‘Oh, Freddie.’ She smiled now. ‘I wish to God it had been. But then you wouldn’t have looked the side I was on.’
‘Don’t you be so sure. I have me eye on the main chance; I’d have married you for your money.’
‘Not you, Freddie, not you.’…
As he walked into the street he thought: How strange! He had entered the house fearful but had come out laughing. And it was odd about the man in the shoe shop proposing to her. Funny, but he hadn’t thought of his desire for the shoe shop for years. One thing, though, that had come out of his visit: Mr Wheatley was likely the man who, in his drunken state, had talked of the jewels and had undoubtedly insinuated, if not pointedly said, that the youngster, the runner, must have taken them. How other would the police have brought that up in the questioning? And if he said that, then he could also have hinted as to how his master died. But what about the letters? Connie had said her father couldn’t write. But then there were plenty of professional letter-writers that would have done the job for him. Among these men would probably be some who, if this knowledge had come into their hands, would surely have used it in a form of blackmail.
A letter arrived on Monday morning from Belle. It was very short. It said,
My very dear Aunt Maggie and Freddie,
We arrived in the hotel at seven o’clock last evening. It is a very nice place. I am looking out of the window now and London seems vast. The sun is shining. We are to spend the day sightseeing.
I miss you both so very much. I send you my fondest love.
Belle.
After reading the letter Maggie handed it to Freddie, and he, now slowly folding it up, said, ‘Terribly informative, is how that could be described.’
‘Yes, that’s right, Freddie, terribly informative. Not a word about how she feels.’
‘Oh, yes there is: she says she misses us both terribly.’
‘And that shouldn’t be on the first day of her honeymoon.’
‘She’s merely being polite. You’ve paid a lot of money over the years to have her taught to be polite and, what’s more, to hide her real feelings.’
‘You think I was wrong in doing that?’
‘No, no, not at all. No, of course not. But’—he pointed to the letter now lying on the bedcover—‘there you have the result, an educated young lady.’
‘She never hid her feelings when she was here at home.’
‘No, but she’s not at home now, she’s a married woman, Maggie.’ And God, how he knew she was a married woman, for on the first night of her marriage his imagination running rife had at one point almost driven him mad.
‘Oh, it doesn’t matter.’ She picked up the letter from the quilt and put it on the side table near the bed, then said, ‘There are more things to worry about. What time is it?’
‘Quarter to ten.’
‘If they have a Justice’s warrant, you’ll have to go with them.’
‘Yes, but I won’t otherwise.’
‘But, Freddie…if they have a warrant it will mean they’ve got something concrete to go on. What then?’
He sighed now, saying, ‘I don’t know, Maggie; but don’t worry, they won’t get anything out of me, and that being the case they can’t hold me.’
‘I wouldn’t be too sure of that.’
‘I can’t see how; there was no eyewitness as to what happened on the dockside. As for that bloomin’ bag of glass, because after all that’s all they are, as Mr Taylor said, bits of glass, they’d have a job to trace that to me, the remainder of them anyway. They’ll likely want to go through the house and I bet already they’ve been through my bank.’
‘I doubt if they would get any information from them what you have there. There’s a kind of law…’
‘Oh, Maggie, you know as well as I do the pollis can twist laws, especially the kind of pollisman that is calling for me in a few minutes time. Anyway, I think that fella’s lost in the pollis force, he should be up in the government, in the Diplomatic Service or something like that. He’s so smooth, his words slide out of his mouth. Anyway, dear…’ He bent over her and looked into her face for a moment before kissing her; and then her arms went round his neck and held him close. When she whispered something that he couldn’t catch, and he said, ‘What is it?’ she shook her head. But the tears were in her eyes and she pushed him gently from her, saying now, ‘Go on. But hurry back. D’you hear? Hurry back.’
He nodded; then turned abruptly and went out.
His mother met him at the bottom of the stairs. ‘They’re here, there’s two of them,’ she said. ‘They got out of a cab; it’s at the gate.’
‘Open the door; I’ll be in the sitting room.’
The men came into the room slowly, and he made himself rise just as slowly from a chair.
‘Good day to you, Mr Musgrave.’ It was the same suave gentleman, as he called him; and he gave no reply to the man’s greeting but waited. ‘I happen to be Inspector Mitchum,’ the man introduced himself; ‘and this is’—he pointed to the other man—‘Police Sergeant Pringle. You know why we are here?’
Freddie knew why they were here; he also knew that the man’s manner had changed, it was not as suave as it had been on their previous meeting.
‘You stated, when we last met, that you would not accompany us to Newcastle unless it be on the order of a warrant. Well now, here is the required article.’ He withdrew a folded paper from his inner pocket and handed it to Freddie who, unfolding it, scanned it, picking out words here and there which ran:
For questioning with regard to jewels that went missing…
…And being of knowledge with regard to the demise of one Roderick Gallagher on the same night…
You are required to…
‘You will allow me to get my coat and hat?’
‘Certainly.’
It seemed now that the inspector put out his hand and stopped the sergeant from following Freddie into the hall.
