Not for the first time Pollard reflected on how much more pleasant the atmosphere was when one came to ask for help from a local force. None of the stickiness of the occasions when one was called in to take over an enquiry.
‘I hope you’ll feel the same when you discover that we’ve come about some tedious digging up of the past,’ he replied as they shook hands and Toye was introduced.
As Inspector Forth escorted them into the building he asked if the visit was connected with the Woodcombe case. ‘I’ve been following it all through,’ he said, ‘and so has the wife. She’s a real crime fan. There’s a cup of coffee on the go, sir, if you’d both care for one.’
‘Yes, it’s Woodcombe all right,’ Pollard told him when they were settled. ‘Since you’re genned up on the job I’ll come to the point straight away. We’re trying to trace a family called Tuke who had a stationer’s business here in the nineteen-twenties. The owner was a Paul George Tuke. He and his wife produced a son in 1923 who was registered as George Thomas Tuke. We think it’s remotely possible that this son was the father of Edward Tuke who was killed at Woodcombe last April. I suppose it’s too much to hope that any of them are still around?’
Inspector Forth looked regretful. ‘The name doesn’t mean a thing to me, sir, I’m afraid. As far as local back history goes, I wasn’t born till 1930, and my family didn’t move to these parts till after the war. But with any luck Sergeant Withers may know something. He had a spell here as a young constable, and he’s been in charge locally since 1975. I asked him to come along to see you. That’s his car outside now from the sound of it.’
Sergeant Withers was an older man with a stolid face but a pair of shrewd blue eyes. At Inspector Forth’s invitation he joined the coffee party and was introduced to Pollard and Toye.
‘You’re Chief Superintendent Pollard’s best bet, I reckon Sarge,’ the Inspector went on. ‘Perhaps you’d just put him in the picture, sir.’
Pollard once again outlined the sequence of events that had brought him to Waldenhurst. Sergeant Withers listened attentively and sat for a few moments in unhurried reflection.
‘Well, sir,’ he said, ‘one thing I’m quite certain of is that there was no stationer’s business whatever in the High Street when I came here as a young copper in 1948. The town was quite a bit smaller then, and I’d remember it if there’d been one.’
‘That’s cleared up one thing, then,’ Pollard said as Toye made a note. ‘Paul George Tuke had either moved elsewhere or died by 1948. If he’d died we shall soon get on to it. Now, Sergeant, can you tell us if there are any Tukes who are living here now who might be descendants of his?’
This time Sergeant Withers reflected at greater length. ‘Got it!’ he said triumphantly at last. ‘There’s an old Mrs Tuke living in the Staddon Almshouses.’
‘Thought you’d come up with something,’ Inspector Forth remarked with obvious satisfaction at this display of competence by a colleague.
It transpired that the Staddon Almshouses were a seventeenth-century foundation for the elderly poor of Waldenhurst. There was a warden to keep an eye on the inmates, and Sergeant Withers suggested giving her a ring.
‘I’ve only seen old Mrs Tuke once,’ he said, ‘back in 1977 when a chap was going around trying to con people into giving orders for parcels of tea and paying in advance. She seemed on the spot all right then, but I can’t say what she’s like now.’
Urged to go ahead by Inspector Forth he put through the call. A fairly lengthy conversation followed during which Pollard and the Inspector exchanged rather disjointed remarks sotto voce on current police problems. Finally Sergeant Withers replaced the receiver and reported that Mrs Tuke was not senile, according to the warden, not by a long chalk, but inclined to get a bit muddled over anything unexpected. She — the warden — would tell the old lady that somebody interested in her family was coming round to see her. She thought it would be better if Chief Superintendent Pollard would come alone if that was convenient. And she was quite sure that Mrs Tuke’s husband who had died a long time back had owned a shop in the town, although whether it was a stationer’s she didn’t know.
‘It looks as though this could be it,’ Pollard said. ‘Jolly smart work on your part, Sergeant: we’re most grateful. Are these almshouses far from here?’
