Death Before Breakfast (13 page)

Stopford, however, had more to do. He was anxious about the purpose of Mr. Peeples' visit to Chatham and what he was going to do now that his transport had left him there.

There was a corner shop almost opposite the house Peeples had entered. Stopford went inside and bought a packet of cigarettes.

A small shop, crowded out with goods of all kinds, mainly groceries. A roll of bacon and half a barrel of butter on the counter, an ice-cream fridge in front, and shelves upon shelves of tinned goods and bottles of jam and pickles. The place was empty of customers.

The grocer himself was almost invisible behind stacks of boxes and tins on the counter. A sickly-looking man with a grey complexion, wearing a long white coat.

Stopford paused to light a cigarette from the packet he'd bought.

‘Not very busy just at present?'

‘No. Mornings and evenings we do most trade.'

‘I've not been down this way before. I'm a building society valuer just having a look at a house for a mortgage. I've taken the wrong turning, I think. Kilroy Street, I'm after.'

He'd seen it on the way. It was on the other side of the town.

The man gave a cracked laugh.

‘You're a long way out. It's off the main road on the other side of St. Mary's Church. …'

And he went into a complicated series of routes to get Stopford there.

‘I'm sure I saw a client of ours in the street here, as I was finding a place to buy cigarettes. …'

‘A passer-by?'

‘No; going in one of the houses opposite. I wondered if he were looking it over with a view to removing. A man called Peeples. … Lionel Peeples.'

‘You're on the wrong tack, mister. No chance of any business there. Peeples married a daughter of the Moffats, who live just over the way. I saw him getting out of a car five minutes since. That must be when you saw him, too. His wife and two kids have been staying with her father and mother this week. Arrived here Tuesday, I think. I know Mrs. Moffat called for some groceries. They'd come unexpected, like.'

‘Oh, that'll be it, then. I thought it was him. His kids are just recovering from whooping-cough, I heard.'

‘Whooping-cough? They looked very spry to me when
last I saw them. They've been playin' in the street most days since they arrived. I never saw them coughin'. They're as lively as a couple of crickets.'

‘I must have been misinformed. We've one or two Peeples on our books. I suppose their father's joined them for their holiday.'

‘Yes. Though I must say it's a queer time of year to be on holidays. We'd fog this morning. Now it doesn't know quite what to do, does it? Poor weather for whooping-cough, in any case.'

Stopford bought some liquorice allsorts for his own kids and some chocolate marshmallows for his wife, who was crazy about them.

‘Good afternoon, sir.'

‘Good afternoon, mister. What name did you say your building society was?'

‘The Green Meadows. On the Embankment, near Scotland Yard. Look me up if I can do anything for you any time. …'

Stopford made his way to the quarter of the town likely to give him a good meal and after he'd ordered it, he rang up the Willesden Police and gave them a brief account of his morning's efforts. He asked them to pass on the report, especially where it concerned Lionel Peeples, to Cromwell, when he called.

‘I don't see much point in staying-on here. But I'll ring again about two o'clock, in case he's been in, and ask for his instructions.'

Cromwell didn't call until after three. He'd had a busy day.

Cromwell's day began at nine o'clock with a haircut. He didn't much relish the idea, but duty was duty.

On the main road, not far from July Street, Mr. Albert Edward Butterfield kept a barber's shop. He'd been in business there for almost twenty-five years and when he got
a good offer for the business, he intended selling-up and going to live with his son at Newport, Mon. A little, grey, spry man, with a bald head, which was bit of an embarrassment when it came to selling hair restorers.

‘Just a trim,' said Cromwell, and sank apprehensively in the chair. There was nobody else in at the time, and Cromwell was anxious to have a private talk with Mr. Butterfield before they were disturbed.

The barber started snipping and they went through the usual preamble of tonsorial conversation before they got down to brass tacks. The weather, business, trade in general, and finally the peculiarities of the locality, including some of Mr. Butterfield's customers.

‘Did you ever cut Dr. Macready's hair when he lived in this locality?'