A moment later when Freddie reappeared in the doorway he said, ‘If you are ready,’ and the men followed him, both eying the big bony woman standing to the side of the front door. And when she said, ‘When will you be back, lad?’ he answered, ‘Later on in the day, Ma.’ She was glancing at the men and slowly she said, ‘You sure?’
‘I’m sure. Don’t worry, Ma.’ He put out his hand and touched her arm.
Outside, the inspector said in a polite enquiring tone, ‘Your mother?’
‘Yes, my mother.’
Seated now at one side of the cab, he looked at the two men who were looking at him. ‘We are not taking the train then?’
‘No; out of consideration for you, we thought a cab would be more discreet.’
‘I see, out of consideration for me, not in case you’ve made a mistake?’
‘We rarely make mistakes, Mr Musgrave. We do our homework first.’ The inspector said no more, only continued to look at him. It was the sergeant who leant forward, saying, ‘You wouldn’t like to begin talking now to save time and trouble later?’ only to draw back swiftly as if to avoid a blow because Freddie too had moved forward and was now sitting taut on the edge of the seat, his knees almost touching those of the sergeant as he cried at him, ‘Now listen here! Both of you listen here: I’ll talk when I know what I’m accused of and it’s put into direct words. And let me tell you this, you cannot stick any crime on me because I’ve never committed one, and by God! I’ll see that there’ll be a song and dance about this, and there’ll be some people doing hornpipes. So, until I’m confronted by a magistrate or whoever’s going to accuse me of what I haven’t done, I’m saying not another word. Understand?’
Both men were now grim-faced, eyes narrowed, lips tight, and so was Freddie as he sat back against the smelly leather of the cab. The journey continued thus in an almost nightmare silence until they reached Newcastle.
The cab stopped outside the Court House. He had passed it dozens of times before on his meanderings through the city but had never imagined that one day he�
�d be entering its doors almost as a prisoner, for that’s what he felt he was already. Such was the turmoil in his mind that he only dimly took in the surroundings. There was bustle all about him, but it was a quiet sort of bustle, not like that in the Court House in North Shields; but then this was a different kind of Court House altogether. He was guided across the spacious hall and up a staircase that was bordered by a fine balustrade—he always had an eye for wood—and to a sort of waiting room where the inspector indicated that he should sit. There was an officer in uniform standing by a door at the far end of the room, as if on guard. The inspector and the sergeant now went through another door leading from the room, and he was left alone, and, strangely, he was no longer feeling sick or fearful, rather he was experiencing anger, an anger that wanted to give voice to itself. And the longer he sat waiting the more fierce his anger became, until, after fifteen minutes the sergeant returned.
Standing before him, he said, ‘Come along.’
For a moment longer Freddie remained seated, then rose slowly and followed the man through the door at the end of the room and into another, larger room. To one side were three wooden benches, at the other a desk with a police officer sitting behind it. But facing down the aisle between the benches and the desk was a long table, and behind this three men sat. And one of them was the suave Inspector Mitchum.
The sergeant pointed to the first bench and indicated that Freddie should be seated, and as he did so the man who appeared to be presiding at the long table turned his gaze on him. And it was he who now spoke and the voice, Freddie recognised, indicated that this man was from neither north or south of the river, nor was he a Scot or Irish. He seemed not to have an accent at all, but his words were clear and his tone not unkind as he said, ‘You are Frederick Musgrave?’
‘Yes, sir.’ When Freddie made to rise to his feet now, the man said, ‘It’s quite all right, you may remain seated. This is just an informal enquiry, you understand that?’
Informal enquiry that took a warrant to bring him here. He could not stop giving voice to his thoughts as he replied, ‘I was brought here on warrant, sir.’
‘Yes, yes, I understand that; but nevertheless you are not being charged with any crime. All we want at the present moment is information about incidents that happened some years ago. The inspector has already questioned you at some length, I understand, but your answers have been rather evasive and not satisfactory. So shall we begin at the beginning and take your mind back to the night when you were given a small package to carry across the water to a certain Mr Roderick Gallagher at The Towers in the village of Harton.’
‘I can add no more, sir, to what I have already told the inspector.’
‘Come, come, Mr Musgrave. Let me now inform you that we have, from three separate sources, been given details of what transpired that night and these sources all implicate you. On my part, I shall now be frank and tell you that, taking the third source first, this is of the least importance, yet it has its bearing because it deals with what you brought across in the sculler from the south side to the north side on the night in question; a bundle of some sort. You were also accompanied by your employer, Miss Margaret Hewitt. Now for our second source of information. This suggests that the packet of stolen jewels that you delivered to Mr Gallagher did not remain with him, for they were not found on his body when it was recovered from the river some days later. But it is suggested, only suggested, Mr Musgrave, that you know what became of that stolen property. Our other source of information, however, brings us to a far graver matter. It suggests that you also know how Mr Roderick Gallagher came to meet his end. Now, do any of these things refresh your memory, Mr Musgrave?’
Freddie stared back at the man. His eyes were fixed on his alone although he knew that every other person in that room was staring fixedly at him, and his mouth became dry. His anger had left him as if drained through a sieve. This man was even more suave than the inspector and he appeared more kindly, which, he considered, made him more dangerous at this moment.
