Next day, Queen called on him. The Superintendent listened to what Jonas had to tell him. He said, “I haven’t got a lot to tell you myself. The BMA looked up their records. Claud Rainey was a Belgian. He came over here at the end of the war, did his training at Bart’s and qualified in 1951. Then he came down here and practised until his retirement eight years ago. A perfectly straight record. They did say one thing, though. It seems that he had already got a long way on with his medical training in Belgium. That being so, there was a concession which would have short-circuited his training here. Only, of course, he had to provide proper details. Apparently he was unable, or unwilling, to do so; which meant that he had to start again at the beginning.”
“He certainly seems to have been shy about his past life,” said Jonas. “And I don’t see how we’re going to dig it up.”
The answer to this was on his desk three days later.
As I expect you will already have discovered [wrote Michael Doneval], Claud Rainey, otherwise René Claude, was a Belgian. He came over here in July 1945, with a number of other European immigrants. His ‘sponsor’ was a Bruxellois dentist called Hervé Maxente. As I told you when we met, the office was understaffed and overworked at the time, but that shouldn’t have excused us from spotting that when Maxente came over here three months later and changed his name to Max Humbolt
his
‘sponsor’ was René Claude! Which means, of course, that they could both have been bad hats, sponsoring each other. Humbolt, who set up his practice at Alfriston in Sussex, died four years ago. Now that Rainey’s dead too there doesn’t seem much anyone can do about their Siamese twins’ act.
“A double dead-end,” said Queen when Jonas showed him the letter.
“Maybe,” said Jonas, “but have you noticed one point? Humbolt died four years ago. Four years ago Rainey barricaded his house and started worrying about strangers who might be enquiring for him.”
“Could be a coincidence.”
“I don’t think it was a coincidence. I think that Rainey took his compatriot’s death as a warning. I’ll go further, I think that the mysterious man who left his house at six o’clock that morning was the stranger he’d been warned against.”
Queen turned it over in his mind. He was a practical policeman. He distrusted theories, particularly when they seemed to lead nowhere. He said, “So what are you going to do about it?”
“If the office can spare me for a couple of days, I’m going to Alfriston.”
Jonas secured a room at the Star Hotel, which has a seventeenth-century background of smugglers and secret passages, but excellent twentieth-century accommodation. He did not have to pursue his enquiries very far. The newsagent, from whom he bought his morning
Times
, had been one of dentist Humbolt’s patients.
“And a right good dentist too. We couldn’t understand why he stuck to a small place like ’Friston. Could have made three times the money in Brighton or Eastbourne. Glad he did, though. Died four or five years ago. Had that big house at the bottom of Hindover Hill. Brigadier Arkinwright has it now.”
The Brigadier had been trying to mow his lawn, but had given up the attempt. “Grass still too wet,” he said. “Come inside. We shall be more comfortable there.”
Jonas explained, with certain omissions, what he was after. The Brigadier, who must, he thought, have been at least seventy and long retired, listened politely, if inattentively, to an enquiry which did not concern him.
He said, “I never actually met Humbolt. He had no family, you see. So when he died his house was immediately put on the market. I saw it advertised and snapped it up.”
“Oh dear,” said Jonas. “Another dead-end. If he’d left a widow she might have been able to help me. It isn’t Humbolt I’m after, though. It’s a man who was a compatriot and a close friend of his. He, too, has died without any visible family connections.”
“Tiresome,” said the Brigadier. “But I don’t really know that I can help much.”
“Tell me, was there an inquest?”
“Yes, they had to have an inquest. Humbolt had been in pretty good health, you see. And hadn’t troubled the doctor for years. So his death was a bit of a mystery. But it turned out to be a coronary. There was a piece in the local paper about it.”
The Brigadier, who was clearly the sort of man who kept his records under control, went to his desk and fetched out a yellowing clipping. “Keep it if you like.”
Jonas thanked him and tucked it away in his wallet.
As they walked out of the front door the Brigadier said, “Only one thing wrong with this house. Too much garden.”
“You keep it very nicely,” said Jonas.
