Depths of Deceit (13 page)

‘Did I travel on the Edinburgh train, you ask. Travel there on the fourteenth? Why, yes, I did, now that you remind me. And I caught the nine-five from Euston, as you suggested. What is this all about, Inspector? I did pay for my ticket, you know!’

It would be both crass and unprofessional, thought Box, to ask the canon outright whether he had travelled in the company of Professor Roderick Ainsworth. This occasion called for a little harmless subterfuge.

‘I’m sure you’ll realize, sir,’ said Box, lowering his voice, ‘that some investigations require a great deal of discretion. There was a man travelling up to Edinburgh that day who is one of England’s most notorious swindlers. He attaches himself to clergymen, and solicits them for large subscriptions to non-existent charities—’

‘Well, I can assure you, Inspector, that no such person attempted to relieve
me
of my ill-gotten gains. There were four of us in the compartment, as I recall. One of the others was unknown to me, another was a City broker whom I’d seen before, and the third was an acquaintance of mine, Professor Roderick Ainsworth, whose name will not be unknown to you.’

Box received another of Canon Venables’ rather unnerving smiles. He began to feel uncomfortable. Canon Venables continued his observations.

‘I read in the papers that you’re busy investigating that murder in the Clerkenwell Mithraeum – Professor Ainsworth’s Mithraeum, if I may put it like that. What a coincidence. But I didn’t see your notorious swindler.’

‘And did you speak to Professor Ainsworth on the journey, sir?’

‘Yes, indeed. We talked about archaeology, and I told him a few things he didn’t know about the recent excavations at Jericho. Then we discussed tailors, after I’d admired the cut of his morning coat and his silk stock. Very dapper he looked; “dapper”, of course, is not a word I’d apply to myself. But it suited him.’

An elderly stooping man in an alpaca jacket came in off the staircase. Venables waved the slim book vaguely in his direction.

‘How much is this edition of Paley’s
Evidences
,
Carter?’

‘To you, Canon, half a crown.’

‘And how much to anyone else?’

‘Much the same, sir.’ The man smiled. ‘Shall I wrap it up for you?’

‘Do so. I’ll pay you when I come downstairs. Now, Inspector Box, is there anything else that you’d like to ask me? I’m due at a meeting in the Deanery at eleven.’

‘Just one more question, sir. Did you travel all the way to Edinburgh with Professor Ainsworth?’

‘Dear me, no. I got off at Carlisle. What happened to Ainsworth after that, I’ve no idea. Is that all, Mr Box?’

‘Yes, thank you, sir. You’ve been very helpful.’

Canon Venables laughed, and made towards the staircase.

‘Well, Inspector,’ he said, ‘I hope you catch your swindler. And in future, if you wish to check up on Professor Ainsworth’s
movements
, it would be easier to ask the man himself!’

‘This Canon Venables, Sergeant,’ said Box, drawing appreciatively on his tankard of Burton’s Ale, ‘fancies himself as a wit. He saw right through my attempts to shield Ainsworth from suspicion by inventing a fugitive swindler.’

‘Perhaps he wasn’t able to cope with your well-known subtlety, sir,’ Knollys suggested.

‘You cheeky man!’ Box laughed. ‘I’ll have you know, Sergeant Knollys, that I’m a byword for finesse at the Rents! Still, he did confirm that Professor Ainsworth caught the nine-five on the
fourteenth
, and that he and the professor discussed various points of fashion, among other things. What Ainsworth told us at Ardleigh Manor wasn’t an alibi, Sergeant, it was the simple truth.’

It was eleven o’clock on the morning of the 27 August. After talking to Canon Venables in the bookshop, to which the canon’s housekeeper had directed him, Box had walked down to Ludgate Circus where he had arranged to meet Jack Knollys in the King
Lud, his favourite public house. Glancing up through a window near where he sat, he could see the gleaming railway bridge, with its ornamental shields, spanning the roadway outside.

As the two men discussed tactics, frequent trains thundered across the bridge, and the air drifting in through the open windows became heavy with black smoke. Arnold Box loved this particular spot. With its noise and bustle, and its constant air of activity, it seemed to him the hub of the Empire.

‘Where do we go from here, sir?’ asked Knollys.

‘We go to Euston Station, Sergeant, and talk to some of the porters who were on duty that day – the day of the two murders. But before we do that, I want to hear you construct a narrative in which Professor Roderick Ainsworth and the Man in the Seaman’s Jacket are one and the same person. That’s what Superintendent Mackharness more or less hinted the other day when he was turning me on the rack.’

