Authors: Norman Russell
‘Yes, Freeman,’ he said, ‘so apt, indeed, that no one in the church’s hierarchy ever thought fit to promote me out of a parish. Not that I’m complaining, of course. Croydon is a remarkably pleasant town, and Duppas Hill’s a healthy situation. So, I’ll submit myself to your strictures, take my medicine, and exercise due patience. Good night, and thank you for coming out at so unconscionable an hour.’
When the doctor had gone, Edwin Vickers settled himself into his big chair in the window of his study. It was a quiet, orderly room at the front of his yellow-brick rectory on the opposite side of the vast expanse of grass separating his parsonage from Duppas Park House, the imposing modern mansion of Lord Jocelyn Peto,
rising in all its opulence above Jubilee Road.
Sleeplessness was a wretched condition. It would keep him in this chair, looking out across the dark scene towards the blazing lights of Duppas Park House, until dawn, though there would be bouts of fitful dozing and uncomfortable jerks into renewed
wakefulness
.
Odd, how one’s eyes could play tricks. On Saturday, he’d seen a hulking brute of a man lurking in the narrow rear garden of Lord Jocelyn’s house, and had felt at once that the man had been up to no good. The figure had reminded him strongly of a former parishioner, a giant of a young man who had joined the local Croydon police, and then had been poached, apparently, by Scotland Yard. But, of course, young Jack Knollys would never have skulked around in that fashion.
The man had appeared again on Sunday, towards dusk, but he had soon lost sight of him. Oh, well, he’d best close his eyes, and go through the motions of sleeping!
The Reverend Edwin Vickers dreamt that he was adrift on an ice floe, his right side pressed hard on the gunwale of the boat, which was adrift in the Arctic Ocean. Gradually, the majestic icebergs, and the dark sky, brilliant with freezing stars, dissolved into his silent study, where he had slumped against the hard side of his chair. The cold was real enough. How long had he sat, cramped and confined in his chair?
He sat up, felt for his matches, and lit the candle standing ready on a little table close at hand. The room leapt to life, and he let his eyes wander across the many shelves crammed with well-thumbed books, then over his desk, where his sermon notes from Sunday still lay among other papers, and finally to the staid grandfather clock near the door, which showed him that it was nearly three o’clock in the morning.
He levered himself out of his chair, and wandered rather aimlessly around the room. His old housekeeper, he knew, had
retired hours ago. He caught sight of himself in a mirror, and paused to look critically at the large-boned frame of a man who had been formidably strong in his youth.
He smiled ruefully, and shook his head. Those heady days were long gone, when he had been one of the last hackers under the old rules at Rugby School. He’d gone on to win himself a place in the famous Oxford side which had thrashed the Light Blues at Blackheath in ‘61. Young Knollys had been a promising rugby player, one of those massively strong lads who made good lock forwards….
Edwin Vickers crossed to the window, and pulled back the curtains. A strong summer moon was climbing down the sky, vying with the long line of gas lamps running along Park Road, the leafy thoroughfare skirting the park. Across the green, he could see Duppas Park House bathed in moonlight.
As he looked, the light of a lantern moved across one of the windows on the third floor. It disappeared, only to reappear in the next window to the right. Surely those were the windows of Lord Jocelyn Peto’s gallery? Vickers seized a pair of binoculars from their place on the window sill, and trained them on the distant house. Like many clergymen, he was an amateur ornithologist; tonight, though, he was spying on a more deadly species than rare garden birds.
A figure suddenly appeared on the top level of the iron fire escape, a huge, burly man, carrying a heavy sack. The man’s head turned slowly, surveying the scene, and then he disappeared once more into the house. A burglar! No doubt it was that brute whom he’d seen lurking about over the weekend.
Now fully awake, Edwin Vickers hurried out into the hallway, chose a heavy stick from the hall stand, and left the house, pulling the door to behind him. Lord Jocelyn was a decent, public-spirited man, entitled to keep what was his. As he strode along Park Road, he thought to himself, this impudent thief may find an insomniac former Rugby Blue rather more than a match for him!
He arrived, breathless, at the foot of the fire escape, and stood in the grass, which was damp with the night dew. Common sense suddenly prevailed. He was an old man, no match for a strong young villain. He would walk on to Hatchard Street, and knock up the constable.
