A Particular Eye for Villainy: (Inspector Ben Ross 4) (20 page)
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Authors: Ann Granger
So Ben wouldn’t be home tonight. It was a pity, as I’d so
much to tell him. I could tell Biddle all about it now, and ask him to pass it on. But it was a lot to explain to a young constable like Biddle. I didn’t know how garbled the account would be by the time it reached Superintendent Dunn. Besides, the news that I’d been investigating (‘interfering’ as Dunn would no doubt call it) would much better come from Ben. Dunn already thought I took too much interest in police matters. I could imagine his initial reaction, although he wouldn’t be able to deny I’d learned several facts material to the investigation.
Ben would be home tomorrow and I’d be able tell him then. I wouldn’t tell him about the fellow in the tweed suit, of course. He would only lecture me on the folly of walking around the streets with no specific purpose and only a sixteen-year-old housemaid as escort. Besides, I wanted to put the man right out of my mind. Nevertheless he was lodged there, a disconcerting image with his dark eyes gleaming and his white teeth biting into the shiny green apple.
More laughter from the kitchen, Biddle joining in with Bessie’s squawks of merriment. I hoped I hadn’t started something there. It did occur to me with a pang of alarm that she might be telling Biddle of all our adventures that day. But no, Bessie would be discreet. She had her head screwed on the right way.
A further peal of female laughter came from the kitchen. Well, I hoped she had.
Inspector Benjamin Ross
I TOOK the earliest train from Harrogate, was obliged to make only a single change en route, and arrived mid-morning back in London. I should perhaps have gone directly to Scotland Yard to make my report. But I decided to go home first, leave my bag there, and check that all was in order. As things turned out, it was as well that I did. I could not have anticipated all that Lizzie would have to tell me.
‘It’s a good job you come home, sir,’ said Bessie ominously, on opening the door to me.
‘Why, what’s happened?’ I asked in alarm.
‘You wouldn’t guess at it, that’s for sure,’ she continued, grabbing my coat. ‘Oh, we’re all safe and well, don’t fear. But we’ve had such adventures, the missus and me!’
The first sense of relief on hearing all was well was immediately dispersed by the word ‘adventures’, and replaced with deep alarm.
‘Missus!’ called Bessie. ‘Here’s the inspector come home!’
I wondered if Bessie would ever develop into the sort of well-trained maid who led new arrivals to the parlour and
announced them with a respectful curtsy. But then Lizzie was running to greet me and I forgot about that.
‘Now then,’ I said, when I was seated with a cup of tea before my own hearth. ‘What is all this about adventures?’
‘I told Bessie not to say anything to you before I saw you,’ said Lizzie crossly. ‘But I suppose she couldn’t help it. Tell me first how you got along in Harrogate.’
‘I got along very well, thank you. Everyone was very hospitable and I learned one or two interesting things. I need to go as soon as possible to the Yard and report it all, so please, Lizzie, just tell me what you’ve been doing, Whatever it is or was, if it’s got any bearing on this case, I need to know before I see Dunn. I have a horrible feeling that it does have something to do with the case.’
Lizzie folded her hands in her lap, took a deep breath and began. I suppose she expected me to interrupt frequently. But such was my dismay that I listened bereft of speech. This worried her rather more than my jumping up and shouting. I noted a distinct lessening of her confidence as she went on. But Lizzie being Lizzie, she stuck to her guns and reached the end of her account of her visit to Jenkins, and subsequent talk with Flora Tapley. I was aware that at some point Bessie had come into the room and was standing behind Lizzie in a protective attitude, watching me apprehensively.
Silence fell, only broken by the ticking of the mantelpiece clock. It sounded unnaturally loud. Perhaps I was just stunned. I heard myself speak – or croak.
‘You had better come with me to the Yard, my dear. You can tell it all again to Superintendent Dunn yourself. He will have questions to put to you and you will have to write out a statement.’
‘Oh, I’ve done that already,’ said my wife, cheering up. ‘I wrote it all down last night.’ She got up and fetched a small wad of densely written papers which she handed to me. When I took her account and glanced through it in silence, she asked, ‘Is it official enough?’
‘If it’s complete and accurate and you’ve signed and dated it, as I see you have, it is official enough. You do realise, don’t you, that this –’ I brandished the wad of paper – ‘that your actions might spell the end of my career?’
‘I realise Mr Dunn will be angry with me,’ returned my wife. ‘But he’s an intelligent man and he won’t be able to dismiss the importance of what I found out, will he?’
I rubbed a hand over my face and rose in silence. Truth to tell I was afraid to begin any speech for fear of not being able to stop. I went back to the hall and retrieved my coat from the hook where Bessie had left it. Behind me, I heard Bessie say, ‘He took it very well, didn’t he, missus?’
