Authors: Norman Russell
‘And what happened?’ asked Tregennis, sharply.
‘Well, I’m telling you, aren’t I? Poor young William! For all his fancy machinery at Porthcurno, he was a local lad. Very good family, the Pascoes. His father was a mining engineer, you know. That’s where William got his cleverness from. Anyway, he was coming up from Spanish Beach, which is so called because some galleons from the Armada were wrecked there in 1588.’
‘Yes, yes, never mind that. You saw Pascoe coming up the cliff path?’
‘I did. When he got to the top, he stood on the cliff edge, looking down the slope towards the beach. It’s a good climb, that – two hundred feet, I reckon. Then he turned round and looked across at St Columb’s Manor, where his friend Mr Trevannion lives – mortal peculiar
he
’s
been, too, these last few days.
‘Anyway, I’m still crouched there, watching – I’m about a hundred yards further up, towards the main road – and suddenly, I see a man walking slowly across the cliff edge towards young Pascoe. I don’t know where the man came from,
he just seemed to appear from nowhere. He was a tall man, thin, and clad in black. He wore no hat, but I could see that he had dark hair, and a pale cast of feature. I watched as young Pascoe turned to look at the man, who continued to walk towards him. He may have been smiling, but I’m not sure. It was a long way off, you see.’
‘And what happened then?’ asked Box.
‘In the end, sir, the man came up to William Pascoe, and spoke to him. He laid his left hand on William’s arm, and pointed to something down the slope. William turned to follow his gaze – and the man suddenly used both hands to push poor William over the edge.’
‘I expect you hid then, didn’t you, Caleb?’ asked Inspector Tregennis gently. ‘No point in joining poor Pascoe down the slope and into the sea.’
‘You’re right, sir. I was so shocked my legs locked under me, and I stayed there bent to the ground for more than half an hour. I don’t know who that man was, sir, but he killed poor William Pascoe. Murdered him. It wasn’t an accident. I went home in the end, and thought about it, and then I went and told Mr Hardesty, because he’s a magistrate, and knows what’s right. And he sent me to you. And there’s an end of it.’
Box had extracted from his notecase a copy of the
photograph
of Hatpin Man that Mr Palmer of Falcon Street had taken from his upstairs front window.
‘Could that be the man, Caleb?’ he asked.
Caleb Strange looked closely at the picture for a while, and then handed it back.
‘It could be, sir. The man in the picture’s got a general
likeness
to my killer. But I can’t be sure, and it’s no good me saying that I can, just to please you. But yes, it could be him, a murderer, and a foreigner among us.’
‘A foreigner?’
‘He means a stranger, Mr Box.’
‘Yes, sir, a stranger in our midst. But we’ve had real foreigners down here, Inspector, as you well know. Reckon you should tell
Mr Box here about them. Tell him to go down to the beach and talk to that cantankerous devil Sedden, and poor old David Truscott. They’ll tell him all about the foreigners what came here.’
When Tregennis had seen the old man out of the police station, he returned and sat down by the fire. He looked
speculatively
at Box.
‘Do you reckon you know who this killer is? You had a photograph—’
‘It was just a forlorn hope, Mr Tregennis. There’s someone on the loose in London who may be tied up with this business down here. It’s early days. What did Caleb mean by saying that this local squire, this Mr Trevannion, was “mortal
peculiar
”?’
‘Mr Hugh Trevannion’s lived alone at St Columb’s Manor since his sister died, and the solitary life doesn’t suit him. He’s become very nervy – very jumpy. The Trevannions are a very old Cornish family, and Squire Hugh’s very much respected round these parts.’
‘It might be an idea if Sergeant Knollys and I paid him a little visit,’ said Box. ‘It’s just possible that he may be able to throw some light on what William Pascoe’s motive was in going down to this Spanish Beach place.’
Inspector Tregennis shifted uneasily. He looked suddenly ill at ease.