Jack Knollys finished his pint tankard of ale, and sat back in his chair. The two men were sitting in a quiet corner of the front bar, where they could not be overheard by other customers. He felt a sudden surge of excitement. This habit of suddenly handing over the conduct of a case to him as part of his professional
development
was one of the guvnor’s great strengths.

‘Sir, as I recall, Inspector Perrivale ascertained that a man calling himself Michael Shane secured a room for the night of Monday, 13 August at the boarding-house of a Mr Stanley, at Carshalton. He paid in advance, and said that he would be out late. He was dressed like a workman, and his cap, coat and carpet bag all seemed brand new. I’m suggesting that “Michael Shane” was none other than Professor Roderick Ainsworth, disguised. He – he was about to embark on a very energetic course of action, namely, sir, two murders, to be committed many miles apart and on different sides of the river. One of his weapons was to be a workman’s adze. The other weapon was to be the railway system—’

‘Pause there, if you will, Sergeant,’ said Box, holding up a hand. ‘Let me be the devil’s advocate for the moment. You say that our man was to embark on a very energetic course of action. That’s true enough. But could a middle-aged academic man like Ainsworth pursue such a course?’

‘I think so, sir. Remember, that he was a Rugby player in his youth, and that there were all kinds of trophies hanging on the walls of that great conservatory of his. He’s a strong man, sir, well able to undertake this course of murder. Also, he had the sense to come early in the evening to Carshalton and take a room in Mr Stanley’s house. It would give him time to collect himself, and rest for a while before going out in the middle of the night to put paid to poor Abraham Barnes.’

‘Very well. But how was he able to leave his own house without being seen? He must have left Ardleigh Manor at Epsom about half-past eight or so, and caught a train to Carshalton. Would he have left his home in disguise? Wasn’t the risk of being seen and remembered too great? Come on, Sergeant, tell me what he did!’

‘Sir, he donned his disguise while he was at Ardleigh Manor, and then he – yes, I know! – he walked through the country lanes to the next station alone the line and caught a train for Carshalton there.’

‘Why wasn’t he missed at home?’ Box persisted. ‘Why did nobody see him?’

‘Because – because nobody at Ardleigh Manor ever knows where
anyone
is!’

‘Well done, Jack! You’ve remembered that conversation between Ainsworth and his wife Zena, a conversation that showed how independent of each other the members of the Ainsworth family are. She was going to – Leatherhead, wasn’t it? – and thought she’d better let him know in case he wondered what had happened to her. Their daughter Margery had evidently been to Brighton. Her mother didn’t know when she’d left to go there, and her father didn’t know that she’d returned. So Ainsworth
could have slipped out of his house at any time, and no one there would have been curious enough to wonder where he was. Go on, Sergeant.’

‘Ainsworth, calling himself Michael Shane, waited until early morning, and then left the boarding-house. It was the typical act of a gentleman to leave a gratuity together with the latch-key on the wash-stand. He makes his way under cover of darkness to Abraham Barnes’s house, and enters the grounds. He must have arranged some kind of appointment with Barnes – that needs to be established, later – and when the poor man comes down to the conservatory, Ainsworth is waiting there with his adze—’

‘Where did he get it from? Would he have risked keeping such a weapon at home? Or did he take the risk, and hide it in his carpet bag?’

‘Sir, he – perhaps he’d come out to Carshalton earlier, maybe days earlier, and hidden the adze somewhere in the grounds of Barnes’s house – what was it called? – Wellington House. That’s what I would have done. When Barnes comes into the
conservatory
, Ainsworth kills him with the adze. It was about three in the morning. He crams the adze into the carpet bag, and sets out on the second part of his deadly venture.’

‘You’ve done very well, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘You’re painting a very credible picture of what could have happened between Epsom and Carshalton. I’ll give you a rest, now, and take up the story as far as Croydon. We’ve agreed that Abraham Barnes was murdered at about three o’clock in the morning. At just after a quarter to four that same morning, a railway guard called Joseph Straddling saw our man – it must have been our man – board the four o’clock milk train to Croydon at Carshalton Station.

‘The timing’s right, Sergeant. A vigorous man could walk briskly from Barnes’s house to the station in well under half an hour. I can imagine how he felt. Trembling inwardly with fear, but impelled by his iron determination not to lose his public position – he’ll commit murder rather than face social ruin.’

‘He wouldn’t be the first to have murdered for that motive, sir.’

‘No, Sergeant, he wouldn’t. And now, having silenced Barnes, he must do the same for poor young Walsh in Clerkenwell. Incidentally, we still don’t know
why.
But motive must take second place for the moment. It’s
means
that we’re examining. Again, he must have arranged some kind of meeting with Walsh. Maybe he passed himself off as someone else; or maybe – wait! Maybe he used that new man of his, Crale, as a go-between. Yes, that could well be so….

