The Graphic’s headline read, Blazing Corpse Revealed. The letter and telephone call sorters, it seemed, had by Saturday night narrowed the field down to three contenders. On the Sunday, house calls made by stringers and local police had discounted two of the three.
Remaining was Walter Gale, a 32-year-old unemployed miner from a pit village near Mansfield in Nottinghamshire, married with two small children. His story could have been that of a thousand other miners. When it had become apparent that the pit might never re-open, in order to keep his family fed and decent, he had decided to travel south, take whatever work he could find, and send the proceeds home. 346
A farmer somewhere near Leicester said that he had taken him on in early October to lift sugar beet. Later in the month, another farmer had taken him on as a labourer to help with repairing a barn and renovating a track.
Most telling of all was a report from a commercial traveller in Biggleswade who said that Gale had approached him as he was getting into his car, wondering if he was going anywhere near Ampthill in Bedfordshire, and if so, could he have a lift. When the commercial told him he was going north, he had seen Gale approach another man with the same request.
On the Sunday afternoon, the Nottinghamshire Constabulary had sent a man out to see Gale’s wife. She had not seen the Graphic. They showed her the pictures. She confirmed their resemblance to her husband and told them that she had not heard from him since the fifth of November. They broke the news. A kindly neighbour was summoned to look after her and make sure the children were all right.
It was not difficult to piece the whole thing together. Having taken out the £1,250 and decided somehow to fake his own death so as to escape from his various debts, paternity suits and the bigamy charge, Musgrave had, like the other commercials, been approached by poor Walter Gale, a man of similar size and build to his own. Offer him a lift, drive to a quiet spot, pretend you have engine trouble, take out a tyre iron or starter handle, deliver the fatal blow, douse everything liberally in petrol, strike a match, run for it.
What had subsequently become of Musgrave, remained a mystery. Did he walk the five or six miles through the 347rain back to Biggleswade and take a train south to London or north to Peterborough? Was he now being shielded by another of his ‘harem’, or had he fled the country?
It was the Graphic’s scoop. The other papers, Skelton noticed, led with news of riots in Spain that might have riveted the attention of the good people of Valencia as they munched their desayuno but did nothing at all for the toastbutterers of Clapham and Gateshead.
As soon as he got into Foxton Row, Skelton called Aubrey.
Aubrey cancelled his meeting with the Director of Public Prosecutions, got in touch with Evie, the maid who had given the leaves to Skelton, with Dr Edgar who had treated Mrs Roberts after the heart attack and signed the death certificate, and with the pathologist who had conducted the autopsy.
Evie agreed to make a sworn statement attesting to Mrs Roberts’ intake of ‘comfrey tea’. Dr Edgar acknowledged that he had tried to revive Mrs Roberts with an injection of digitalis – a standard procedure – not realising that he was, if anything, exacerbating the problem, the cure being also the cause. The pathologist confirmed that substantial amounts of digitalis had been detected in the corpse but this, they assumed, had come from Dr Edgar’s injection.
‘So, charges will be dropped,’ Edgar said, as they sat over their morning tea.
‘I can’t see any reason why not, can you?’ 348
‘And Beck will walk free?’
‘He will indeed.’
‘What about the photographs?’
Skelton took the envelope from his desk drawer. ‘What do you think?’
‘Burn them?’
‘You’re sure?’
‘What?’
‘Well,’ Skelton said, ‘they would be rather crucial evidence if Beck were to be charged with living off immoral earnings.’
‘Why would he be charged with anything of the sort?’
‘Because …’
‘Does the law specifically say that it’s immoral to dress up as a teddy bear and be beaten by a woman in a leather mask? Or to dress up as a baby? Or put a saddle on your back and be ridden like a horse? We have no evidence that any sort of sexual congress took place between Mrs Roberts and her clients.’
Skelton stared at the ceiling for a bit, then said, ‘Go on, then.’
‘What?’
‘Burn them.’
‘Good. You’ve got an American-Abrasives meeting in twenty minutes.’
‘Bugger.’
‘Kemble’s afterwards?’
‘Oh, I think so.’
349Kenneth, the proprietor of Kemble’s, spotted Skelton getting out of the taxi and was at the door welcoming him. He took his coat, hat and scarf and even went so far as to give the shoulders of his suit a little whisk with a clothes brush. This, Skelton knew, was a service usually reserved for actors currently starring in West End shows and film stars.
‘Can I just say it’s absolutely marvellous what you did finding that poor man’s identity,’ Kenneth said.
‘Well, in point of fact—’ Skelton said, but Kenneth interrupted.
‘And the clever way you did it, as well. I’d never have believed such things were possible. And though it must be terrible for the poor man’s family, what happened to him, I suppose it’s better than not knowing and forever wondering, isn’t it? I’d have thought so, anyway. If somebody precious to me had just gone missing like that, I’d rather know, wouldn’t you?’