‘Squire Trevannion’s away from the St Columb’s Manor at the moment,’ he said. ‘He’s staying with Dr Manders of Penzance as a resident patient for a week or two.’
‘What’s the matter with him? Is he ill?’
‘He’s— Oh, what’s the use of beating about the bush? He’s undergoing a mental crisis. He’s seeing things, Mr Box, and hearing things. Ghosts, and suchlike. He fancies that his late sister, Miss Margaret Trevannion, is walking the house, and talking to him. So he’s living with Dr Manders for a couple of weeks.’
‘Is he going to get over this mental crisis?’
‘Yes, he is, according to Dr Manders. He just needs rest,
encouraging conversation, and the administration of certain medicines. He knows me well, Inspector, and I’ve already called upon him. Will you leave Squire Trevannion to me? I can get him to talk, whereas he’d be alarmed at a couple of Scotland Yarders asking him questions.’
Inspector Tregennis smiled. He was relieved to see that his visitors took the remark in good part.
‘Let me come over with you to St Columb’s, and show you the way down to Spanish Beach. It’s a little fishing place, no more than a hamlet. I won’t come down with you. It would be as well if you appeared out of the blue as a nice surprise for Andrew Sedden and his cronies.’
The two detectives carefully negotiated the plunging pathway down through the stunted shrubs, giant ferns and treacherous boulders, emerging after fifteen minutes or so on to a little stone quay where a few fishing boats were moored. Box pointed to a two-storey building rising above a huddle of single-storey stone cottages.
‘That’ll be the ale-house, I expect. We’ll need to interview the landlord. Sedden, that old man called him. And someone called David Truscott. That was the other name old Caleb Strange mentioned.’
It was gloomy inside the ale-house, which carried a
weather-worn
sign informing them that it was The Cormorant. The name ‘Andrew Sedden’ was written over the lintel of the door. There were five or six rough-looking men sitting at a single trestle table, pewter tankards in front of them. The close air smelt of pipe smoke and stale beer.
Andrew Sedden proved to be a sullen, oppressive sort of man, heavily built but running to fat. He was half-shaven, and slovenly dressed in a nondescript moleskin suit. He stood behind a small bar, his arms folded, his eyes hostile.
‘William Pascoe?’ he said. ‘Yes, I knew him. A clever young fellow he was – too clever by half. He nosed around down here, mister, asking silly questions. Well, he’ll ask no more questions now.’
‘No, he won’t ask any more questions, Mr Sedden,’ said Box, ‘so I’m here to ask them on his behalf. It’s my job to ask
questions
when someone’s been murdered.’
‘Murdered? Who says so? Pascoe came down that slope from St Columb’s once too often, lost his footing, and plunged down on to the rocks. He wouldn’t be the first to have departed this life by that route, and I don’t suppose he’ll be the last.’
It had gone very quiet in the dim room, and all eyes were turned on Box and the surly landlord.
‘Inspector Tregennis thinks it’s murder, Mr Sedden, and whether you like it or not, he and I are going to get at the truth.’
‘Tregennis!’ The landlord spat on the floor in disgust. ‘Arthur Tregennis has grown too big for his boots. He’s never got over having a crooked constable in his force, a man who committed murder right enough. He was caught by another of your kind, a policeman who came down here from Warwick to solve Tregennis’s case for him—’
‘There’s a witness, Sedden.’ Sergeant Knollys’ powerful voice cut across the landlord’s reminiscence. ‘A man called Caleb Strange. He saw the killer push William Pascoe over the edge of the cliff. What do you say to that, my friend?’
‘Caleb Strange? Why do you listen to that old reprobate? Gamekeeper, he calls himself. He’s no true Cornishman. Gipsy trash, more like. Maybe he’s looking for someone to cross his palm with silver, mister. I’m telling you, Pascoe met his death by accident. Didn’t he, mates?’
There came a mumble of agreement from the assembled drinkers.