‘Well, will you answer, Mr Musgrave?’
‘I can remember nothing more than I’ve already said.’
‘Will you answer me just one question? What were you carrying when you came across the river that night? It was something bulky.’
Before he could stop himself he answered, saying, ‘You don’t think it was Mr Gallagher, do you?’
There was a single titter, but the expression on the man’s face didn’t alter and his voice remained the same as he said, ‘No, I don’t suspect it was Mr Gallagher.’
Suddenly Freddie said, ‘And it couldn’t have been the jewels, because if I had been carrying such a notable bundle it must have been the Crown Jewels, all of them.’
‘No, I don’t think they were the Crown Jewels; they would have been too heavy, wouldn’t they, for a boy of twelve to carry? But you admit to carrying something?’
He hadn’t admitted to carrying anything, had he? No, he hadn’t. The only one he had told that part to was Freeman, and after that talk Freeman wouldn’t have said anything, he was sure. No, he hadn’t admitted to anything, and he said so now: ‘I haven’t admitted to carrying anything.’
The man leant back in his chair, sighed, put his hand on what looked like a blotting pad in front of him and patted it. The action spoke clearly to Freddie of impatience. And so, now and in earnest tones, he said, ‘Sir, believe me, I have no knowledge of what was in the package I carried that night or what became of it and’—he had to swallow deeply before saying the next words—‘I did not kill Mr Gallagher.’
‘Oh’—the flat hand came up from the blotter now and patted the air between them—‘you are not being accused of stealing the jewels or of murdering the man you gave them to. But we feel you have knowledge of both events and that you are withholding this knowledge and so obstructing justice from taking its rightful course. You understand me, Mr Musgrave?’
‘Yes, sir, I understand you very well, but I have said all I can say.’
‘All you can say, Mr Musgrave, but not all that you could say. I must impress upon you that this is a very serious matter that has come to light and that because it has come to light it will be pursued to its end. Again I ask if you understand me?’
Freddie wasn’t absolutely sure if by this ‘understand’ the man was meaning what he thought was meant by it. It was in his mind first, that they could keep him here until he told them something, or secondly, that they could definitely accuse him of the theft or the murder. And it was no use putting forth that a boy of twelve couldn’t murder a man because it had been done before, if he was to go by what he read.
His eyes wavered from those of the man and his head drooped forward; and presently the man’s voice came to him, saying, ‘Well, as you are seemingly determined not to be of help to us at the moment I can only hope that we will be supplied with further information very soon from one who was apparently a confederate of yours in those far-off days, and who apparently does not wish you well. You know the saying; when thieves break up enemies are born. So until then I’m afraid you will remain in custody.’
Freddie’s head snapped upwards. ‘I…I have no enemies, not…not like that, and I had no confederates, as you call them, and…and I can’t remain in custody. I won’t. I have done nothing wrong, except act as a runner when I was a child. And then I would run for anyone who paid me, because…because I needed the money to help my family. I…I…’
The man leaned slightly forward over the table, saying quietly now, ‘The matter is entirely in your hands, Mr Musgrave. And from the evidence that has been gathered I am afraid I cannot believe your statement when you say you know nothing further of what happened at that particular time. So, as I said, for the time being you will remain in custody.’
‘You can’t do this. You can’t.’
There was a man now on either side of him. Each put a hand on an arm and when they went to turn him about he flung them off, and almost jumping the four steps to the long t
able, he bent over it and yelled at his interrogator, ‘I don’t know anything about the jewellery.’
He got no further for the men were now hauling him backwards out of the room and onto the landing again, but they didn’t go down the stairs up which he had come but down a narrow stone stairway, so narrow that he was pushed forward and his arms wrenched behind him. They passed through a warren of passages until they came to a broad one which made him think that they were entering bedlam, such was the noise from the cells, then through this to a shorter passage, quieter here, even, you could say, quiet. A heavy door was opened and he was thrust inside, and when the door banged closed he beat on it and yelled until his throat was sore. Then limp, he turned and took stock of where he was: a narrow slit of a room, lit by a grating high up in the wall. The only article of furniture in the place was a pail and what appeared to be some wooden planks attached to the wall to form a bed. There was no bedding of any kind.
The anger had by now seeped from him and what came from his lips sounded like a whimper as he said, ‘Oh, Maggie. Maggie.’
Thirteen
The pain was tearing at her. She wanted to cry out but she pressed her hands tightly on her stomach, the nails digging into the bare flesh as she waited for the door to open. When, a minute later, it did, Jinny stood aside and let the pockmarked woman, as she thought of Connie, enter the room.
There was no powder on Connie’s face today, the pocks furrowed her cheeks as a miniature wind distorted landscape, making her nose, which was bare of signs of the disease, stand forth like a lone hillock; her bonnet shaded her brown hair but not her eyes. Maggie was experiencing an added and strange pain as she looked at the woman and said, ‘Thank you for coming.’
The Harrogate Secret (aka The Secret) Page 30