“As well as I can, but it’s a back-breaking job for a man of my age. I was sorry I couldn’t secure the gardener along with the house. Charlie must have been a wonderful worker despite his game leg. He only came for two days a week, but everything was in apple-pie order when I took it over.”
Jonas said, “I suppose he wouldn’t still be around?”
“No. He sold his cottage when Humbolt died and moved off. I did see him once before he left. Odd thing was I was sure I’d seen him before somewhere. Unusual sort of face. He was a popular local character. Someone may know where he’s gone.”
The newsagent, who was evidently the clearing house for all local gossip, said, “Yes, we all knew Charlie. He worked two days a week for Mr Humbolt, two days for Mrs Lamprey and two for the Clarks. I expect they’ll have kept in touch.”
“I don’t suppose,” said Jonas, almost holding his breath, “that you happen to have a photograph of him.” As he spoke he was busy trying to construct a plausible reason for his request.
To the newsagent, fortunately, it seemed a perfectly natural thing to want. He thought for a moment and then said, “He took first prize for his roses the year before he left. Very popular victory. There was a photograph of the Mayor of Seaford presenting him with the cup. I haven’t got a copy myself, but the
Seaford and Newhaven Gazette
could find it for you, I don’t doubt.”
The
Seaford and Newhaven Gazette
turned the relevant number up for him. Having two copies they were happy to sell one to Jonas. He cut out the photograph and tucked it away in his wallet alongside the account of the inquest.
He was aware that his trip to Alfriston had not solved the mystery of Dr Rainey’s death. It had added another mystery to it.
Superintendent Queen examined the cuttings deliberately. It was impossible to tell from his face whether he was surprised or annoyed. Both, perhaps, Jonas thought. But he could see the implications clearly enough.
“No doubt about it,” he said. “Charlie, who worked for Mr Humbolt, is the same man as Fred. The photograph’s conclusive.”
“Quite conclusive.”
“But where does it take us?” He was re-reading the account of the inquest. “This wasn’t a hasty guess by an old bumbler like Smallhorn. The autopsy was conducted by Andrew Friend.”
“Very sound man,” agreed Jonas.
“And look what he says. ‘I understand that the deceased regularly smoked twenty or thirty cigarettes a day. This alone could have brought on the occlusion of the coronary artery which was the direct cause of death.’”
“I’ve been thinking about that,” said Jonas. “Suppose that Humbolt’s death
was
natural. We know that he and Rainey had some connection with each other. Something disreputable, perhaps, which had happened in Belgium and which made them both bolt like rabbits as soon as the war was over. Rainey hears about Humbolt’s death. He doesn’t believe it was natural. So he starts to take elaborate precautions. Then Charlie – or Fred as he now calls himself – arrives. Good jobbing gardeners are so scarce that he must have been confident he’d land a job with Rainey sooner or later. In fact it took him two years to do it. He didn’t mind waiting. He’s struck me as being a very patient man.”
“And you’re suggesting that it was Fred who poisoned the doctor.”
“Who else? Most of the ingredients of his last meal were under his control.”
“And that he was the man Trotter saw leaving the house at six in the morning?”
“That seems logical.”
“There’s nothing logical about it,” said Queen irritably. “To start with, how did he get back into the house?”
“Easy. He never left it. There were a lot of places he could have hidden. Pantry, scullery, coal hole, cellar. Remember, he’d had the run of the kitchen quarters and all the time in the world to construct a foolproof hiding place.”
“All right. Then tell me this. Why didn’t he leave as soon as Rainey was dead?”
“It may have been a slow-acting poison.”
Queen considered the implications of this. He said, “You’re making my flesh creep. Do you mean to say he sat there all night watching Rainey die?”
“Watching him die, yes. And making certain that he didn’t telephone or call for help. He was twice as strong as Rainey, who would have been getting even less able to resist as the poison took effect.”
“It’s hard to believe,” said Queen. “Though I’ll admit there’s one thing that supports your theory. The look on his face. He saw death coming and he hated it. No question, we shall have to have an exhumation order. Can you authorise it?”
Jonas said, “I’ll ask my partner. She’s a much better lawyer than I am.”
