Murder on the Home Front (25 page)

So a month passed. A month of watching, and waiting. The grass in Kempston Ballast Hole grew drier and browner, the leaves on the bushes withered and started dropping. And it was reported to the chief inspector that Gribble was beginning to talk freely about the crime; far too freely. He seemed quite unable to leave the subject alone, and although he never actually boasted of being the assailant he talked so injudiciously that it was clear he knew far more than he should of the inside story of the crime.

So, on September 20, Chief Inspector Beveridge, Detective Inspector Sandell of the Bedfordshire Police, and Sergeant Hannam all went around to Gribble’s home. Their arrival, late in the evening, caused a family scene. Mr. Hannam described it afterward in conversation with us: “The whole family was in an uproar, and Gribble’s poor old parents terribly upset, everybody weeping and clutching one another…well, you can imagine it.”

Mr. Beveridge sternly told Kenneth Gribble that he had reason to believe that the youth knew more about the crime than he had hitherto confessed. Gribble began bluffing and lying again, denying he knew anything. But his father, who was present at this interview, suddenly intervened, tearfully imploring the boy to make a clean breast of things if he were really guilty of the crime. Kenneth then broke down.

“Yes, I did meet Bob Smith three o’clock one August Sunday afternoon and we had a fight in the Ballast Hole. He threw a piece of tree at me and I hit him with it.”

He was cautioned and then he made a long statement. He described how he and Smith went to the Ballast Hole for “a lay down.” As they strolled there, Gribble said, he told Smith that he needn’t bother to come to work for Mr. Gribble senior anymore, “for,” said Kenneth Gribble, “you know you have been doing me out of money on the round.”

That, then, was how the quarrel started. Gribble continued his account of it, “We got to high words…and Bob took off his jacket and came for me. There was a fight and Bob fell over a large piece of tree wood. He picked up the bit of wood and threw it at me. I dodged the piece of tree but picked it up and as Bob come at me I struck him with it. I first struck him on the side of the face. He hit me in the stomach, and I hit him again with the piece of tree on the head. He was bleeding but continued to fight me, so I hit him twice more with the piece of wood on his head. He fell down then, and whilst he was lying on the ground I hit him twice on the head with the same piece of wood. I then threw the piece of wood as hard as I could into some bushes because there was some blood on it. I then picked up Bob’s feet and dragged him into some bushes in the middle of the spinney.”

He went on to say he stayed with Smith “for about ten minutes,” trying to bring him around. He then covered up the entrance to the thicket with the branch of a tree and a screen of willow herb. He took up Smith’s jacket, hat, and shoes—these last had come off as the body was dragged to the bushes. From the pocket of the jacket fell the photograph of a girl. “I just tore it up and threw it back on the grass near the bush where Bob was lying.”

Gribble, as he walked back to the entrance of the Ballast Hole, discarded the shoes, the jacket, and the hat. From the jacket pocket he took Smith’s wallet, which he burned when he got home, without having examined its contents.

Gribble was charged with murder and appeared for trial at Leicester Assizes. The case for murder was, of course, that he had attacked an unarmed opponent with a heavy weapon with far more force than was necessary for self-protection and had, what was much worse, struck this opponent two violent blows after he, the opponent, was lying unconscious on the ground. The case for a reduced verdict of manslaughter was Gribble’s own account of the quarrel, whereby he insisted that Smith had attacked him and continued to attack him in spite of being injured. This evidence of Gribble’s, combined perhaps with his youth, persuaded the jury to find a verdict of manslaughter.

This then was the final chapter in a sordid little story, sordid from every angle. Yet, as a case, it provides an excellent example of typical detective work. Sordid details, dirty scraps of old newspaper and torn odds and ends, a drain to be delved into, a patch of wasteland to be searched again and again under a grueling sun, much questioning, the wearisome taking of repetitive statements, discreet inquiries from all and sundry, more searching of the wasteland, more inquiries, a long and patient watch kept on a suspect, finally the closing of the trap, painful scenes, tears, admission.

All part of the day’s work. All part of a detective’s job. Not in the least glamorous. Not, really, all that much exciting. Indeed often just a grind of a job, requiring immense patience and determined application.

Most criminal investigations consist largely of such grind and dogged sweat. These two unspectacular ingredients are the cornerstones of a successful detective’s career. Most murder investigations are sordid and mucky. A detective needs strong nerves and a steady stomach.

Shortly after this case at Kempston, Mr. Beveridge became an area superintendent, and he is now Chief Superintendent Peter Beveridge, a very high high-up, indeed. As for my old friend Detective Sergeant Hannam, at the time I am typing this he is a mere few miles away from me, down the river at Richmond; Superintendent Hannam, conducting inquiries into the double murder of two young girls on the towpath there. He and his detectives have been dragging the river, searching through undergrowth for a weapon, combing London for a maroon-colored bicycle. With Mr. Hannam is some detective sergeant—I don’t know his name—who is wallowing in the Thames mud, sweating and searching through the dusty summer grass, muttering a few unholy somethings under his breath, no doubt, and learning in the course of it all how to be a chief superintendent himself some fine day.

CHAPTER
21

Private Diary

I am one of those tiresome people who keep diaries, pages and pages of scribble on my daily doings and daily thoughts. From time to time I read over what I have written and am overcome with shame. What an obnoxious and stupid person I find myself to be! And I stoke up the boiler and burn the diary, vigorously stirring it into the flames.

But even so, not all the diaries have been burned. Quite a lot of them lie at the bottom of an old cupboard. I never got around to burning every one of my blush-making volumes; just shoved them into the cupboard and shut the door on them.

Recently I lugged them out and looked at them to see if they contained anything interesting to include in this book. Some of the entries gave quite a good idea of what life was like with Dr. Simpson. Let me quote a little:

August 24, 1944.