‘And what about these Russians that Pascoe said were lurking around these parts in January?’ asked Box. ‘I suppose he
imagined
those as well, did he?’
‘No, of course he didn’t imagine them. What’s that got to do with it? There was a Russian ship anchored off Porthcurno, which is on the other side of the headland. Some of the crew landed here in their skiff, and laid in provisions. They had a few drinks, too. We often get ships lying off this coast, mister, and we’re not given to asking questions about landing-permits and
such to a bunch of tars who just want to feel dry land under their feet for an hour or two, and then row back to their ship. Russians, they were. Where’s the harm in that?’
A voice came out of the darkness, an old, obstinate voice, quavering, but clearly the voice of a man who was not afraid of the morose landlord’s bullying ways.
‘I keep telling you, Andrew Sedden, they weren’t Russians. And they didn’t all go back to their ship.’
‘What are you talking about, you old fool?’ bellowed the landlord. ‘Of course they were Russians. It was a Russian ship, wasn’t it? You keep your mouth shut, or find somewhere else to sup your ale.’
Box looked at the man who had spoken out of the darkness. He was old, probably over eighty, and by the looks of things very poor. His abundant hair was white, and his old eyes very keen.
‘Are you Mr Truscott?’ asked Box. ‘I’ve heard about you. So they weren’t Russians, you say?’
‘You hold your noise, Truscott—’ the landlord began. He was quelled by a sudden move from Sergeant Knollys, who seized the front of his greasy shirt in a single great fist, and twisted it round into a kind of knot. Sedden’s loud voice died away to a squeak.
‘You hold your noise, too, Sedden,’ said Knollys in a pleasant, friendly tone. ‘My governor there wants to ask Mr Truscott a question.’
‘If they weren’t Russians, Mr Truscott,’ asked Box, ‘what were they? These men who came off the ship.’
‘I don’t rightly know what they were, sir,’ said the old man, ‘but they weren’t Russians. I served in the Crimea, all through that war, and got to know the sound of Russian well. And the sound of Turkish, too. Those men from the ship sat round in here, mumbling away in their own language, and I sat where you see me now. It wasn’t Russian, I tell you. And when they went back down to the quay, there was one of them missing. I saw him slip away, as sure as I see you now.’
There was a deathly hush as Box produced his photograph of
Hatpin Man, and put it into Truscott’s hand.
‘Was that the man?’
‘Yes, sir. That’s him. But he never spoke while he was in this room. Pale as death, he was, and silent as the grave.’
Superintendent Mackharness sat with his big square hands folded on the table in front of him, listening to Arnold Box’s account of his investigations in Falcon Street and Cornwall. The fire in the dim mildewed office was burning smokily, and a sickly daylight filtered its way through the sooty windows facing across the cobbles to Whitehall Place.
Mackharness thought: I was too short-tempered with him the other day. Mildred says I’m becoming ‘testy’. Maybe she’s right. I must stop snarling at him the way I do. It’s not his fault that he gets me on edge.
Box finished his account of his investigation in Cornwall, and waited for his superior to comment. His eyes strayed, as always, to the cluttered mantelpiece, with its moth-eaten fringe of bobbled green velvet The picture, the sea-shell, the glass paper weight, the medal…. One day, he’d find out about that medal. He saw Mackharness watching him, and dropped his eyes.
‘Now, Box,’ said Mackharness, ‘let me make a few comments about these recent cases. You’ve clearly established that there’s a common factor in these murders – the Courteline murder, in which I include the silencing of Joseph Kitely, the murder of Gabriel Oldfield, and the killing of this young man William Pascoe. That common factor is the man N.I. Karenin, a Russian national. His activities have contributed directly to the present
unrest in London and elsewhere. Do you agree with me?’