On hearing that they were a bare five minutes’ walk from the police station, he said that he would walk round and leave Inspector Toye to do a bit of sightseeing, but perhaps it would be as well to wait for ten minutes or so to give the warden time to get Mrs Tuke tuned in. Both the local men were obviously keen to hear some further details of the Woodcombe case, and he accordingly obliged. Finally the gathering broke up on the best of terms, and with his undertaking to let them know the outcome of his interview with Mrs Tuke.
He located Staddon’s Almshouses without difficulty, and stood for a few moments admiring the little cloister which formed their frontage on one of the streets in the older part of the town. Its roof was supported by elegant stone pillars, and benches of dark oak flanked the inner wall where the inmates could sit and watch the passers-by. Entrance to the cloister was through a gate under an engraved tablet of stone. This bore an inscription stating that John Staddon and his wife Margaret had founded the almshouses in the year 1677 ‘for ye care and comfort of ye aged poor of this town’. He pushed open the gate and went into the cloister, receiving a greeting from two old men seated on the bench who informed him that if it was the warden he wanted, her door was first on the right. He thanked them and passed under an archway opposite the gate into a cobbled courtyard round which were about twenty attractive little stone houses. A well head with an ancient bucket and chain formed the centrepiece of the pleasing layout. He turned right and saw that the first house had a small noticeboard over its door with the legend WARDEN in block capitals.
A grey-haired woman in a plain navy blue frock with white collar and cuffs answered his knock and eyed him rather warily.
‘You be the gentleman from Scotland Yard that Sergeant Withers rang me about?’ she said. ‘I’m Mrs Foster, the warden in charge here. Will you please to step inside before I take you over to Mrs Tuke?’
Pollard sensed that his visit was something outside her experience, and that she was anxious to conceal the fact by emphasising her status.
‘Thank you, Mrs Foster,’ he said. ‘I’d be very glad of a word with you first and to have your advice. Perhaps I could just tell you why I’ve come to Waldenhurst.’
Mrs Foster led the way into an impeccably neat little sitting room and indicated the larger of two modest armchairs, seating herself opposite to him.
‘Well,’ Pollard said, ‘I don’t suppose that a busy person like you with all your responsibilities has much time for reading crime news in the papers, so you won’t know that I’m investigating the murder of a young man called Edward Tuke at a place called Woodcombe in Buryshire. He was an American citizen, the son of an emigrant called John Frederick Tuke. We are anxious to trace any members of the family who are still living in England, and find that a man called Paul George Tuke had a stationer’s business here. A son was born to him and his wife in 1923 and registered as George Thomas Tuke. We felt that it was worth finding out if the couple had another son, our John Frederick Tuke and the father of Edward who was murdered.’
A regretful look, similar to Inspector Forth’s on being unable to supply the required information, passed over Mrs Foster’s face.
‘I don’t think he could be,’ she said. ‘Mrs Tuke here is the stationer’s widow all right. He died about the end of the war, and for a while she lived with a sister who came to join her, and when the sister died she was given one of our almshouses, being such an old Waldenhurst resident. It was before I came, so I don’t know the exact dates. But I’ve always understood that there were two sons, and both were killed in the war. But it’s only what she’s told me from time to time, and I wouldn’t like to swear to it.’
Pollard asked if being ques
tioned about dates would be likely to fluster Mrs Tuke.
‘Not the way you’ll put them, I shouldn’t think,’ Mrs Foster replied. ‘You see, you’re used to asking people questions and finding out what you want to know. But I wouldn’t go on too long, if I may be plain. She gets tired, and I’ve even known her drop off while a visitor’s still with her.’
‘That’s very helpful advice, Mrs Foster,’ Pollard told her. ‘Thank you. Perhaps you’d take me along, then?’
As they crossed the courtyard Pollard admired the almshouses and commented on how beautifully kept the place was. He learnt that part of the Staddon endowment had been in land, and that the trustees had sold some of it ten years earlier and used the proceeds to restore and modernise the whole property, putting in electricity and water heaters and even a shower in every almshouse.
‘Properly in clover, they are,’ Mrs Foster told him, ‘what with being so comfortable and not a penny of rent or rates to pay out. Mind you, there’s always some that’ll grumble. Not that Mrs Tuke’s one of those.’