‘Anyway, Joseph Straddling saw our man, still carrying his carpet bag, cross to Platform seven, where he would catch a train that would take him through to Victoria. Straddling was able to tell Inspector Perrivale that the man would have caught a train that would have got him into Victoria at seven minutes past six.’

‘Sir,’ said Sergeant Knollys, ‘that would give him about an hour to get from Victoria to Priory Gate Street in Clerkenwell for seven o’clock. He’d need all that time, because it’s a long way from Victoria to Clerkenwell, and there wouldn’t be many omnibuses running at that early hour.’

‘Maybe not, Sergeant, but he could take a cab from Victoria Station, and alight from it somewhere near the Mithraeum. If he’d any sense, that’s what he’d have done. And so, he’d either get there before Walsh, and lie in waiting for him, or get there after Walsh, creep up on him, and kill him. Your Mr Gold evidently saw him soon after the murder, hurrying up Catherine Lane, in order to hide the fatal adze in the middens behind Greensands’ shop. I think you said that there was an alley at the side of the premises, giving access to the back yard.

‘Now, Sergeant, what did he do next? What would you have done had you been in his shoes? Pausing only to add that all this is mere supposition. It would be impossible to prove Ainsworth’s complicity in any of this business.’

‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ignoring Box’s proviso, ‘I’d have made my way to Euston, probably on foot, or perhaps in a cab, in order to
catch the nine-five train to Edinburgh. I see no problem about that for a man who’s obviously very fit and determined. However—’

‘Yes, Jack,
however.
However did he transform himself from dour workman to scintillating gentleman? What happened to the seaman’s jacket, the peaked cap and the carpet bag? The answer, I think, lies at Euston Station, and that’s where we’d better betake ourselves, in order to hear a few answers.’

‘Now, sir?’

‘No, Sergeant, not now. Have you forgotten that it’s the last day of the trial of the Balantyne brothers? We need to be in at the kill, as they say, when old Mr Justice Hillberry dons the black cap. No, we’ll go first thing tomorrow, and watch the nine-five for Edinburgh start on its long and weary way up north. Having that particular train at the platform may jog a few memories.’

13

The Melton Giant

T
he nine-five train for Edinburgh stood at the platform, waiting for the signal to depart. Although stationary, it looked to Box like an impatient horse at the start of a race, chafing at the bit. Little wisps of steam rose from below the edge of the platform. A wheel-tapper passed along with his long, slim hammer, intent on confirming the integrity of the wheels.

‘It was exactly as you see it now, Mr Box, just a fortnight ago today. Tuesday, fourteenth August. What is it now? Eleven minutes to nine. That train will depart for Edinburgh in just sixteen minutes.’

The speaker was a very smart, handsome ticket collector in his thirties. He sported a luxuriant moustache, and wore a
well-pressed
frock coat and dark trousers. His glazed peak cap was pulled smartly forward over his brows. His lapel and cap badges had obviously been newly polished, as had his boots.

‘It’s very good of you to help us, Mr Cotton,’ said Box. ‘It’s an exercise in elimination that Sergeant Knollys and myself are carrying out, which is why we’re asking you if you can remember any regular passengers who boarded the Edinburgh train on the fourteenth.’

‘Well, now, let me see,’ said Cotton. He and the two policemen were standing beside a line of ornamental railings separating the platform from the concourse beyond. ‘There
were
some regulars
who came through my ticket barrier that day. There was Canon Venables of St Paul’s – yes, that’s right. He’s got family in Edinburgh, I believe, and goes up there once or twice a month. And then there was Mr Louis Rosen, the stockbroker, well-known in railway circles for his generous tips. He was there. It was quite a busy morning, Inspector. There must have been forty or fifty passengers boarding the train.’

‘I don’t suppose you saw a man called Professor Ainsworth—’

‘Oh, yes, of course! I’d forgotten him for the moment. I didn’t actually know who he was at the time, you see, but someone told me, later. He came rushing up at the last moment – there were only two minutes to spare. He was very hot and bothered, and couldn’t find his ticket at first. Bearded gent, he was. Yes, Ainsworth – that was his name.’

‘And was he carrying a big carpet bag with him?’

‘A carpet bag? No, his only piece of luggage was a smart overnight valise. He would have sent his heavy luggage ahead the day before, as like as not. He didn’t need a porter. Very nicely dressed, he was, though a bit untidy, I thought. He probably came here in a shared hansom, which is never very good for your clothes.’