‘He still lives here. He's retired now. No. I never do for him. He's too big a high-up to come here. I wouldn't be surprised if he didn't patronise the West-End trade. Why? Do you know the doctor?'

‘I know of him. A friend of mine would have been dead but for Dr. Macready. He thinks there's nobody like him. Pity he retired. Good men like that can ill be spared.'

‘You're right there, sir. They can't be spared. But there you are. I suppose he knows his own mind. We were all sorry when he gave up, although, I must say he wasn't as good as once he was, when he retired. He'd got to taking too much of the bottle, if you get what I mean.'

Mr. Butterfield then paused to comment on the dry state of Cromwell's scalp and recommended a lotion of his own. Cromwell bought a bottle.

‘Drink, eh? What a pity. It's been many a good man's downfall.'

‘Yes. Many a good man's downfall, as you say.'

‘He can't have ruined a good career without some reason,
though. It's very interesting, isn't it, the reasons why men turn to drink? The doctor, for instance. …'

‘He seemed to change overnight. It's said it killed his wife. One day, a flourishing and well-liked doctor; the next, on the way downhill. …'

Mr. Butterfield sighed.

‘Anything on the hair, sir.'

‘No, thanks. What caused it all?'

‘It seemed to start after an accident in which the doctor was involved with the police. A boy was knocked off his bike by a passing car and killed. It was dusk at the time and visibility was bad, but a passer-by said it was the doctor's. The police were after him right away and he denied it. They examined his car, because the way the cycle had been hit would have been sure to mark and damage the mudguard of the car. There wasn't a trace on the doctor's car and he was able to prove he'd been on a case somewhere else at the time of the accident.'

‘Well? No reason for taking to drink for that, was there? It might have happened to anybody. You or me, for instance.'

‘You're right. But the doctor took it badly. He was never the same afterwards. Drank heavily and neglected his patients on that account. …'

‘When did the accident take place? You see, I'm a literary man interested in such things and I'd like to read the newspaper accounts of it.'

‘That's interesting! I thought you looked like an author. The date was some time in October, 1955. I remember the year because I renewed the lease of this shop for another ten years in 1955.'

Mr. Butterfield paused to examine himself in the mirror opposite. He brushed his hair, twisted his moustache and seemed satisfied with himself.

‘His wife died not long after and then his brother.
Perhaps everything coming at once, overwhelmed him. Yes. … overwhelmed him.'

Mr. Butterfield, overcome by his own rhetoric, repeated it again.

‘Overwhelmed him. He sold out not very long after and went to live in a house in July Street he once used as a sort of local surgery. His sister had lived with his brother and when the brother died, the doctor took charge of her.'

‘Took charge?'

‘Well, if you knew her, you'd know what I mean. She's said to be very clever at music and painting, but those are only hobbies, sir. If it came to earning a living, she'd be hopeless. What they call arrested development, I believe. She's a very striking lady. Some would call her beautiful. I suppose she could have been married half a dozen times on her looks, but, after all, a man wants sense as well as looks, doesn't he? She's got the brains of a child of twelve. Can't handle money properly. Flings it about when she has it. That's what they tell me, sir, and there's quite a few people from July Street on my clientele.'

‘I see. A bit loony?'

‘Not at all. Don't misunderstand me, sir. I'd better be careful. Don't want any libel … or is it slander? She's all right if she's somebody to look after her. See what I mean? Keep her money straight, stop people with a sad tale or a slick tongue taking advantage of her and swindling her. Her brother, the doctor, seems to do that. She does her painting and plays her 'arp, and he does the rest. She has a very nice life and the doctor's a gentleman for seeing that she gets it.'

‘I quite agree. So, she more or less stays indoors most of the time?'

‘Not exactly. She's not balmy, you know. She's fit to go out and visit her friends. Goes to London quite a lot. Has friends – musical ones by all accounts – in the West End.
But her brother has to watch her, as I said. The wife of a chap called Stubbs, whose hair I reg'larly cut,
does
for the doctor. Daily help. He told me once the doctor let her go on a holiday to France a few days before he went over to join her. She speaks French fluent, I gather. Well, she wandered off to the south and the doctor had a hell of a job finding her. He brought her home after he found her and hasn't allowed her so far away since. Shave, as well, sir?'

