Four British Mysteries Page 17

  ‘My session is over. I’m ready to leave now. Thank you,’ said a voice.

  It was exactly the same set of words Dr Sexton used on every occasion he visited.

  The young man roused himself and unlocked the cell.

  ’Thank you,’ said Sexton gruffly, pulling down his hat and then hurrying off along the corridor.

  Some minutes later, he passed the guard on reception with a brief wave and was soon out into the growing dusk, breathing the free fresh air for the first time in eight years.

  * * *

  The evening meal, if such a grand term could be used for the lukewarm slop that was usually served up for the inmates of Newfield, was dished up at around six in the evening. And so it was on this occasion. The young man, still on duty, was presented with a tray by one of the kitchen staff. It contained a plate of mashed potatoes and some greyish meat substitute and piece of bread and a glass of water.

  ‘For his lordship,’ said the skivvy with a sneer.

  The young man grinned and unlocked the cell door.

  ‘Grub up,’ he called as he entered. What met his eyes caused him to drop the tray. It clattered noisily on the tiled floor, the food spilling widely, some of it onto the trousers of the prone figure which was slumped face downwards by the bed.

  The young man bent down and turned him over. The sight that met his eyes caused him to emit a strange strangled cry.

  The unconscious face belonged to Dr Francis Sexton. He had a deep cut to his forehead which was seeping blood down his face.

  ‘My God!’ cried the young man. ‘Christ!’ he added for good measure.

  For a moment these exclamations were all he felt capable of. He was shocked and stunned into inaction by this weird turn of events. Gradually, his brain began to function and the situation before him came into focus. He rose to his feet and rushed into the corridor to press the alarm bell.

  Out in the darkened car park, the man in Dr Francis Sexton’s coat and hat unlocked the boot of his car and clambered inside.

  FOUR

  I sat staring at the pint of beer before me, watching the minute bubbles that were clinging to the rim of the glass disappear one by one. Fascinating though this vision was, my thoughts were elsewhere. I was running my interview with Father Sanderson over again in my mind. It was now lunchtime and I had sought shelter and sustenance – a pint and a cheese sandwich – in a small pub near the church.

  The conversation – the one about the hanged woman whom Sanderson thought had been murdered – intrigued me as a detective. He was so convinced that the police had got it wrong, read the signs incorrectly and/or were happy to tidy up yet another death into the solved drawer. Well, it wouldn’t be the first time this had happened. I was a copper before the war and I knew how desperate some officers were to wrap up an investigation as soon as possible and in a self imposed, blinkered fashion, accepting the probable as the truth rather than consider other options.

  ‘I’d rather like you to investigate the matter, Johnny. Something is rotten in the state of Denmark, I’m afraid.’

  ‘I’m not sure I’m the man to do the job,’ I said, my feet already getting cold. I wasn’t confident that I was up to this investigation and besides…

  ‘Oh, I expect this to be a professional arrangement. I will pay you, of course.’

  I shook my head vigorously. ‘I couldn’t accept money from you…’

  ‘Because I’m a priest? A man of the cloth?’

  My expression must have told him that he was correct in his assumption. How could I charge this impoverished old cleric for my services? And yet how could I afford the time and expenses to carry out an investigation for him? I was impoverished too.

  ‘But I’m your client,’ he responded with some warmth, his cheeks flushing. ‘I have a little money put away for a rainy day and I reckon this is it. I was very fond of Annie. I wish to engage your services. This is not a favour I’m asking: I want to see justice done.’

  Reluctantly I agreed, but I had little needles of guilt pricking me at the idea of taking money from the old fellow.

  So that was it. My first case in the new year. My first case since the death of Max. I raised my glass of the now rather flat beer in a toast to the beginning of the rehabilitation of John Hawke.

  While I was in the vicinity, I visited the police station on Frampton Street and as luck would have it, Sergeant Harmsworth was on desk duty. I explained who I was and Father Sanderson’s concerns. Harmsworth grinned. He seemed an affable, comfortable chap, easy going if a little bovine. Unlike some coppers, he did not seem at all concerned that I was a private detective meddling in their affairs.