He had just turned to make his way silently across the grass to Jubilee Road when the burglar, who had emerged on to the top platform of the fire escape, threw his sack of loot down to the ground. It caught Vickers squarely on the shoulders, and with a cry he fell down on to the grass. He could hear the remorseless
clattering
of the man’s boots as he ran down the steps and, as he raised himself on one arm, his senses were assailed by the fellow’s fierce, angry breathing. If he could get up in time, he would be able to run for it. If not, then he had his stick, and he would make a valiant effort to defend himself. Here he was, now!
‘Inspector Box, and you, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Superintendent Mackharness, ‘I’ve called you up here because I have just received a note by special messenger from Inspector Price at Croydon. As you know, the Croydon force are quite separate from us, but they do co-operate in a very welcome fashion. Would that could be said of every provincial force! But there. This is not a perfect world.’
Superintendent Mackharness had summoned both men to his first-floor office at the Rents soon after nine o’clock on the morning of Tuesday, 25 July. He sat at his massive desk,
immaculate
as always, but with a worried expression in his normally fierce eyes. He kept glancing enigmatically at Knollys, as though
something
in the note that he had received applied specifically to him.
‘Yes, indeed,’ Mackharness continued. ‘Yes. I – what was I saying, Box? That attentive look of yours, rather like an over-eager spaniel, makes me forget what I was going to say.’
‘About Inspector Price’s note, sir.’
‘Yes. This is a very bad business, Box. Just after six o’clock this morning, in the grounds of Duppas Park House, Croydon, the
dead body of the Reverend Edwin Vickers was found. He had been bludgeoned to death. Sergeant Knollys—’
‘Yes, sir, I’ve known Mr Vickers all my life. I’m a Croydon man myself, as you know, and it was Mr Vickers who baptized me. He was a wonderful man, sir, a famous rugby player in his youth. Bludgeoned, you say…. Murdered?’
‘Oh, yes, Sergeant, murdered without a doubt. I’m very sorry that you knew the victim personally, and I know you’ll not take offence if I remind you that no personal considerations must
interfere
with the impartiality of your investigation. There, I have to say that, though I know it’s quite unnecessary. I want you both to go straight away to Croydon, and associate yourselves with Inspector Price, if that is his desire.’
‘Duppas Park House, sir,’ said Box. ‘That’s the residence of Lord Jocelyn Peto—’
‘It is, Box, and I share what is evidently your unease at that fact. On Friday of this week the bullion of the Swedish Loan is to be moved, and now one of the principal furnishers of that loan has a murder in his back garden. See if you can clear the matter up, will you? There was a robbery at the house – Price tells me in the note that it involved a successful assault on Lord Jocelyn’s safe. I think it more than likely that the unfortunate clergyman was struck down in trying to prevent the robber’s escape.’
The superintendent drummed on the desk with his stout fingers for a while, gazing rather mournfully into space.
‘It might be one of the usual riffraff – Croaker Mullins, or Killer Tom Dacey. They’re both out of prison at the moment. Or it might be— Get out there, will you, Box, before the trail goes cold. Try to clear it up if you can, or at least so far as to hand the business back completely to Croydon before you leave. I want a clear run, if possible, up to the twenty-eighth.’
They left Mackharness’s office, and made their way downstairs. It was one of the rare moments when the entrance hall was deserted, and Box had time to notice the oblique rays of sunlight
thrown across the bare wooden boards from the tall, barred window at the foot of the stairs.
‘Croydon! It’s a far cry, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘from the hub of the Empire, by which I mean the crowded canvas stretched between King’s Reach and Pentonville Road. Still, it’s your native place, and you’ll be able to guide me through its complexities, and show me its many delights.’
Knollys smiled to himself. The guvnor, he knew, was trying to cheer him up. That was like him. Old Mr Vickers had been an
integral
part of Knollys’ early years. He had never expected the man who had christened him, taught him in Sunday school, and later encouraged him on the rugby field, to meet a brutal end in the pleasant purlieus of his own parish.