‘Yes, sir. And I’m convinced that Karenin is not a lone wolf, bent only on some kind of private vengeance—’
‘Clearly not, Box. Quite right. Well done. This is a conspiracy, and Karenin is only the visible element of that conspiracy. We need to delve, and we need assistance from other quarters to do that. Nevertheless, this Karenin must not be left at large. So I’ll procure warrants for his arrest during the course of today. Mark my words, Box, this business is all tied up with the sinking of that unarmed German merchant ship, and with the ugly incident involving Sir Charles Napier.’
Box saw Mackharness flush with anger. Mention of Russians to the superintendent was like waving a red rag before a bull. Mackharness suddenly changed the subject.
‘What about Inspector Tregennis, at Truro, Box? Can he be left alone with his part of the business, or does he need further help from us?’
‘I had a long talk with Inspector Tregennis, sir, before Sergeant Knollys and I caught the train back to London. I think he can manage very well by himself, at least for the moment. He agrees that this Squire Trevannion needs to be investigated, particularly as he’s had a guest staying with him since February, a mysterious character who nobody ever meets.’
‘Could it be Karenin?’
‘It could be, sir. Inspector Tregennis means to keep a close eye on him, and on his little estate of St Columb’s.’
‘Good, good. Well, Tregennis knows where to find us if he wants further help. Meanwhile, we need to keep our eyes peeled for further Russian antics. I’d put nothing past them, Box. Devious. That’s what they are.’
Superintendent Mackharness suddenly rose from his chair, picked up the medal from his mantelpiece, and put it down in front of Box. He resumed his seat, and leaned back on the cushion, observing his subordinate with a rare glint of mischief in his eyes.
‘There you are, Box,’ he said. ‘I’ve seen you squinting at that thing over my shoulder for long enough! Well, there it is for
you to see properly. That’s my Crimea Medal. It was presented to me by Her Majesty at a great ceremony at the Horse Guards, on 18 May, 1855. I was only a young subaltern then – twenty-two or twenty-three. The Prince Consort was there, too.’
Box handled the medal reverently, noting the clasp, with the word ‘Sebastopol’ snaking across it. The medal showed a warrior, with sword and shield, receiving a laurel crown from some kind of angelic being. Beside the warrior was engraved the single word ‘Crimea’.
‘The four things I remember most, Box, were muddle, cold, disease and death. Sebastopol was a victory of sorts, but it was a sickening war. We lost nearly twenty thousand men – and nearly sixteen thousand of them perished of disease.’
Box turned the medal over, and looked at the image of a younger Queen Victoria.
‘Yes,’ said Mackharness, ‘she was only in her thirties, then, but as regal, to my way of thinking, as she is today, in advanced years. The Turks were first-rate comrades, and General Omar Pasha was a very remarkable man. The Italians, too, were fiercely brave. Piedmontese, they were called. There was no Italy, as such, in those days.’
‘What about the Russians, sir? What were they like?’
‘Oh, they fought as bravely as anyone amidst all that mud, water and filth, but they were led by heartless monsters, who sacrificed them as though they were sheep or cattle. By the end of the war, they’d lost a quarter of a million men. Nobody won in that war, truth to tell. And that’s why I regret the way we fell out with the Turks, and followed Gladstone’s dewy-eyed crusade into the Balkans. What have we gained by it? Nothing. And now, you see, the Russians are aching to plunge us all once again into the pit of destruction.’
Superintendent Mackharness picked up the medal, and put it back carefully on the mantelpiece. He looked slightly
embarrassed
, and shuffled a few papers around on his table. Then he spoke in his usual business-like booming tones.
‘I’ll make out an immediate warrant for this fellow, Box,
under the name N.I. Karenin, on the charge of murdering Gabriel Oldfield. I’ll get a general warrant from over the road later today, and they can both be signed by Mr Harrison at Bow Street. I think that’s all, now, Box. Well done. What are you going to do for the rest of this morning?’
‘Well, sir, I thought I’d take Sergeant Knollys with me and pay a visit to poor old John Martin, who got himself into trouble the other week. He’s far gone in drink, I’m afraid, sir, and I feel a bit guilty at not calling on him.’
