Rose Critchlow, 21, eager, white face, red nose, ginger hair in tight curls, ex-Ranger Girl Guide, beautiful copperplate handwriting, was an articled clerk who, though she’d been working with Aubrey for less than a year, had become his most useful employee.
Edgar had ‘discovered’ her in Birmingham, where she’d been with her father’s firm, and taken her under his wing when the father had died. He suggested she come and work in London, arranged for her to continue her articles at Aubrey’s and even arranged accommodation with his former landlady, Mrs Westing in Swiss Cottage. Even though Rose had now reached the age of majority, Edgar, who’d never had children of his own, saw himself in loco parentis. 144He took pride in her achievements and fretted over the setbacks.
At the moment there was a lot of fretting to be done. Earlier in the year, Rose had met a young man, Vernon Goodyear, a PhD student exploring the relatively new science of forensic entomology, mostly based at Bart’s hospital. Vernon could speak for hours about the fauna that can be found slowly devouring a human corpse and had, in his laboratory and at his digs, a fine collection of blowflies, house flies and flesh flies in various stages of their life cycles and liked to demonstrate how quickly the flesh fly will respond to a release of the various gases and other substances from a newly dead cadaver.
Rose was clearly entranced by the man and they had seen each other on several occasions socially as well as professionally – picnics and bicycle rides had been mentioned – but whether the word ‘love’ could be applied was a matter of some conjecture. Though expert in many fields – her map-reading and orientation skills were near superhuman – Rose’s knowledge of the heart ran only to ventricles and atria.
And Edgar, whose own understanding of such matters was less than comprehensive, fretted. Was she in love? If she was, did she know? Was the feeling reciprocated? And, most worrying, in her naivety and ignorance was she blundering blindly around the rocky roads of romance about to be banjaxed by the belching bus of heartbreak?
Further complications came when, in July, Vernon had taken the opportunity to further his studies at the university 145of Heidelberg in Germany. The effect that his absence had on Rose was far from clear, but, perhaps significantly, soon after he had left she had begun a regime of rigorous exercise with Indian clubs with the result that, from the look of her arms and shoulders, you could easily believe her capable of carrying an ox up five or six flights of stairs without breaking sweat. Also, she never seemed to stop working. Twice, Aubrey had called in at his office after some evening engagement to find a light burning and Rose at her desk, studying a book, or old case notes. He was concerned that the nervous strain would eventually tell.
On the previous day, as soon as Aubrey had given her the assignment, she had phoned Marylebone Police Station, where the documents removed from Denison Beck’s premises were being held, arranged to see them and gone straight there, working through the afternoon, into the evening, and not getting back home until after ten. The following morning, she was back there at eight, and, in the afternoon ready to present her findings to Skelton and Edgar at 8 Foxton Row.
‘They were right,’ she said. ‘There isn’t a client list, as such. But there is an appointments book.’
‘Well, that would presumably have the names of the clients,’ Edgar said.
‘It records appointments with a Mr Smith, a Mr Jones, a Mr Brown, a Mr Wilson. Pseudonyms, I’d imagine.’
‘No mention of Lord Rosthwaite?’ Skelton said.
‘Not unless he sometimes goes by the name of Mr Thompson or Mr Green. Preserving people’s anonymity is one 146thing, but it must have got ever so difficult remembering that Mr Green is so-and-so and Mr White is Lord such-and-such.’
‘Perhaps they had some sort of code book,’ Edgar said.
‘There wasn’t a code book among the papers and the police say they took every scrap they could find.’
‘Hidden, perhaps?’ Edgar said. ‘A loose floorboard?’
‘Seems an awful lot of trouble,’ Skelton said, ‘having to rip up floorboards every time you want to know who Mr Jones with the two o’clock appointment really is.’
‘Does Mr Beck have a prodigious memory?’ Rose asked.
‘Hard to say. Would you have thought he has a prodigious memory, Edgar?’
‘He wasn’t very good at remembering my name,’ Edgar said.
‘Does he have a secretary?’
‘There was a sort of receptionist, a Miss Alison.’
‘Perhaps she has a prodigious memory.’
‘You’re sure the police let you see everything?’
‘I don’t see any reason why they wouldn’t have. I had the impression that they’d barely glanced at the stuff, so they wouldn’t have known what to censor anyway. And the chap, PC Root, was ever so helpful. Oh, Mr Duncan said I should have a word with you about that.’
‘Yes?’
‘Well, as soon as I got to the station, I thought I recognised PC Root, and I just assumed I must have seen him on the beat or doing traffic duty or something, but then it dawned on me, he’s the man from the posters.’ 147
‘Which posters?’