Within a quarter of an hour Box and Knollys were sitting in a cab that would take them across the river to London Bridge Station, and the Croydon train.
Box and Knollys walked swiftly along Croydon’s narrow high street, and past the imposing town hall in its attractive gardens. Both men appreciated the Surrey town’s provincial charms and open aspect, particularly as the streets were bathed in the strong morning sunlight.
‘We’ll cross here, sir,’ said Knollys, ‘and cut through Laud Street. That’ll take us up Duppas Hill and into the park.’
They threaded their way through the traffic in the main street, and reached the narrow thoroughfare named in honour of the only Archbishop of Canterbury to be beheaded. A few minutes’ brisk walk brought them on to the open prospect of Duppas Park, where a few tall houses of good quality rose behind painted railings on the edge of the green expanse.
‘That’s Duppas Park House, sir,’ exclaimed Knollys, pointing to an imposing three-storey mansion clad in gleaming white stucco. A number of carriages stood in the road beyond the gardens, and a knot of curious bystanders had congregated on the pavement of the nearby Jubilee Road.
As they approached the house, a smartly dressed uniformed police inspector caught sight of them, and beckoned them to join him near the iron fire escape at the foot of which the Reverend
Edwin Vickers had met his violent death.
‘That’s Inspector Price,’ said Knollys. ‘I worked with him for a time when I was still in uniform. He must have recognized me.’
Inspector Price met them at the corner of the house. He had an eager, bronzed face, and small bright eyes that seemed to dart everywhere. There was something about him that reminded Box of a ferret.
‘Hello, Knollys,’ he said, in a lilting Welsh accent. ‘Sergeant, now, isn’t it? Congratulations. And you’ll be Detective Inspector Box. We’ve never met, but I’ve seen your picture in the daily prints more than once. Let me show you both the scene of this damnable murder.’
He led them to the foot of the black-painted iron fire escape that rose through all three storeys, from each of which it was accessed through a metal-framed French window. Box looked up, and saw that the window on the third storey stood open. Inspector Price followed his glance.
‘That’s one of the windows of Lord Jocelyn’s gallery, where he displays his old books and paintings. A robbery took place in that room, Mr Box, in the early hours of the morning, and the robber left with his loot through that window, and down this fire escape. He’d brought a dark lantern, which he left up there on the top platform.’
Price moved to a spot about a yard from the fire escape, and crouched down on the grass.
‘On reaching the ground, I believe he encountered the late unfortunate Mr Vickers, Rector of St Jerome’s church. He was an elderly man, but still hale and hearty. As Sergeant Knollys will tell you, he’d been a celebrated rugby player in his youth.’
‘What was Mr Vickers doing out of doors at that hour of the morning?’ asked Box.
‘He was an insomniac. For some reason or other, he could never get to sleep at night. Dr Freeman had been to see him that very evening, and had left him some medicine in the form of cachets.
His housekeeper heard the front door slam, and knew that he’d gone out for one of his lonely night walks. She struck a match and looked at the clock. It was just on five past three.’
‘What do you think happened then, Mr Price?’
‘I believe that poor Mr Vickers grappled with the intruder in an attempt to save his neighbour’s property. He’d left the rectory carrying a walking stick. It was with this stick, Mr Box, that the intruder battered Mr Vickers to death.’
The inspector pointed to a patch of bloodstained grass.
‘His body was lying there, with the skull crushed in by a number of heavy blows. The stick was lying some feet away from where he was found. Our police surgeon’s had a look at the body, and says that death occurred at some time between three o’clock and half past. Mr Vickers was discovered this morning by a gardener who had just come in from the town to work.’
Price hauled himself to his feet, and looked quizzically at Box, as though expecting him to ask a question.
‘What do you want
me
to do, Mr Price?’ asked Box. ‘Do you want me to associate myself with this crime, or leave it to Croydon?’
‘This is a straightforward case, Mr Box. A burglary took place, and the intruder committed murder – for murder it was – to prevent capture. We can handle this investigation well enough, though if we need help from Scotland Yard, then, of course, we’ll call on you and ask for it.’
‘But you think the robbery’s a case for the Yard?’