That evening he rang up Michael Doneval at his home. He felt that Doneval might be more unbuttoned there than behind his desk. He said, “Thank you very much, Michael. The information you gave me has been extremely useful. In fact, it has opened things up to an almost alarming degree. Now I want your help over one more thing.”
“If I can,” said Doneval cautiously.
“It’s nothing I couldn’t get myself, but you’ll be able to get it more quickly. Could you find out the known details – nothing which isn’t in the public record – of the wartime career of a Brigadier Arkinwright.”
“Not a common name,” said Doneval, “I ought to be able to do that. I’ll telephone you some time tomorrow.”
“I’m very much obliged to you,” said Jonas.
Next morning Sabrina marched into his office with a volume of Probate Court reports and a newspaper. She said, “It wasn’t an easy point. There’s not much authority on it, because the circumstances are unlikely to arise. However, in
Jepson v. Church 1898
the point had to be considered. Church was sole executor of a man called Ambrose Jepson, who died in somewhat mysterious circumstances which came to light after he had been buried. The police wanted an exhumation order. Church, who was a solicitor, was agreeable. The opposition came from Jepson’s sister, his only surviving relative. When the matter came to court, Mr Justice Romer said, ‘In many matters the authority of the executor is supreme. But in such a matter as this, which touches the feelings of the family and the intimate friends of the deceased, I consider that the opinion of the senior member of the family – or, if no such person survives, of the residuary legatee to whom the estate has been entrusted – should be regarded as paramount.’”
“If that’s right, I can’t move in the matter. We shall have to ask Jock Lovibond.”
“I’m afraid so. However, my researches into your case have not been entirely negative.” She laid the newspaper, folded open, on Jonas’s desk. He saw that it was a copy of the
New York Herald
.
“I have an American friend who sends me reports which she thinks I will find interesting.”
Jonas had reached a point where he hardly knew what to expect next. The extract was headed, ‘Smokers Beware’.
A posthumous confession has solved a fifteen-year-old mystery which puzzled pathologists and forensic scientists and has opened up an alarming prospect for incautious smokers. It seems that a Mrs Sylvester Cramm of Little Falls, Minnesota, lay under considerable suspicion of killing her husband, who had been found dead in the matrimonial home. He had been in good health until that moment. It was public knowledge that he had behaved brutally to his wife and his death was undoubtedly to her financial advantage. For these reasons a very careful autopsy was conducted. However, leading pathologist, Dr Schumacher, was clear in his opinion that death was due to a simple coronary occlusion, precipitated, he considered, by the fact that the late Mr Cramm had been a compulsive smoker. It now appears from the posthumous confession of his wife, a trained nurse, that she had procured some neat nicotine and had injected this into one of her husband’s cigarettes. When this was put to Dr Schumacher he agreed that the nicotine vaporised by the heat of the cigarette and inhaled could certainly cause an occlusion of the coronary artery. Moreover, such a matter would be difficult or impossible to detect by normal post mortem examination.
Jonas said, “God dammit—”
“I’m not suggesting,” said Sabrina calmly, “that this was the way in which Humbolt was killed. But it occurred to me that the circumstances in his case were very similar. He was a chain smoker. He lived alone in the house. The gardener had access to it and there are plenty of garden sprays from which nicotine could be extracted.”
“You know what’s wrong with this case,” said Jonas crossly. “It’s all theory and supposition. I sympathise with Jack Queen. He wants facts and they are in short supply. Certainly Fred
could
have poisoned Dr Rainey. And if he happened to have come across that report – or to have seen the facts reported somewhere else – he might have killed Humbolt that way too. But why? What in the world is the connection between a dentist in Alfriston, a doctor in Shackleton and a jobbing gardener? Yes, what is it?”
Claire said, “I’ve got a call here from a Mr Doneval. Shall I put it through?”
“Please.”
“Short answer to your question,” said Doneval. “Brigadier Arkinwright was a sapper. He fought at Dunkirk and got an MC for his efforts on the beaches. Later, being a fluent French speaker, he joined Maurice Buckmaster in the headquarters of the SOE at Baker Street. His job was to equip undercover agents for work in France and Belgium and to debrief them when, and if, they returned. That’s the outline. I could fill it in for you a bit more, I expect, if I asked around.”