  ‘Oh, I know all about the Father’s theory that the old bird was murdered. I suppose being a man of God, he likes a little mystery. But I can tell you, there was nothing mysterious about Annie Salter’s death. She hung herself. Plain and simple. There was not a scrap of evidence that a second party was involved. She even left a note.’

  I nodded sympathetically to create the impression that I agreed with him fully and that Father Sanderson’s notions were groundless.

  ‘Could I see the note?’ I asked.

  ‘If we’ve still got it. Hang on. I’ll have a look in the back office.’

  He shifted his ample frame off his stool and disappeared into the far reaches of the station, returning a few minutes later holding a piece of paper.

  ‘Here you are, Mr Hawke,’ he grinned again, passing me the note. It was written in pencil on a scrap of paper torn from a cheap note book. There were the words as I had been told: ‘I just can’t go on any longer.’ The handwriting was shaky and clumsy – whether this was as a result of emotion was a matter of contention.

  ‘Father Sanderson says that this is not Annie Salter’s handwriting,’ I said casually.

  Harmsworth shrugged. ‘We’d nothing to judge it against, but as far as we could tell old Sanderson didn’t have much familiarity with her writing in any case. And besides, if you are going to top yourself, the last thing you’re gonna do is write in your best handwriting, are you? The hand’ll be shaking too much for your actual copperplate.’ He chuckled at his own conceit.

  I turned the note over. The paper was blank but there was a little stain in the bottom corner.

  ‘You can keep it if you like,’ said Harmsworth, hoisting himself back on his stool. ‘We’ve no use for it now.’

  ‘Thank you,’ I said graciously, slipping the note in my pocket. I reckoned I had seen more in that scrap of paper than the ample sergeant and his colleagues had.

  My first real task was to find out more about Annie Salter: her history and her circumstances. Father Sanderson had been able to jot down the address of her cousin, a Mrs Frances Coulson, the only blood relative to attend the funeral. She lived in Chelmsford and her rather bijou semi-detached house was to be my first port of call.

  If anything the day had grown more miserable by the time I had travelled to Chelmsford and found my way to Worthington Avenue. The sky had coagulated into a uniform dark grey and the wind had sharpened, piercing the folds of my overcoat causing me to shiver involuntarily.

  Father Sanderson had told me that Frances Coulson was a woman in her mid-forties. She was a widow. Her husband had been something important in one of the city banks and had left her reasonably well provided for. That was all. I got the impression that he would have liked to tell me more about the woman, but he held back. No doubt he did not want to colour my impression of the lady. He thought I should make up my own mind about her. I was the detective after all. However, his reticence in this matter suggested to me that there was something he didn’t quite like about Mrs Frances Coulson.

  The Coulson dwelling was a very neat affair indeed: neat privet hedge, neat rectangular lawn, and neat shiny knocker on a neat green front door. I knocked, straightened my tie and waited.

  I heard a voice somewhere in the house calling out, ‘Coming.’

  And indeed in less than a minute she came. Frances Cou
lson opened the door bringing with her a strong whiff of pungent perfume. When she saw me, the broad crimson grin disappeared almost immediately from her lips and her eyebrows lowered with disdain. I was either a great disappointment to her or she had been expecting someone else. I decided it was both.

  ‘You’re not selling anything, are you?’ she said, managing to inject a sneer into the query.

  I raised my hat and proffered my card. ‘I’d like to have a little chat with you about Annie Salter,’ I said gently with a polite smile.

  She studied my card for a moment. ‘Some detective you are,’ she observed sourly, the sneer still in place. ‘Haven’t you heard? Annie Salter’s dead.’

  I nodded. ‘Yes, I know. That’s why I wanted a little chat with you.’

  ‘What’s this all about?’

  ‘Well, if we can have that chat, I can explain.’

  Indecision clouded her features for a moment and then she sighed. ‘Very well, you’d better come in – but only for five minutes mind. I am expecting a visitor.’