So far, thought Box, we’re merely confirming what we know already. Professor Ainsworth caught the nine-five train to Edinburgh. It was an interesting fact that he had been ‘hot and bothered’, as Mr Cotton put it. There’d be a reason for that.

‘Mr Cotton,’ said Box, ‘I don’t suppose you can recall any unusual incident that morning? Any odd little thing that didn’t seem to make sense?’

Cotton shook his head, suddenly recollected something, and smiled. He pointed down the platform to where a stout,
genial-looking
porter was standing beside one of two long wheeled trolleys drawn up in front of the open door of the galley at the end of the first-class restaurant car.

‘Do you see that man, Mr Box? We’ve been ribbing him for the last couple of weeks over his “ghost story”, as we call it. He says
that he saw – well, why don’t you go and ask him? It happened on that day, the fourteenth, about twenty minutes before the nine-five moved out. It was unusual, now I come to think of it.’

As he spoke, there came a slamming of doors, and stern cries of ‘Stand back from the train!’ Whistles shrieked, flags were waved, and the long train began its stately progress out of Euston Station.

‘Yes, go and have a word with him, Mr Box. He’ll stay where he is for a while, because that’s the nature of his job. He’ll wait there for the nine-thirty for Liverpool to come in from the sidings. So there’s plenty of time to speak to him. Joseph Potts, his name is. Joe Potts. I’ll have to go now, Inspector. Duty calls!’

‘It was like this, Inspector,’ said Joseph Potts. ‘On that particular Monday, I was here where you see me now, standing between these two big trolleys, making entries in the book that you can see standing on this sort of wheeled lectern. My job is to victual the restaurant cars on the long-distance trains. All the provisions have to be just right, and properly stowed away in the galleys; and then there’s all the table linen, the silver cutlery – everything has to be accounted for, and ticked off in that book.

‘Now, from where I stand behind this lectern, I can see right through the barrier railings and across the concourse to the gentlemen’s wash-room. It’s directly to the right of the station entrance from this side. That wide doorway serves as both entrance and exit. Can you see it?’

‘Yes,’ said Box, smiling. ‘It’s got an enormous black and white sign above it on the wall: “Gentlemen’s Wash-Room”, it says.’

‘That’s right,’ said Mr Potts. ‘Well, Inspector, on the morning in question – the fourteenth of the month – I saw a man go into that wash-room who never came out, and another man come out who never went in!’

Mr Potts looked at the two officers defiantly for a moment, as though challenging them not to believe him, and then gave vent to a good-humoured chuckle.

‘I’ve been the butt of the other porters’ jokes for the last
fortnight
,’ he said. ‘They reckon I must have been drunk, and seeing things, like. Or maybe I was going mad. “We’ll have to call you Potty Potts”, they said. One of the ticket inspectors wondered whether I hadn’t seen a ghost – the inspectors are a better class altogether than the porters, of course.’

‘But the important point is, Mr Potts,’ said Box earnestly, laying a hand on the man’s sleeve, ‘the important point is, that you believed that you’d seen something strange and inexplicable. Well, I rather think you did. So please tell Sergeant Knollys and me what it was exactly that you saw.’

‘Well, gents, it so happened that on that particular Tuesday morning there’d been an overflow from one of the tanks feeding the stalls in the wash-room, and the floor was flooded. The foreman cleaner closed the door of the wash-room for fifteen minutes while he mopped up the mess and the station plumber adjusted the tank. So the door was closed for a while. This was at about twenty to nine—’

‘And you were standing here, in this same spot where you are now?’

‘Exactly the same spot, sir. I’d finished servicing the restaurant car, and was waiting for the train to depart. There was no point in going away, because another train with restaurant facilities was due in from the sidings ten minutes after the Edinburgh train had gone out.’

‘So you had a bit of time on your hands. What happened next?’

‘I saw the first of my two men hurry in from the street, and make as though to enter the wash-room. When he saw that it was closed, he actually started back as though he’d been shot! Hello, I thought, what’s up with him?’

‘What kind of a man was he?’ asked Box.

‘He was an artisan of some kind, Mr Box. He wore a seaman’s black jacket and a peaked cap, and carried a big carpet bag. A bearded chap, he was.’

Box took from an inside pocket of his coat the drawing that Sergeant Kenwright had made of the man who had called himself Michael Shane, and who had stayed at Mr Stanley’s
boarding-house
in Carshalton. He showed the picture to Potts, who started in surprise.

‘Why, that’s him! Fancy you knowing that! Who is he? Some famous criminal, I’ll be bound. Well, he hovered around
impatiently
until the door was opened again, and then he rushed in. Poor man! I thought he must have been desperate to obey a call of nature. In he went, Inspector – and never came out! I was there all the time, looking across the concourse, and the man in the naval jacket never came out of that wash-room. No wonder that Mr Cotton suggested that I might have seen a ghost.’

