. ‘Should be back soon – if he don’t get a sniff of the barmaid’s apron first.’

  So, there was no point in trying to track the man down. They’d just have to go back later and catch him in. If he came back.

  Best wondered whether to instruct the landlady to send Herring down to the nick but thought better of it. If he was already nervous that might drive him right away.

  Nothing for it now but to bite the bullet, return to the nick, send a telegram off to Cheadle and face the wrath of the local police. And some wrath it was going to be, they realized, when they saw the crowds gathered around Wood Green Police Station.

  Chapter Nineteen

  ‘The clerks are drawing up the reward notice,’ said Best hurriedly. ‘I’m getting copies of the photograph produced and I’ve sent an enquiry off to the Northumberland Police.’

  ‘So they can tell ’em to let ’er go if they sees ’er?’ suggested Cheadle sarcastically. ‘Might as well.’

  Best said nothing.

  He had already suffered back at Wood Green Police Station when the superintendent had suddenly appeared wanting to know just what was going on in his division. Then he had handed Best the telegraph message from Cheadle instructing him to return to the Yard forthwith, leaving Smith and the local detectives to carry on with the murder enquiry.

  Not that there was much for them to do. They could only ask the neighbours whether they had seen Alice’s departure from Chilton House and track down the cab which must have assisted in her removal. All of which was happening while Best and Smith had been held up by Wood Green worthies, reluctant to grant them a search warrant.

  Of course, there was always the possibility that she had left the previous evening and it had been Herring’s cab which had taken her away. In which case, the task was going to be that much harder. They’d be left without any leads.

  The divisional detectives had set out with a will, obviously anxious to show the Scotland Yard men a thing or two. In any case, tracing the cabbie was, Smith acknowledged, the best use of their talents. They not only had the advantage of local knowledge but could lean on the drivers with threats as to future vehicle inspections and supervision.