‘Dr Wellburn’s Foot Powder.’
‘I don’t think I know …’
‘Yes, you do,’ Edgar said. ‘They’re all over the underground. With the picture of the fat policeman with huge feet doing traffic duty on a hot day, with sweat practically spurting from his face. “Even on the hottest day, Dr Wellburn’s Foot Powder Stops the Stink of Squelchy Feet.” And that’s the man you saw at the police station?’ Rose nodded. ‘I’m surprised the police would allow him to do something like that.’
‘They didn’t. He’s very unhappy about it all. Apparently, last August, the Daily Express took the photo and used it along with the usual kids swimming in the Serpentine for a “Hottest Day of the Year” story. Then, without asking anybody’s permission, these advertising people started using it for the squelchy feet.’
‘Without permission?’
‘He says he thinks they got the Daily Express’s permission. But nobody asked him. And it’s embarrassing. He gets recognised in the street. People pass remarks. And his sergeant won’t risk sending him out because he says it demeans the authority of the police.’
‘Couldn’t the police sue?’ Edgar said.
‘They can’t be bothered. Easier just to hide him away in the station all day.’
‘Well, he should sue.’
‘Gander and Page – the people who do the posters – are one of the biggest advertising agencies in the country. 148They’d have hundreds and thousands of pounds to spend on a court case. All he’s got is his policeman’s wages. So, I said I’d have a word with Mr Duncan, and Mr Duncan said he’d get in touch with Gander and Page, but would you mind if he mentioned your name, Mr Skelton? He doesn’t want you actually to do anything.’
‘Yes, of course.’ Skelton said.
‘I’ll let Mr Duncan know. I’m sure PC Root will be very grateful. So, do you want me to go through Mr Beck’s papers again?’
‘I’m sure if you didn’t find it,’ Skelton said, ‘it’s not there.’
‘Perhaps I should pop over to Mr Beck’s consulting room,’ Rose said. ‘See if I can have a word with Mr Beck or Miss Alison.’
Edgar tutted and said, ‘You’re not a private detective, Rose.’
‘Yes, I know, but by the time Mr Duncan has appointed and properly briefed a private detective, I could have been over there six or seven times. And there’s the expense.’
‘The bill would go to Mr Beck.’
‘Well, I’m sure he’d rather save the money by having me do it, wouldn’t he?’
‘Mr Beck is not a particularly pleasant man.’
Rose gave Edgar an exaggerated frown with a smile at the bottom to indicate that she was a grown-up woman now who could take a bit of unpleasantness in her stride.
‘I’m not sure there’ll be anybody there, anyway,’ Skelton said. ‘Didn’t Beck say they were shutting up shop?’ 149
‘Even better,’ Rose said. ‘I can break in and rip up the floorboards to find the code book.’
Edgar half-stood flapping his hands. ‘Rose, you mustn’t—’
‘I’m joking.’
Edgar sat down again but kept flapping. Rose was not known for her jokes, but, especially with her new strength, he could easily imagine her ripping up floorboards.
Skelton felt the teapot. There was still warmth in it.
‘Does anybody want a refill? It’ll be a bit stewed but I’m quite fond of stewed tea.’
Rose handed him her cup and he did the honours.
‘Have you heard at all from Vernon?’ Skelton asked.
Edgar breathed in and held it, watching Rose’s face, fretting that the question might trigger a bedewing of the eyes or a complete nervous collapse.
There was a pause, and perhaps a blush, but thankfully no tears.
‘Oh, he’s in his element,’ Rose said. ‘They are doing up-to-the-minute research in forensic science at Heidelberg. Ehler and Schwann are both there, of course, following up Landsteiner’s work on blood groups, and Forsch is extending the Bertillon anthropometrical system to encompass some of Kollman and Buchly’s work on facial reconstruction and Schmidt’s doing marvellous things in advanced microscopy.’
Edgar and Skelton nodded as if they understood, meanwhile studying Rose’s face for telltale hints of emotion.
‘Vernon’s mostly working with Professor Mayenburg on the effect of heat on the development of blowfly larvae. The 150difficulty is, you see, that heat in a human corpse can be generated in so many different ways – time of year, weather, depth of burial and so on – and more problematic still, the quantity and variety of other flora and fauna inhabiting the corpse can make an immense difference to ambient temperature.’
‘It sounds fascinating,’ Skelton said.