‘No, thanks, I've taken up too much of your time already, Mr. Butterfield. I must be off.'

Mr. Butterfield brushed him down well and Cromwell saw himself in the mirror for the first time after the operation. He looked like an escaped convict, but thought perhaps it was worth it for the information which he had received with the haircut. Mr. Butterfield told him to come again for more literary copy. He thanked him and said he would. He said good-bye and good luck and made his way towards July Street again. From the door of the barber's shop, he could see Sammy Barnes's garage, with its four pumps and its huge sign. The place seemed busy; a number of cars were taking on petrol and Trodd was there, examining the contents of a car bonnet, the owner anxiously standing by.

Cromwell crossed and entered the garage. He had, somehow, to get the private den of Sammy Barnes to himself and take a look in the loft. He walked boldly inside and began a casual look-round of the place. From where he was working, Trodd eyed him suspiciously and then approached him.

‘Anything you want, sergeant?'

‘A chat with you, Mr Trodd. But don't let me interrupt your work. I can wait. I'll just take a look round the workshop till you're free.'

Trodd hesitated. It was obvious that he didn't like giving
Cromwell a free hand, but he and the customer were in the middle of some diagnosis or other which couldn't wait.

‘All right. Can't you come later when I'm free?'

‘I've got to return to Scotland Yard before noon. It'll save me a journey back here if I wait. Carry on. I'll be around.'

Trodd returned reluctantly to the car in the forecourt.

The rest of the staff were busy. Two of them hoisting an engine on the crane for dismantling; another in the midst of changing the tyres on a large lorry.

Cromwell slowly made his way round the workshop, pausing here and there to take his bearings and make sure he wasn't being watched too carefully. He entered the office, which was deserted. In the canteen, he could see the clerk, an elderly man doing a spare-time job, immersed in making himself some tea. He quietly moved-in and passed through into Sammy Barnes's private den. He briefly glanced round. The junk, the bed, the safe … All the details supplied already by Littlejohn. He looked at the ceiling, too, and saw a trapdoor into the rafters.

Outside, Trodd's head was still in the bonnet of the car and the men in the shop were busy; one group concentrating on next week's football pools, the other precariously dealing with the engine, now suspended in mid-air.

There was a pole standing in one corner and with this Cromwell could reach the trapdoor and raise it. He did so until it fell over, leaving the manhole open. There was no ladder handy so he took the tall office stool standing in one corner, stood on it, and flung his raincoat through the open gap in the ceiling. Then, he leapt from the stool, caught the edge of the manhole with his fingers, swung himself upwards, and with two quick jerks he was through the hole. He closed the trapdoor.

He gathered himself together, took out his pocket torch, and looked about him. It was indescribably dusty and full
of every kind of rubbish. Chains, old tyres, out-of-date parts and wheels, bags of stuff. … All looking as if they'd been flung through the open door and left as they had fallen.

Then, his eyes fell on a bundle near the trapdoor. He examined it. Rough brown blankets and a soiled pillow, even more soiled by contact with the filth of this storeroom. He inspected the blanket. It was heavily marked with dried dark-brown, almost black stains. The cotton cover of the pillow was the same, only in that case, the stains were almost certainly blood.

Quickly Cromwell took out his knife, slit the pillowcase, and emptied out the contents, old woollen flocks in a sorry state of decay. He thrust the pillowcase in the pocket of his raincoat.

Then he turned to the blankets, separating one from the other. He obviously couldn't take both of them away, but he made a neat parcel of one in his raincoat. Then he listened and slowly raised the trapdoor.

There was nobody below. The clerk was now enjoying his tea; the rest of the hands were presumably about their business. He quickly lowered himself, closed the trapdoor, dusted himself down, arranged his raincoat over the crook of his arm, and thrust his suspiciously dirty hand under it to hide it. The other hand he put in his pocket. Then he made for the main door of the garage.