‘Martin? Oh, yes. He was in Stables for years. I remember him well. Somebody mentioned him to me the other day. Yes, go by all means. If you find he’s very bad, I should be able to get him a placing in the Holy Cross Almshouses, through the good offices of my friend Lord Maurice Vale Rose. Bear that in mind, will you, Box? Meanwhile—’ Mackharness struggled with one of his trouser pockets for a minute, and presented Box with half a sovereign. ‘Give him that, will you, Box? And exhort him from me, if you will, to eschew the demon drink!’
‘It don’t half stink, sir,’ said Sergeant Knollys, as he and Box threaded their way through a maze of twisting lanes south of Tooley Street, where old Mr Locke held court. ‘Worse than breweries, it is, and that’s saying a lot.’
Bermondsey was a centre of the leather trade, and the tanneries seemed to have been working overtime that morning, as had the local slaughterhouse. There were times – and this was one of them – when London’s air seemed positively lethal.
‘That’s not a very elegant way of putting it, Sergeant Knollys,’ said Box. ‘This part of our great metropolis is famed for its tanneries, hence such names as Tanner Street and Morocco Street. Did you know that Bill Sikes fell to his death somewhere in these parts? In Jacob’s Island, I think it was. So Charles Dickens says, anyway. A very famous borough, is Bermondsey. But you’re right. It don’t half stink.’
‘Potter’s Lane, that man in the market said, just beyond the railway ventilator – this looks like it, sir.’
Potter’s Lane appeared to be a cul-de-sac of workmen’s
crumbling
brick cottages, several of them shorn up with stout wooden beams. Some children were playing in the muddy roadway, and a few lean and hungry dogs sniffed hopefully around the outside middens. At the end of the dismal lane rose a three-storey public house. There was a long wooden board fastened to its frontage, bearing the legend ‘Thwaite’s Breweries. The Salutation.’
‘That’s the place, Sergeant,’ said Box. ‘John Martin lives on the top floor, so I was told by one of the ostlers at Whitehall Mews. We’d better have a civil word or two with the landlord before we visit poor old John.’
They found the landlord polishing a tray of glasses in his shabby bar. He was a seedy-looking man in shirt sleeves, who glanced at their warrant cards with a moist eye, and
acknowledged
their presence with a surly nod. Box began to make an enquiry.
‘Mr Melon—’
‘How do you know my name?’ demanded the landlord wrathfully. ‘Which thieving sneak told you that? I run a respectable house, here, mister. I’ve never had no truck with the police.’
‘You’re name’s written over the door, Mr Melon. All I want to ask you is whether a man called John Martin lodges here? It’s a civil enough question, so maybe I’ll be favoured with a civil answer.’
‘Well, no offence, guvnor, I’m sure. But there’s people round here who tell lies for money. Cross their palms with silver, and they’ll say anything. John Martin? Yes, poor old John lodges here. There’s an outside staircase round to the left that’ll take you up to his place. He’s got a friend staying with him at the moment. Poor old John. He won’t last the spring. He owes me ten and six in rent, but I’m minded to forget it.’
‘So there’s people who tell lies for money round here, Mr Melon? You’re not thinking of Barney Bernard, are you, or the likes of Twitcher Thomas?’
Mr Melon managed a kind of gnashing smile, which brought some animation to his unshaven, lantern-jawed face.
‘So you know them, do you, Mr Box? Well, in that case,
you’ll know that a respectable man like me would never have anything to do with the likes of them!’
Box had been rummaging in one of the pockets of his
overcoat
. He brought out Superintendent Mackharness’s
half-sovereign
, to which he added a silver threepenny bit and three copper pennies.
‘I know you wouldn’t, Mr Melon,’ he said. ‘I can see that you’ve got a beautiful nature behind all that delicate politeness. Here’s the rent that John Martin owes. My sergeant and I will go up to see him now.’