‘I do. There’s something odd about the whole thing, if you ask me. Lord Jocelyn is the soul of courtesy and co-operation, but he’s very ill at ease. I think he knows who was behind the robbery, and doesn’t want to tell us who it was.’
‘What was stolen? Something very valuable, I suppose.’
‘Books, Mr Box. Some books, wrapped up in a green baize cloth.’
‘Books? Well, well, I wonder…. You’re right about this robbery,
Mr Price. If what I already suspect to be the case is true, then this is definitely a matter for Scotland Yard.’
Box and Knollys were admitted to the house by a middle-aged butler, who was striving manfully to remain calm and collected in a house that had been burgled only hours since, and in the grounds of which a brutal murder had been committed.
‘If you will remain here a moment, sir,’ said the butler, ‘I will tell Lord Jocelyn that you are here.’
The hall was light and airy, with delicate white panelling, and a curving staircase of marble and brass in the art nouveau style. There was a magnificent stained-glass window on the first-floor landing, and a crystal chandelier hung down from a vaulted plaster ceiling.
The doors of the main reception rooms led off from the hall. One door, to their left, stood open, and they saw a lady in a mauve morning dress presiding over a group of rather homely women, all engaged in stitching and hemming. The lady in mauve glanced up briefly, caught Box’s eye, and bowed stiffly in what he imagined was an attempt at gracious acknowledgement of his presence. He recognized the lady from her photograph in a recent number of
The
Strand
Magazine
. Lady Marion Peto, a renowned beauty in her youth, was now a rather commonplace, matronly figure, much given to charitable works.
Suddenly, Lord Jocelyn Peto erupted into the hail. He was followed by the butler, who stood stiffly a few feet away from his master.
‘My dear Inspector Box!’ Peto cried. ‘How very good of you to come. I gather that the Commissioner spoke to your superior officer about this unfortunate business. Are you here for the murder, or the robbery?’
As he spoke, Lord Jocelyn darted towards the room where his wife was closeted with her friends, and drew the door closed.
‘I’m here about the robbery, sir,’ Box replied. ‘And before you
start telling me all about it, I’d like to survey the scene of the crime myself. I should like you to accompany us, if you will, Lord Jocelyn, and it would save some time if your butler would come, as well.’
‘Certainly, Inspector. Come, Tanner, let us all go upstairs to the gallery.’
The long room on the third floor was adorned with pieces of antique statuary, old paintings, and glazed bookcases, the shelves of which were filled with ancient and valuable volumes. On a section of the wall facing the front windows of the gallery an old tapestry had been pulled aside to reveal a tall, green-painted safe set into a deep alcove. The heavy door stood open. Lord Jocelyn strode over to the safe, and made as if to speak, but Inspector Box had walked resolutely towards the end of the gallery, where the metal-framed French window gave access to the fire escape. Sergeant Knollys followed him.
While master and servant stood irresolutely near the rifled safe, Box knelt down in front of the window. He donned a pair of round, gold-framed spectacles, which made him look older than his years, pushed the window outwards on to the platform, and peered closely at the sill.
‘Lord Jocelyn,’ said Box, still kneeling beside the door, ‘there are traces of felt fibre here, on the metal sill, and one or two little strands of the same material caught on the small splinters between these polished floor boards.’
‘Is that of any significance, Inspector?’
‘Yes, sir. It tells me that the intruder wore felt over-shoes, and that in turn suggests to me that he was a professional burglar. I rather think— Ah!’
Box had turned his attention to the window lock, and even from where he stood, Lord Jocelyn could see the sudden glint of
excitement
spring into the detective’s eyes. Box stood up, automatically dusting the knees of his trousers.
‘Mr Tanner,’ he said to the butler, ‘I noticed when I arrived here that all three windows giving access to the fire escape are of this type, French windows with metal frames, each furnished with a mortise lock. This one has a bolt at top and bottom. So what we have here, in effect, are three doors, each accessible from the outside, and facing away from the front of the house, and from Jubilee Road. A godsend for burglars, you might say. Were they always locked at night?’
‘Yes, indeed, sir. I lock all three myself every night at eleven o’clock, after I’ve secured the front and back entrances of the house.’
‘There is no key in this lock.’