Edgar hadn’t arrived yet, so Kenneth showed Skelton to their usual table, pulled back a chair, noticed a slight tear in the seat cover and replaced it with another from the next table.
‘I was just saying to Tony, it’d be a close-run thing to say who’s the more famous these days, you or Yvonne Arnaud.’
Skelton had barely heard of Yvonne Arnaud. He studied the menu.
‘You were all over the Daily Graphic this morning, although, if you don’t mind me saying, the photos they used didn’t show you off to your best. If you were to invest in some 350proper studio portraits it’d be money well spent, Mr Skelton. Sasha’s very good. Have you seen his Reginald Denham? Did him full face but looking down so you barely notice the chin at all.’
Skelton had never heard of Sasha or Reginald Denham either, but did his best to smile and nod until Kenneth paused long enough to take his order. Egg and cress and macaroons with tea for two.
‘And no brown macaroons,’ Kenneth added remembering an occasion when a plate of all brown macaroons had had Edgar threatening to take his custom elsewhere.
The remaining sandwiches were curling slightly, and Skelton was on his third cup of tea by the time Edgar turned up.
In buoyant mood, he crossed the restaurant almost skipping on his toes, hailed Tony, the cloakroom attendant, as hearty as a rum-filled mariner, danced out of his coat and hat, and waltzed over to Skelton grinning so hard his face had turned red with the strain.
‘You’ll never guess,’ he said as he sat down.
‘What?’
‘Rose was at Foxton Row and – you’ll never guess.’
‘Vernon’s asked her to marry him.’
‘You knew?’
‘I just can’t imagine anything else that would make you explode with pleasure like this.’
‘I am exploding, aren’t I? I’m exploding with pleasure. Isn’t it wonderful? And the thing is …’ He took out his hankie 351and gave his eyes a pre-emptive dab. ‘She’s asked me …’ The fight to control the voice did not result in a conclusive victory. ‘She’s asked me to give her away.’
‘That is wonderful. Congratulations, old chap. In loco parentis, father of the bride.’
Edgar buried his head in his hankie.
Over by the cloakroom, Skelton could see Kenneth and Tony looking their way and exchanging remarks, possibly wondering whether Edgar was still upset about the macaroons.
‘Oh, God,’ Edgar looked up in panic. ‘I won’t have to make a speech, will I?’
‘It is customary for the father of the …’ Seeing that this was about to set Edgar off again, Skelton amended the phrase to, ‘certain members of the wedding party … to make speeches.’
‘I couldn’t possibly make a speech,’ Edgar said. ‘Can you imagine? Look at me now? I’d bluster three words, then drown everybody in a pool of tears. You’ll have to make the speech. You’re good at speeches. Of course, you are. It said so in The Times. “Master of forensic eloquence”. It’s what you do. You can do the speech. Promise me you’ll do the speech.’
‘Well, it’s up to Rose and Vernon, isn’t it?’
‘They’ll be pleased as punch. They’ll be honoured. They’ll jump at the chance.’
‘Did he ask her when she was in Germany?’ Skelton asked.
‘I believe so, yes.’
‘Church wedding?’ 352
‘Not decided yet. They’re both staunch agnostics so I think on balance they’d prefer a register office do. But she understands that Vernon’s parents might be disappointed – and to tell the truth, so would I. There is something very special about a …’
The hankie came into use again. Quick wipe of the cheeks and a blow.
‘I’m very old-fashioned about these things,’ he said. ‘I tend to think of a register office do as a broomstick wedding.’
‘That is very old fashioned. I don’t think anybody’s talked about “broomstick” weddings since the 1836 Marriage Act.’
On the way out they saw Chester Monroe and did their best to escape his attention but failed.
‘Mr Skelton, Mr Hobbes, I’ve been looking for you. I came here on the off-chance and here you are. I’ve got something for you.’
He reached into the voluminous depths of his overcoat, pulled out an envelope embossed with the Daily Graphic crest and ceremoniously handed it to Skelton. A cheque, rather bigger than an ordinary cheque, made out to the sum of £2,000.
‘Good lord,’ Skelton said. ‘I thought this was provisional on my finding the identity of the burnt man – which had almost nothing to do with me, by the way, despite what it said in your newspaper – and tracking down Musgrave, and since Musgrave has not been found …’ 353
‘Well, we’ve got every copper in the country tracking down Musgrave now, haven’t we, Mr Skelton? He’s killed again. News came in lunchtime on the wires. A Mrs Paterson in Battersea. He’d moved in with her, apparently. Same as before. Smashed the back of her skull in, then tried to burn the house down. Didn’t make such a good job of the burning as he did before, though. Fire brigade say they’ve done easier chimney fires. Anyway, he’s on the run, and the coppers say it’s only a matter of time.’