  That explained the crimson smile then.

  Mrs Coulson was an attractive woman, full bodied, veering towards the stout with a smooth complexion which she attempted to hide with too much face powder. She wore a pin-striped pencil skirt and a tight angora sweater which emphasised her curves, which were substantial. At a little over five foot she was too short for my liking, but I can imagine many a middle-aged gent taking a fancy to the sweet-smelling and curvy Mrs C.

  She lead me into the lounge, which like her was attractive, if a little over the top. Vibrant cushions, shiny trinkets and a garish rug clamoured for attention with the rather nauseous patterned wallpaper. There was a wedding photograph in a silver frame on the sideboard. It showed a younger but similarly over-dressed version of Mrs C with her husband outside a registrar office. She was in large checked suit with fox furs and a ridiculous hat; he, a weedy incongruous fellow, was draped in a pin striped suit that seemed two sizes two big for him and had a grin which suggested he couldn’t believe how lucky he was to have this lovely creature on his arm and, indeed, in his bed.

  The gramophone in the corner was playing a dance tune when we entered the room but, with quick staccato movements, Mrs C stopped it, replacing the lid with a sharp snap.

  She didn’t ask me to sit down or offer me a drink. She really did mean five minutes.

  ‘What’s all this about, then?’ she snapped, standing with her back to the fireplace and giving me a gorgon stare.

  ‘There is some concern… some doubt as to the manner of Annie’s death and so…’

  ‘Nonsense. She committed suicide. Didn’t they find her hanging from her own ceiling? And she left a note.’

  ‘The authenticity of the note has been called into question.’

  ‘Authenticity? You mean whether she wrote it.’

  I nodded. ‘The handwriting…’

  ‘She was distressed. She was just about to top herself. Her handwriting would have been all over the place…’ She paused her eyes widening with feline ferocity. ‘What are you suggesting?’

  ‘It’s possible that she didn’t kill herself.’

  She looked shocked at this suggestion. Whether she was acting, I couldn’t tell. If she was, it was a good performance.

  ‘You mean that she was… that someone killed her?’

  I said nothing.

  ‘That’s ridiculous,’ she said, reaching for a cigarette box on the mantelpiece. ‘Who’d want to kill her? For what reason?’

  ‘Sometimes there doesn’t have to be a reason.’

  There came that stare again. It almost came with a cat-like hiss this time.

  ‘You’re not with the police, are you?’

  ‘No. My client is not satisfied with the suicide verdict. He’s asked me to investigate.’

  ‘Who is this lunatic, your client?’

  ‘I’m not at liberty to say. It’s a confidential matter, you understand.’

  Frances Coulson rolled her eyes. ‘Oh, I understand. Okay then, Dick Tracy, what do you want to know?’

  ‘Anything you can tell me about Annie. You were cousins.’

  ‘We were cousins, yes, but in our case blood wasn’t thicker than water. I knew her best when I was a kid and I didn’t care much for her then. She was twelve years older than me and she used to look after me when mother went out.’

  ‘Why didn’t you like her?’

  ‘She was too prim and proper. A real goody two shoes. She was no fun. And she remained no fun all her life. Hanging herself just about summed her up.’

  ‘What do you know of her marriage? Her son?’

  Suddenly Frances Coulson emitted a strange laugh. I guessed it was one of amusement but it was chilling in its sharpness and ferocity.

  ‘What’s so funny?’ I ventured.

  ‘That was when Madam Goody Two Shoes fell by the wayside. There was no marriage. The lady was no widow. She just got herself pregnant with the first man who showed any interest in her. And as soon as he’d got her into bed, he disappeared from sight and who could blame him. She invented the phantom hubby for the sake of respectability. Once the baby was born, she turned to religion and never let another man near her.’

  ‘What about her son?’

  ‘Malcolm? Don’t know much about him. I only met him a couple of times. He could twist his mother round his little finger, though. Still, mustn’t speak ill of the dead. Poor bugger copped it at Dunkirk. He was only nineteen.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw Annie?’