Box and Knollys left the public house and walked round the side of the building, where an external wooden staircase rose to the third storey. It was a rickety affair, ending in a small landing. Box knocked on a stout unglazed door, which was almost immediately opened to him. He stared in surprise at the man standing on the threshold. He said to himself. So here you are at last, Malcolm Enright, mariner, aged forty-one: just a stone’s throw away from Mr Locke’s court in Tooley Street. He said aloud: ‘Captain Edgar Adams, unless I’m very much mistaken? I am Detective Inspector Box of Scotland Yard.’
‘It’s a long and complex story, Mr Box,’ said Adams, ‘and this is neither the time nor the place to tell it. You’ve asked me how I came to know poor John Martin there. Well, I was evading a very determined gang of pursuers, men who had followed me from Germany to London. One way of escaping their clutches was to get myself locked up by the police, which I did. I had a confidant, a man who would give me sanctuary, but in case he couldn’t locate me, I scribbled a note in my cell, and slipped it into poor old John’s pocket, together with a couple of
sovereigns
.’
Arnold Box glanced at the bed in the cramped room, where John Martin was dozing fitfully. He saw that Adams had made a bed for himself on the floor, and that everything in the room was clean, tidy and shipshape. Royal Naval Officer or not, Captain Adams evidently believed in the value of scrubbing the decks.
‘What did you write in the note, Captain Adams?’ he asked. ‘Incidentally, it’s against regulations to pass notes to other
prisoners
. Likewise to give them money.’
‘I’m sorry about that, Inspector, but the situation called for positive action. In that note I said who I was, mentioned the two sovereigns, and said that I would pay Martin that sum monthly if he would let me bed down in his place, always supposing that I turned up on his doorstep. When Oldfield— You know about Gabriel Oldfield, I expect?’
‘I do, sir. It was I who investigated his murder. I knew that you’d been staying with him, and realized that you’d fled from Hatpin Man – that’s what I call the killer, a man called Karenin.’
‘Karenin…. Yes, I’ve heard that name bandied about in certain quarters. I never slept during my stay in Falcon Street, and when I heard footsteps on the landing outside Oldfield’s bedroom, I knew that the game was up. I was only just in time flinging myself out on to the roof, and making my escape. I came straight here, and I’ve been here ever since.’
‘I expect you soon found out what had happened to poor Mr Oldfield?’ asked Box.
‘It was in all the papers by mid-afternoon. I sat here, in John’s quarters, reading about it, and wondering whether I should have done something to prevent his murder. I still have qualms about that.’
Sergeant Knollys had sat down quietly by the bed, looking at the old groom who had worked so long for the police, and who was now clearly in a desperate state of decline. John Martin’s eyes opened, and focused themselves on the three men in the room.
‘Mr Box! It’s good of you to come. And this big lad will be your sergeant, I expect. Have you met Captain Adams? Yes, of course you have. He’s been so good to me, sending out for a doctor, and bringing me decent food. Like an angel, he’s been, for all that he’s a gentleman, and a naval officer….’
John Martin’s eyes closed, and he was soon asleep. Box sat back on a spindly upright chair, his hands on his knees, looking
at Captain Edgar Adams RN.
‘You’ve nothing to reproach yourself with, Captain Adams. You had your duty to do. Now, what am I to do with you, sir? You can’t stay here for ever.’
He’s uneasy about confiding in me, thought Box. He’s wondering how much I know. It’ll save everybody’s time if I told him.
‘I know all about you, Captain Adams, and about your trip to Porthcurno. I think it’s time that you banished your fear of being ambushed by villains, and presented yourself to Colonel Kershaw without delay.’
‘And how am I to do that, Inspector? I don’t know where he is – that’s part of the way he works. And he doesn’t know where
I
am. Poor Gabriel Oldfield was a man who worked for me directly. He wasn’t one of Kershaw’s “nobodies”.’