I cannot, unfortunately, relate that Superintendent Dunn took it very well at all. His short spiky hair bristled more than usual. His complexion turned puce. Beads of sweat formed on his brow. He seemed to experience some difficulty in breathing. I was wondering whether to summon help or, at the very least, a glass of water, when he found speech.
‘I am dismayed, Mrs Ross. I fully understand you have a way of . . .’ He struggled to express himself politely. ‘You have a way of taking a lively interest in criminal cases and making comments. Some of your comments have, in the past, been very apt. I don’t deny it. But this . . .’ Dunn’s quivering forefinger tapped Lizzie’s statement. ‘This goes far beyond any
reasonable action. When you first came into the possession of the visiting card belonging to this so-called private enquiry agent . . .’ Here Dunn’s already florid complexion darkened to a dangerous hue of deep red. ‘Whatever such a person may be, you should have reported it and given the card to an appropriate official. That is to your husband or, in his absence, to someone here at the Yard. To me.’
‘But I didn’t know who Jenkins was,’ Lizzie explained. ‘I didn’t know then he was the clown.’
Dunn hunched his shoulders and leaned forward. ‘Yes, this business of the clown . . .’
Here I thought I should interrupt in Lizzie’s defence. ‘My wife did report to me the presence of the clown by the bridge, sir.’
‘And she told you the clown appeared to be following Tapley?’ he snapped, transferring his attention to me.
‘Yes, sir, but at the time, I thought that was unlikely. I am sorry to report I dismissed her suspicions.’
‘It was because he knew I have a fear of clowns. I always find them sinister,’ confessed Lizzie, despite my warning glance.
‘Just as a matter of interest,’ said Dunn to her with dangerous calm, ‘is there anything else you have not thought fit to tell us? Any little thing at all, mm?’
‘No, I don’t think so, I think you know all of it,’ said Lizzie, but I fancied she hesitated, just fractionally.
Dunn sighed. ‘We shall have to discuss your behaviour later, Mrs Ross, in greater detail. You have interfered with an official investigation and that, as I am sure you realise, is a serious matter. Whether you have actively hindered the police, or not, is yet to be established. If it turns out that you have
done so, you will find yourself in a great deal of trouble. However . . .’ He raised his hand to forestall protest from either of us. ‘The investigation itself has primary importance and someone must interview this fellow Jenkins at once. You had better get over to Camden and do it, Ross.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And I had better go along, too,’ said Lizzie disastrously.
Dunn’s hand crashed down on his desk with such force that all the papers on it jumped and a pen rolled off it on to the floor. ‘No, Mrs Ross! You had
not
!’
‘Because of the speaking French,’ explained Lizzie, undeterred. ‘Ben doesn’t. You don’t, do you, Ben?’
‘Speak French? No,’ I admitted.
‘This fellow Jenkins is French?’ Dunn demanded incredulously.
Lizzie shook her head. ‘No, Mr Dunn. But he said his client was a French lady and he offered his own services as interpreter if needed. But you couldn’t trust any translation done by Jenkins, could you?’ Lizzie paused for comment but Dunn only stared at her, eyes bulging. ‘What I am thinking,’ my wife carried on hurriedly, ‘is that if Jenkins has his client close at hand somewhere, and were to produce her when we – when Ben goes to see him, then it would be best if Ben – the police have the services of a
reliable
interpreter.’
‘Speak
good
French, do you?’ Dunn asked her brusquely.
‘Yes, quite good,’ was Lizzie’s confident reply. ‘I had a French governess when I was a child.’
This reply served to impress the superintendent. His confidence, I was pleased to see, was visibly shaken. Of course, he didn’t know what I knew, because Lizzie had told me, that
the French governess in question had been a woman of rather questionable background who had eventually been dismissed for drinking herself insensible on Dr Martin’s brandy.
‘Then go with your husband. Ross!’ Dunn’s bloodshot gaze turned to me. ‘I want a full account. If Jenkins does produce his client and she makes any sort of statement, in French or in English, make sure she signs it. If you can bring her here, it would perhaps be even better.’
‘Yes, sir. We’ll go to Camden immediately. We’ll take a cab.’
‘It will come out of your expenses allowance,’ said Dunn sourly. When Lizzie had left his office and I was about to follow her, he added: ‘You have not heard the last of this, Ross. I have spoken to you before about controlling your wife.’
‘I am afraid I don’t – can’t – control my wife, sir, not in the way you mean. But I shall make sure she understands the foolhardiness of her actions.’