‘Oh, it is. Quite a long-term study, too, which is why …’ she swallowed hard and finished the sentence as quickly as possible, ‘they want him to stay for another six months, which, of course, he’s accepted because it’s such a marvellous opportunity.’
She pretended that something out of the window had caught her attention. Skelton and Edgar exchanged a glance.
‘Will he be able to come home for Christmas?’ Skelton asked.
‘It’s difficult, isn’t it? With several tanks of blowflies to take care of. They won’t look after themselves, will they? And he can hardly expect the assistants to come in on Christmas Day.’
‘No, I don’t suppose he can.’
‘His … parents will miss him … horribly,’ Rose said. And Skelton recognised this as an example of what Mila, who knew a little about psychology, would call, ‘transference’.
Afterwards, when she’d gone, Edgar wondered whether it might help if she took up smoking.
‘It’s very good for the nerves.’
151Chester Monroe, now working for the Daily Graphic, was doing a fine job keeping the burning car story, as he put it, ‘fresh and lively with a new angle every day’.
On the Wednesday it had been the revelation that Musgrave had come into possession of the £1,250 by selling both of his wives’ houses – without telling the wives – in order to pay off his mounting debts, the result of gambling and of various paternity suits that had been accumulating. There was also an account of the argument between the two wives over who should take responsibility for the disposal of the poor man’s charred remains. The authorities had assumed that the first wife – the mother of his legitimate children – would want to take care of the burial arrangements, but she had refused unless the second wife, who, she was sure, had been the beneficiary of a nonexistent fortune that Musgrave had lied about, agreed to bear the cost of the coffin and funeral. The second wife, in turn, had refused to take the body unless the first wife bore the cost. It now looked likely that, unless one of them, or perhaps one of his other women (and there was increasing talk of there being twenty or thirty dotted around the country) would agree to make the arrangements, the body would be buried in a pauper’s grave at the public expense. Then came the question, should the expense even of burial in a common grave fall to the City of London, where the body was currently located, or Northampton, where the body had been stored, or Bedford, where it should have been stored, or Coventry, where Musgrave lived. Until 152agreement could be reached, the body was kept in the morgue at Bart’s hospital in London where it had been taken for a full forensic examination.
Thursday’s edition bore the headline ‘Musgrave’s Harem’. Monroe had tracked down six women all of whom were, or claimed to be, lovers of the late Harold Musgrave. It was the most entertaining read so far. Musgrave was an inveterate liar – or deranged fantasist, sometimes the difference is hard to spot – with an illusionist’s knack for convincing others that his most implausible flights of fantasy and imagination were gospel truth.
The bare facts of his existence, the name on his Auto-Vac-It visitor’s cards and the fact of his job, could not be altered, but he invariably suggested that the job was a cover for some other, deeper assignment.
He told one of the women that he was engaged in secret work for the air ministry, while posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman, seeking out likely locations for future aerodromes. She was recruited for the same work and given the mission of persuading – without ever giving the game away – a local farmer to sell a particularly flat meadow and convincing neighbours of the benefits of having an airport on your doorstep. ‘In ten years’ time,’ she was instructed to tell them, ‘you’ll be taking an aeroplane to see relatives in Manchester or Canada just like you take a bus now. But imagine the inconvenience of having to get on a smelly old bus just to get to the aerodrome. How much better to have the aeroplane ready to go a short walk from home?’ 153
Musgrave had also assured her that there would be no noise problem because scientists had devised a baffle made of radium with which to enclose the engines.
A second lover, Ethel, was told that he was an agent, posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman working secretly for Tom Mix, the American star of cowboy films. Tom was planning a touring show, like Buffalo Bill’s Wild West Show from thirty years earlier, with stunt riding, trick shooting, real buffalo and a Sioux encampment where visitors would be able to try their hands at playing drums and smoking the pipe of peace. Musgrave said he was employed as a scout seeking out likely locations where the shows could take place. The buffalo alone, he told Ethel, would need a good twenty acres of prime grassland on which to graze. And obviously, his work needed to be conducted in secret, because finding the location was only the start of a long process of convincing nearby inhabitants that the six-gun-toting outlaws would in fact be sheriffs and marshals pretending to be desperadoes and any of the Sioux warriors who still held serious grudges against the white man would be weeded out in the initial selection process.