Yesterday Paris was liberated. I’ve always vowed that when Paris became freed from the Nazis I’d celebrate wildly, but of course I did nothing of the sort. The day simply didn’t pan out that way. On August 23, Day of Liberation, CKS and I traveled down to Ashford in Kent on a murder job. The morning was an awful rush and lunch for me consisted of two sardine sandwiches eaten in a cloakroom at Guy’s. We just managed to catch our train.

This train was a hoppers’ train from London Bridge and it was chock-a-block with fat old mother hoppers from Lambeth, Southwark, Bermondsey, loaded with bundles and folding prams and bulging bags, and each one accompanied by cohorts of yelling children, who all passed the journey by scuttling backward and forward to the lavatory.

Passing through South London was sad, although interesting. Heavens, the terrible damage done by the doodle-bombs! It was rather thrilling passing through the vast balloon barrage outside London, which extends coastward—that is, south as far as Maidstone—and which I have been told contains as many as ten thousand balloons. They all looked very beautiful, floating silver and serene in the blue sky over the low Kent hills. Others were on the ground, and they stood around the fields like monster silver cows.

While our train was waiting at Tonbridge station I heard a soldier on the platform remark to another that Paris had fallen. I felt an inclination to stand on my head on the carriage seat and sing the “Marseillaise,” but refrained because of Keith Simpson. Felt certain he would not approve of upended secretary publicly singing French National Anthem. So squelched down my excitement and tried to continue looking cool, efficient, secretarial.

Poor Keith Simpson! Becoming distinctly peeved with the hoppers! At each station the good old hoppers had terrific struggles with their baggage; mainly goods wrapped up in tablecloths. These unwieldy bales would be finally packed into a pram, along with antique trunks dating back to the days of Pickwick, together with loose saucepans, kettles, frying pans, canvas bags, string holdalls, etc., and each adult accompanied by swarms of children, mostly little girls, all eating sandwiches, shrieking and yelling with their mouths full, and enjoying themselves hugely. And of course each family had its respective dog or cat.

Most of these people seemed to quit the train via our carriage. It was quite an experience.

So, as a result of all this chaos at each station, by the time we arrived at Ashford our train was half an hour late. CKS all worked up, kept taking out his watch and muttering, like the White Rabbit.

The murder was not very interesting; a girl of fifteen and a half who had already given much trouble by running around with men. Postmortem showed her to be—even at that tender age—well accustomed to sexual intercourse. She had been found at seven o’clock that morning lying strangled on a cricket ground near the railway. She had been strangled during intercourse.

Such a case is, really, more a matter of sordid accident rather than murder. There seemed to be no murderous intention behind it. It seems to me a bit much to hang a man under such circumstances.

All the time we were at Ashford fighter planes were cruising overhead, ready to chase and shoot down doodle-bombs.

A great many people are now saying the war will be over in two weeks. I just don’t think so. The Germans are fighting frantically. At one place in France, the news says, a German Youth Unit fought tanks at a twenty-five-yard range with rifles and, refusing to surrender, was simply slaughtered. It will take more than two weeks to vanquish people like that.

The Maquis are going great guns all over France. Our old house painter has a lovely one. He said to Mother the other day, “I’ve just had a good read of the papers and it’s all most interesting news, but this here Marquis who’s fighting in France, he seems to be everywhere at once and I’d like to know, is he an individual fellow?”

Two American soldiers were arrested for the Ashford murder. They were identified by hairs they had left on the girl’s body.

Sunday, October 1.

Last Friday, alas, I lost my little scarlet tartan umbrella of which I was very fond. Lost it struggling in a crowd of homecoming hoppers at London Bridge. The Station Approach was thronged with little coster carts and costermongers come to collect the returning families and the baggage; the eternal large mammas with their screaming, excited children, ranging from little devils of twelve or so to babies in arms. They all piled onto the carts, on top of their luggage, and then Father drove them home. The fathers don’t go hopping. Reckon they’re sorry when the hopping season is over.

Most of the women hoppers wore fur coats.

When I got on a bus, my, that was crowded with hoppers, too! One large lady had a bottle she took constant swigs from and she kept singing, “Take me back to dear old Blighty.”

On Friday, too, we did a p.m. on the original Fat Boy of Peckham. His real name was Traddle, or Truddle, or somesuch. Afraid I’ve forgotten. He had a very dull face. When he was in his prime, the coroner’s officer told us, he weighed thirty-five stone [490 pounds] and at school he had to have a special desk made for him. He also had a special little donkey cart. But at the time of his death he only weighed a meager sixteen stone [224 pounds] or so. Poor man, he had tuberculosis, and he collapsed in the street. He was a watchmaker by trade. I felt sorry for him. What a weird life! To be a sensational Fat Boy of thirty-five stone, finally whittling away to a mere tuberculous sixteen stone.

I always remember my grandfather laughing and talking about the Fat Boy of Peckham. Funny to think I’ve at last seen him—on the p.m. table!

West was highly interested in this p.m. and so were all the coroner’s officers. They all came in to take a look at the unhappy celebrity. Poor old Fat Boy of Peckham!

The diary remarks rather nicely upon the newly arrived V-2s that “they aren’t so bad as the V-1s, because you don’t hear them coming and so you know nothing about them until you are actually being blown up.” I might add that I never got blown up, else I might not have thought so kindly of them.

On October 4 we went to Ashford on another murder, but this the diary didn’t comment upon, which was natural, as I remember the episode was a very muddy, chilling one, best quickly forgotten. The victim was a girl of thirteen who had been strangled in a ditch by a species of village idiot. We had to cross some very muddy fields to reach the scene of the crime and once again I found myself taking a dim view of Kent. The murderer was soon arrested and found guilty but insane.