‘Will you, indeed?’ said Dunn unpleasantly.
I thought Lizzie and I had come out of that encounter rather well, all things considered. It would not have surprised me if I’d found myself suspended. If our visit to Horatio Jenkins produced some important new evidence, it would be even better. Dunn would still grumble about her actions during my absence, but his sting would have been drawn. I felt quite optimistic as we made our way to Camden.
A fine rain drizzled down by the time we arrived. We stood for shelter under the awning of a dress shop across the road from the greengrocer’s above which Jenkins had his so-called detective agency.
‘It doesn’t look very impressive,’ I said, studying the uncurtained first-floor windows.
‘It isn’t,’ said Lizzie. ‘Nor is Mr Jenkins himself very impressive to look at. But you have to admit he does seem to know his business. He found Thomas Tapley for his client.’
‘I’ll give him credit for that. But I can’t say I like the idea of this fellow running round investigating his fellow citizens’ private affairs because someone has paid him to do so. Especially as the person who hired him is so shy about speaking to anyone in authority.’
We remained there for a further three or four minutes and during that time no one approached the street door to the staircase, or left by it. There was no sign of movement at the windows of Jenkins’s office, nor was any gas lit inside although the afternoon light was now poor on account of the rain. The first-floor room looked quite deserted. The floor above that, where the milliner had her workroom, did show a lighted lamp at one window. Her work involved fine stitching. Inside the greengrocer’s shop a glow announced gaslight.
‘This was once a private house,’ I mused aloud. ‘The shop and its entrance have been carved out of the ground-floor rooms. I dare say the proprietor and his family live at the back. That street door once gave access to the whole house. Now, if what you told me is correct, it only lets visitors on to the staircase and the rooms for letting, above. They have been sealed off from the shop and proprietor’s dwelling by some more recent brickwork and plaster.’
Lizzie understood that I was not just speculating idly. ‘You wonder if Jenkins has another way out, other than on to the street. So he could escape if he saw us coming and decided he
didn’t want to meet us. I don’t think he does. He could perhaps run up to Miss Poole’s workroom and hide there. They sound to be on very good terms.’ She frowned. ‘He might be able to get into an attic or out on to the roof, from the top floor.’
‘At the moment he shows no sign of being at home. But I agree that he will have thought out some strategy for emergency use. I doubt he’s cultivated the goodwill of Miss Poole just for cups of tea. Come on, Lizzie, let’s knock on this private detective’s door.’
I set off briskly across the street with Lizzie darting past me in her eagerness and reaching the door first.
‘One moment, Lizzie.’ I put a hand on her arm. ‘Just wait here while I ask something of the shopkeeper.’
Mr Weisz was selling onions to a customer and I waited until the woman had made her purchase and left the shop. Weisz then turned to me and looked me over carefully, head to toe. I took out my warrant card but before I could show it, he was ahead of me.
‘You will be from the police?’ His accent was faint but noticeable all the same.
I reflected that even those who had not been all their lives in this country knew an officer of the law in plain clothes as soon as he hove into view. There must be something about us.
‘I have no trouble with the police,’ Weisz was continuing. ‘I am a respectable citizen. I work hard. My wife works hard. My younger children help. My eldest son is a clerk in a counting house. My daughter sews on buttons, piecework. We don’t want any trouble.’
‘I am not here seeking to make any trouble for you,’ I
assured him. ‘I only want to ask about the tenant on the first floor, Mr Horatio Jenkins.’
A look of derision passed over the greengrocer’s face. He leaned forward slightly and hissed, ‘He is a spy!’
‘A spy?’ I asked, startled.
‘Yes, yes, a spy, an informer. He runs to the authorities with gossip. In the country where I was born and spent my boyhood, such people were everywhere and everyone knew them.’
‘Mr Jenkins claims to be a private detective,’ I pointed out.
‘Hah!’ exclaimed Weisz. ‘What is that but a spy?’
‘Have you seen him today?’ I asked, cutting short the discussion of the nature of Jenkins’s activities.
‘No. There is a separate entrance. I don’t see him come or go, only if I am standing outside.’
‘And you haven’t been standing outside today?’
‘It is raining,’ said Weisz simply. ‘Also today we sort the potatoes. We buy at market in big sacks and we put them in smaller ones, or put them loose in that tray. They must be inspected, each one. One bad potato will make bad every other potato it touches. If you go into the backyard, you will see my wife and children bagging potatoes, also carrots.’
‘In the rain?’
‘They can take the work into a shed.’
I persevered with one last question. ‘Perhaps, recently, while you have been standing outside in better weather, you may have seen a lady arrive to visit Mr Jenkins.’