He told a third, Dora, that he was an agent, posing as a vacuum cleaner salesman for a Romanian philanthropist, a Mr Iamandi, who was looking for worthy causes to which he would donate sums of up to £100,000. Until now, Mr Iamandi had been concentrating on his homeland, but ‘as you’ve probably read’, disease and want have been pretty much eradicated in Romania and the orphanages were 154so well-appointed that the danger that parents might kill themselves so that their children could be given the opportunities they provided was increasingly real. Accordingly, he had spread his net and had chosen England as his next beneficiary. ‘Perhaps you could help me, Dora, compile a list of all the orphanages, workhouses, hospitals and schools in the area as well as the names of individuals who might benefit from Mr Iamandi’s assistance.’
A fourth, Millie, was told pretty much the same story except that, in this case, he, Musgrave, was the Romanian philanthropist, working on his own behalf incognito. He didn’t have an accent and attributed his perfect English, albeit tinged with a slight Midlands twang, to his having attended, in his childhood, an ordinary school in Coventry. ‘To be honest, Millie,’ he said, ‘I’ve been incognito nearly all my life, but I can only be myself with you.’
Two others were told he was engaged in secret work of great national importance tracking down gangs of Russian spies and saboteurs, whose influence was incalculably strong. He dropped dark hints that local policemen could have been recruited to their Bolshevist cause, along with the local librarian (‘does the library contain any books that you might describe as having a politically unsuitable message, such as the works of Mr H. G. Wells or a Frenchman called Zola?’), and even the Member of Parliament (‘Yes, of course he claims to be a Conservative. That’s exactly what they want you to believe.’)
The Graphic had photographs of Millie and Ethel, both smiling bravely for the camera with their heads on one side. 155
‘Every word utterly implausible,’ Skelton said to Mila, over the shepherd’s pie they always had on a Thursday, ‘and yet these women never seemed to have had an iota of doubt that he was telling the truth.’
‘Perhaps they are all particularly stupid women,’ Mila said.
‘Nobody’s that stupid.’
‘Has it occurred to you,’ Mila said, ‘that hell hath no fury like a woman scorned?’
‘The thought had crossed my mind.’
‘Any one of these women, not to mention the two wives, could be the murderer.’
Skelton put down his knife and fork and opened the Graphic. They examined the photographs.
‘Do they look like killers, to you?’ Skelton asked.
They didn’t. If anything, they looked the sort of people who might give useful advice about digestive difficulties in a branch of Boots the chemist.
‘Or one of the husbands,’ Skelton said, ‘or boyfriends.’
‘Or fathers, even; enraged to the point of homicide that this Don Juan, this Casanova, this vile seducer had so heedlessly plucked his daughter’s virtue.’
At the top of the page, there was a photograph of the vile seducer himself. It was a half-profile and showed a chubby face with a neatly trimmed moustache and patent-leather hair. The smile revealed uneven teeth. The eyes protruded. Nobody could possibly have looked more like a vacuum cleaner salesman. 156
‘All those women,’ Skelton said, ‘What d’you think they saw in him?’
‘He looks like William Powell,’ Mila said, turning the paper round so that she could get a proper look and, on the way, smearing it with gravy from the pie.
‘Who?’
‘William Powell. The film star. He was in that film we saw.’
‘Which one?’
‘The one we saw in Slough. Where everybody was blackmailing everybody else and then Louise Brooks was strangled.’
‘Which one was William Powell?’
‘He was the detective.’
Skelton turned the paper back again. ‘Nothing like him.’ He looked again at the pictures of the women. ‘It’s probably just that he’s a good salesman.’
‘In what way?’
‘Well, we know he was a very good vacuum cleaner salesman. The art of good salesmanship, I’d have thought, is to spellbind your customer. And that’s similar to the art of the seducer, isn’t it?’
Mila was smiling. ‘Is that what you think?’
‘Well, it’s right, isn’t it? Men …’ less sure of his ground, Skelton spoke slowly, ‘some men seduce women by, sort of, spellbinding them with … words and so on.’
Mila was still smiling. ‘You’ve got it completely the wrong way round, haven’t you?’ 157
‘What do you mean?’
‘Women seduce men,’ she said, ‘by pretending to be spellbound.’
‘Do they? I didn’t think women ever seduced men.’
Mila gave him a fond but pitying look and went back to her dinner.
Skelton looked at the curtains.
‘Did you seduce me?’ he asked.
‘No. I never wanted to seduce you.’
This was disappointing.
‘Didn’t you?’
‘I wanted to marry you.’
He wasn’t sure whether this was better or worse. ‘I don’t suppose I ever seduced you, did I?’ he asked.
‘Good lord, no.’
‘I didn’t think I had. I thought I’d check, though. To be honest, I don’t think I’ve ever seduced anybody. The way it worked in Leeds was – you went out for a walk with somebody, and if you got chips on the way back, there was an understanding.’