  ‘Oh, God, that was years ago… no, hang on a minute, I tell a lie. I bumped into her by accident a few months back when I was up in town. I was meeting a friend to go to the pictures and I’d just popped into Woolworth’s down Oxford Street and when I came out I ran into Annie.’

  ‘How did she seem?’

  Frances Coulson shrugged. ‘Much the same as always: dowdy and a bit miserable. No, actually she was more than a bit miserable. She seemed quite distracted. She didn’t really want to talk, which was fine by me because we have… had… nothing in common. I mean blood ties stand for nothing, do they? There’s more fallings out between families… Just because you’re related doesn’t mean you have to get on, have to like one another, does it? Anyway, I must admit I did feel a bit sorry for the poor old cow that last time. She seemed so down and …old. She’d aged quite a bit. I suppose looking back, I can now see that she was probably depressed. Obviously she got worse and couldn’t face going on anymore. And so…’

  ‘Did she give any clues as to why she was depressed?’

  ‘No. I asked her how life was treating her and she said something about God helping her to carry on.’

  ‘What about friends? Do you know if she had any?’

  ‘If she did, she never mentioned them to me. There might have been some sad soul at her church that she cottoned on to but somehow I doubt it. She was always a lonely woman, solitary, and when Malcolm died she shifted right back into her shell.’ With a dramatic gesture she stubbed out her cigarette. ‘If you want my advice, Mr Detective Man, I should abandon this wild goose chase. It’s clear to me that Annie Salter committed suicide because she saw no reason to go on living. The idea of someone murdering her is plain daft. Why on earth would anyone want to? For what reason? How would her death benefit anyone? Forget it.’

  She moved to the door and swung it open to indicate that the interview was over. That was OK by me. It was clear that I wouldn’t be squeezing any more juice out of this particular orange. However, I was convinced she had told me all she wanted me to hear. That there was more to the story was certain, but I wouldn’t get it from her.

  ‘Thanks,’ I said, heading through the hall to the outer door. ‘You’ve been a great help.’

  I could manipulate the truth also.

  To be fair, the chat with the sparky Mrs Coulson hadn’t been a complete waste of time. It did help me start to build up a picture, albeit one-sided at the moment, of the dead woman.
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  As I walked down the street, I passed a smart wiry fellow who seemed in a great hurry. He was the sort of chap one saw at the dog track: tweed jacket, bright yellow waistcoat, extremely shiny brogues and a trilby perched precariously on one side of his head. He had marked aquiline features but shifty with it. I suppose he was quite good looking if you go for that sort of thing. I reckoned Mrs Coulson did for I turned and watched his progress and saw that he moved swiftly up her garden path and rang the bell with alacrity. So, he was the reason I had only the five minutes.

  * * *

  On my way back into town, to my neck of the woods, I selected the information I thought was relevant and useful from my conversation with the prickly Mrs Coulson and filed it for further use. I reckoned that now I needed a more in depth chat with my client, Father Sanderson. At the moment he seemed to be the only person who could give me more unbiased details about Annie Salter’s character and circumstances. Unbiased? Well, maybe I was being naïve.

  Something the delectable Mrs Coulson had said was very pertinent to my investigation: ‘How would her death benefit anyone?’ The answer to that was the key to the whole matter. It usually boils down to motive. Why had Annie been killed? What purpose did her death serve? And to whom? That is what I had to discover. It was a challenge, but I had been faced with such challenges before and succeeded.

  One thing I had realised in making my brief excursion to Chelmsford was that I had begun to feel a little bit like my old self again. It was good to be on the scent once more and exercising my detective skills, however modest. In fact I even managed a smile, a genuine one this time.

  With this lightening of my mood, I decided that it was time to repair a few fences. It wasn’t that I had fallen out with Benny, my old friend the café owner who had mother-henned me for years, it was that I had shunned him in recent months. I couldn’t put up with his kindness and solace. I was hurting too much. I didn’t want kind words and pots of tea. I was selfish, I suppose: I wanted to wallow unsolicited in my own grief.