Mrs Tuke was tiny, with snow white hair cut short and a little wrinkled face, but her eyes were as bright as a bird’s. It was a warm June afternoon but she was wearing a cherry-coloured cardigan and had a rug over her knees. Every available inch of her sitting room was crammed with ornaments and faded photographs, and a motley assortment of pictures covered the walls. To Pollard’s relief she showed no surprise that he was interested in her family history. The shop in the High Street, he gathered had been a first-rate little business, but that dreadful war had killed it. Her husband had been called up and she couldn’t get enough stock, and so it had gone right down. When he came back he was so poorly with some nasty germ he’d picked up in Burma that they hadn’t been able to get it going again. Anyway it hadn’t seemed worth it with both the boys gone through that cruel wicked war.
Pollard seized this opening to head her off the shop and bring the conversation round to her children.
‘Were both your sons killed in the war, Mrs Tuke?’ he asked sympathetically.
‘Our Tommy was, our youngest. He was sent over to France when they started up the Second Front, and was killed in the fighting there. Only twenty-one, he was. Johnny was wounded so bad in Italy they invalided him out. His stomach it was. They couldn’t get him right again. Gave him a pension, but he didn’t five for long after the war. Left a young widow, too. A nice good girl. Always kept in touch with me, she has, even though she married again. She said it seemed disloyal to Johnny, but I told her, no... No, I said ... it’s what Johnny would want ... you ... to ... do.’
The little bright eyes closed and the head drooped. Pollard glanced at Mrs Foster who nodded affirmatively. They got up quietly and left the room. When the door had closed behind them she turned to Pollard.
‘If it would be any help I can give you Mrs Tuke’s daughter-in-law’s address. Not that she’s really her daughter-in-law seeing that she’s married again, but she acts like next-of-kin, and Mrs Tuke’s left her all she’s got.’
‘Thank you,’ Pollard said. ‘It doesn’t look very hopeful from our point of view, but it might possibly lead to some other branch of the family. Did Mrs Tuke ever have any daughters, do you know?’
‘No, she didn’t. That’s something I’m sure of, for she’s often said she wished she’d had one.’
Ten minutes later Pollard arrived back at the police station and found Toye waiting at the wheel of the Rover.
‘No go,’ he said, getting into the passenger seat, ‘but another possible lead: Marsden. We’ll go back to Town for tonight, though. For one thing I can put Hildebrand Robinson on a more useful track. There were two sons, but one was killed in action and the other was invalided out, and according to old Mrs Tuke died soon after the end of the war. We’ll get this verified, but we can rule out either of these lads being Edward Tuke’s father. It just isn’t on. Let’s go. I’ll fill you in a bit more on the way.’
There was a frequent, fast train service between London and Marsden, an industrial town in the West Midlands, and to Toye’s disappointment Pollard decided to make use of it in order to save time. Mrs Nelson, formerly Mrs John Frederick Tuke, was on the telephone and he made a call to the house at nine o’clock on the following morning. She answered herself, and he got the impression that her second marriage had translated her to a higher social level. After brief initial surprise when he introduced himself and told her the purpose of his proposed visit, she reacted with interest rather than agitation. She had followed the Woodcombe case, having noticed that the murdered man was called Tuke, and assured Pollard that she would be glad to give him any information she could about her first husband’s family. It was arranged that he would visit her in the early afternoon.
Once settled in the train Toye was meditative, and finally asked Pollard what he hoped to get from Mrs Nelson.
‘Probably nothing that we haven’t got already, barring a few dates to tidy things up for the record,’ Pollard replied. ‘Possibly a line on other branches of the Tuke family. Just possibly a break that we’ve never even thought of.’
Toye blinked behind his horn-rims. ‘Meaning you’ve got one of your hunches?’
‘Don’t bully me. It’s alleged to be a free country, isn’t it? Read that rag you’ve bought and give me a chance to think.’