‘It wasn’t a ghost, Mr Potts. Not by a long chalk. Now tell me about the other man – the man who came out of the wash-room who had never gone into it.’

‘It was just after nine, as I recall,’ said Potts, ‘when a gentleman came hurrying out of the place as though the devil was after him. He was almost running, and I imagined that he was fearful of missing one or other of the trains. I could have sworn that the gentleman had never entered the wash-room in the first place. In fact, I
know
he hadn’t. I’d have seen him, sure enough, if he had.’

‘You didn’t see him come through that barrier over there to catch the nine-five train to Edinburgh?’

‘No, Inspector. There was quite a crush of passengers at that time, and in any case my attention was taken up with preparing for the next train.’

‘Can you describe the man?’

‘Yes, sir, He was a distinguished kind of man, bearded. I think he wore an eye-glass, though I’m not sure. He wore a frock coat and shiny top hat, and carried a light valise. So there’s all I can tell you about my two men: the one who never went in, and the one who never came out.’

‘Well, Mr Potts,’ said Box, ‘I can’t tell you what all this is about,
I’m afraid, but I can tell you that you’ve been of enormous help to the police. When your colleagues start ribbing you again about your two men, tell them that you were personally thanked for your assistance by Detective Inspector Box of Scotland Yard.’

‘I think that ties it up, sir,’ said Sergeant Knollys as the two men made their way across the crowded concourse to the men’s
wash-room
. ‘It was Professor Ainsworth, right enough. He arrived in his character of the workman with the carpet bag, went into a cubicle, and changed into his own gentleman’s clothes. The delay at the door made him slightly late, but he caught the train none the less.’

‘It would seem so, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘But of course, all our supposition doesn’t amount to legal proof. What did he do with the carpet bag? Incidentally, everyone’s noted that it was a very large bag. It would need to be, if it were to carry not only the professor’s outer clothes, but a top hat and valise into the bargain.’

‘He would leave the carpet bag in the cubicle, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘knowing that it would be found, and lodged in the lost property office. It was a neat, clever plan.’

‘It was, Sergeant, and, of course, it succeeded. No one would have found out about it if it hadn’t been for Mr Mackharness shaking me out of my dreams of ancient magic and putting me on the right road again. Come on, let’s have a word with the man in charge of the wash-room.’

The foreman cleaner occupied a narrow glazed booth at one side of the vast tiled wash-room. He was sitting on a chair, surrounded by mops and mop buckets, and what looked like drums of carbolic disinfectant. Yes, he remembered that day. No, he couldn’t remember any particular man, workman or gentleman. All sorts came in there, and he was too busy mopping and cleaning up after them all to notice any individual customer.

Yes, he did remember finding a big carpet bag in the last cubicle
on the far wall. He took it to the lost property office. People were always leaving things, umbrellas and walking-sticks, mainly. They propped them up against the walls while they were making use of the facilities, and then walked out without them. Some folk would leave their heads behind if they were loose.

They had no trouble in finding the carpet bag when they called at the lost property office. The counter clerk returned with it from his long lines of racks in minutes, and after they had shown him their warrants, he allowed them to open it. It contained a workman’s trousers, jacket and boots, together with a peaked cap. This, without doubt, was all that was left of the fictitious Michael Shane, of the non-existent Cobb’s Buildings, Hackney.

‘There’s dried blood on the bottom of the bag, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘That’s from when he put the bloodstained adze back, after killing Gregory Walsh in the Mithraeum. Afterwards, he hid his deadly weapon in the midden behind Greensands’ shop.’

Sergeant Knollys turned his back on the carpet bag and leaned against the counter, looking across the station concourse. Hundreds of people were busily concerned with their own
business
, and none of them glanced in the direction of the two detectives. How many of those people, he wondered, harboured vile secrets?

‘Sir,’ said Knollys, ‘all this means that the business of the honey, and the business of the mercury, were simply blinds. The honey and the mercury were no different from the crude imitations manufactured by your paltry murderer over the river in Rotherhithe. What kind of a man will violate the bodies of the people he had just slaughtered?’

‘What kind of a man? A man who’s had his moral senses blunted by fear – fear of discovery, I mean. And fear of exposure can make a decent man hate the one who’s doing the exposing. Hatred, resentment – with sentiments of that kind to the fore, Sergeant, the frightened man ceases to see his prey as victims at all. He’s simply annihilating living dangers. So he’ll not scruple at
pouring mercury down a dead man’s throat, or spooning honey into his mouth. I’ve seen that kind of thing before.’