‘No, sir. I thought that it would be inviting trouble if keys were left in the locks during the night hours. It would be easy, you see, for an intruder to smash one of the small glass panes, reach his hand through, and turn the key.’
‘Well, well, Mr Tanner, thank you for telling me. Why didn’t
I
think of that?’
Sergeant Knollys successfully suppressed a smile. Tanner seemed quite unperturbed, waiting politely for the next question.
‘So you keep those three keys on your own chain?’
‘Just one key, sir. That key fits all three locks.’
‘And what happened to the other two keys? There must have been three keys onginally.’
For the first time, the butler showed faint signs of confusion.
‘Well, I don’t know what might have happened to the other keys, sir. During my time here, as Lord Jocelyn will bear me out, there’s only been the one key to these three windows.’
‘That’s perfectly true, Inspector. Both Tanner and his
predecessor
have fixed that key to their key rings. Do you think it’s of any great significance? Aren’t you going to examine the safe?’
‘Bear with me, sir, if you please. I’ll examine the safe in two minutes. I’ll give it my undivided attention. But not just yet. Tanner, did you lock this particular window with your key last
night, at eleven o’clock? And did you shoot the bolts, top and bottom?’
‘I did, sir.’
‘Very well. Now, as you can see, this door has been unlocked with a key, from the inside. There are no keyholes on the outer side of the three French windows. So the window’s unlocked, but there’s no key in the keyhole. What does that suggest to you?’
‘Why, sir, that someone must have unlocked it later in the night, after I’d retired. But who could have done that? The key remained secure on my key ring.’
The man’s face suddenly flushed with barely controlled anger.
‘You’re not suggesting that I left it open deliberately, are you? You’re not suggesting—’
‘That will do, Tanner,’ said Lord Jocelyn, sharply. ‘No one is suggesting anything. Mr Box is simply trying to establish what happened here last night. That is so, is it not, Inspector?’
‘It is, sir. There’s no call to take offence, Mr Tanner. It’s very clear to me that someone crept in here last night, or very early in the morning, and using a spare key, opened this French window, and drew back the bolts. So, Mr Tanner, I’d like you to go now, and assemble all the indoor staff in one place, so that we can have a look at them. Sergeant Knollys will go with you. I’ll take a look at the safe, now.’
All the time he had been speaking, Box had been watching Lord Jocelyn Peto’s face, and had seen the curious amalgam of shock and vexation animating it. He was a handsome man, evidently accustomed to being admired, and he had never learnt the art of concealing his emotions. Yes, there was shock in that expression, which was understandable. But
vexation
?
‘Sir,’ he asked. ‘did either you or Lady Marion Peto hear any sound of this break-in during the night? I expect Inspector Price has asked you the same question.’
‘He has, Inspector. No, neither my wife nor myself heard anything untoward. Incidentally, Lady Marion was due to
entertain
her ladies of the Dorcas Society this morning, and I thought it advisable to let her do so, despite what has happened. Lady Marion would not be able to tell you anything useful.’
Somewhere, behind those dismissive words, Box caught a suggestion of belittlement. Perhaps this personable and noble banker had weighed his wife in the social balance and found her wanting? Such things did happen in circles where a public façade was judged to be a necessary ingredient of professional and marital success.
Box turned his attention to the safe. Two of its four shelves held a number of bound account books. Another contained locked deposit boxes, none of which had been disturbed. The fourth shelf, that nearest the floor, was empty.
Box took a hand lens from his pocket, and examined the two locks. Neither showed any telltale scratches or gouges, which would have told him of an attempt to insert force-locks into the keyholes. He inserted the top joint of his right little finger into the keyhole of the top lock, and looked at the smear of grease and metal filings that it had gathered. Lord Jocelyn’s voice broke the silence.
‘A professional burglar, you said, Mr Box. Obviously a very skilled one, as he was able to open the safe without leaving a mark on it. They listen to the tumblers moving into place, don’t they?’
‘Yes, sir. And when he’s listened to the tumblers,’ said Box, solemnly, straightening up from examining the lower lock, ‘he executes a little tattoo with his fist on the panel, kicks the door with the heel of his right boot, seizes the brass handle, and – hey, presto! – Mr Milner’s safe yields to his superior skills—’