Toye grinned and settled himself comfortably in his corner. Pollard sat opposite to him watching the landscape flash past. Just what were the chances, he wondered, of eventually running a Tuke to earth who had fathered a child of Amaryllis Kenway-Potter’s? And even if one did, would it ever be possible to bring a viable murder charge against her and for her husband on grounds of opportunity as well as of motive? He admitted to himself that this was frankly unlikely, and that the case looked depressingly like being shelved. Unless, of course, some unexpected evidence turned up involving the late Leonard Bolling or James Fordyce. His hopes that something might emerge from the investigation into the fire at Bridge Cottage were beginning to wane: no message had come through from Littlechester. Presently he gave up retreading all-too-familiar and well-worn ground and attacked a crossword puzzle.
The train ran into Marsden station on time. An inspector of the city’s C.I.D. was waiting on the platform and they were driven to impressive modern police headquarters. Here they received V.I.P. treatment. Pollard found this tedious, especially the interest shown in the Woodcombe case. He felt himself fretting to get on with the job in hand, and by implying that he had an appointment with Mrs Nelson at two o’clock managed to get away soon after one-thirty. Another police car conveyed Toye and himself to a modern housing estate of modest type on the outskirts of the city. The constable driver drew up as directed at a gate with a name place inscribed ‘INNISFREE’. He leapt out and opened the rear door. Pollard extricated himself with a wink at Toye, and told the constable that he did not expect to be paying a lengthy call. The young man saluted smartly.
‘About time you pulled up your socks when you’re driving me around,’ Pollard muttered out of the side of his mouth to Toye as they walked up a few yards of concrete path to the front door. Toye raised one eyebrow and pressed a bell push, setting off melodious chimes.
A middle-aged woman with a sensible kindly face, and wearing a neat two-piece in dark green and white and a modicum of costume jewellery, opened the door. She greeted Pollard pleasantly and without fuss and led the way into a sitting room overlooking a small garden. Pollard noted a bookcase filled with an assortment of titles suggesting membership of book clubs and some reproductions of flower paintings on the walls. When they were all seated, Mrs Nelson came straight to the point.
‘It’s my first husband you’ve come to see me about isn’t it?’ she said, reaching for a folder on an occasional table. ‘This is our wedding group, and there’s a good one of him besides taken just before he went off to the war.’
Pollard thanked her and studied both photographs carefully before passing them on to Toye. At Littlechester he ha
d scrutinised the much enlarged photograph from Edward Tuke’s passport, but could not find here the least trace of a family likeness.
‘Mrs Tuke has a wonderful collection of family photographs, hasn’t she?’ he said, steering the conversation in the direction of the old lady and past history.
Mrs Nelson was warm in her remarks about her former mother-in-law.
‘She’s always so brave and cheerful,’ she said, ‘although she’s had so much trouble in her life. I expect she told you that her youngest son was killed almost as soon as he was drafted over to France in 1944. Then my Johnny was very badly wounded in the landing in Italy and after a while he was invalided out. He never picked up, and died at Christmas time in 1947. Then his father went a couple of months later... They’d given up the shop and were living over it, but Mrs Tuke joined up with her sister who came to live with her in Waldenhurst…’
All this information came out easily, but Pollard had a feeling that in some curious way Mrs Nelson’s mind was not wholly on what she was saying. He introduced another topic.
‘It’s a tragic story for you all,’ he said. ‘What did you do when you were left a widow?’
‘Well, there was a pension, of course, but I’m not one to sit about doing nothing. So I went back to my old job... I’d been a shorthand typist... Then after a bit I chanced to meet Dick. We got married in 1951... He’s been a good husband to me, and a good father to our boy and girl…’ Her voice trailed off. Pollard decided to plunge.
‘Mrs Nelson,’ he said, ‘I think you’ve got something on your mind, haven’t you? Something that this visit of ours has stirred up. I hope you’re going to feel you can tell me about it.’
She sat with her head bent, twisting a handkerchief between her fingers.
‘It’s my Johnny,’ she said. ‘I know he oughtn’t to have done what he did, but I couldn’t bear him to be disgraced now. He was always a bit too kind-hearted, that was the trouble.’
‘If you know, as I think you do, that something he did probably ties up with this case we’re investigating,’ Pollard said, ‘it could be very important indeed. You see, innocent people may be under suspicion.’
Troubled Waters Page 17
