On the outskirts of Medlow and in some of the loveliest country in Buckinghamshire stands Rockingham College. Although not as well known to the general public as certain other English public schools, Rockingham’s record is a proud one; for a century and a half it has fed young men of integrity and intelligence into a wide variety of honourable professions. The subaltern leading his patrol in Malaya, the overworked and underpaid curate in East London and the District Officer in one of the remoter parts of Africa may well have been educated at Rockingham. Three Lieutenant-Generals, an Air Chief Marshal, a Newspaper Editor, the Managing Director of an International Airline, and two Cabinet Ministers were prepared for their onerous responsibilities there. Two large memorials testify to the fighting qualities of Old Rockinghamians.
David Henderson, D.S.C., B.A. (Oxon.), emerged from one of the classrooms after the last work period of the day. He paused for a moment in the quadrangle and looked about him with satisfaction: everything about Rockingham was secure and everlasting even in this troubled year. He even thought of that intellectual desert, the Lower Fifth, with something like affection. The Lower Fifth consisted of boys aged fifteen and a half and sixteen and it was part of Henderson’s duty to urge them towards the Sixth form. In many cases it was an uphill and unrewarding task but Henderson would not have had it otherwise. Under his arm were Lower Fifth’s exercise books which promised some interesting reading for him that evening. The subject Henderson had set was “How I would go about making England a better country to live in”; there should, he thought cynically, be some real gems among this lot.…
David Henderson was thirty-eight, a shade under six feet tall and deceptively slim. His hair, which was black, was beginning to recede slightly; his eyes a particularly dark blue.
When David Henderson came down from Oxford with a casually acquired Honours Degree in English Literature, an illustrious academic career was forecast for him. But 1940 found him unacademically engaged in the Battle of the Atlantic in corvettes. After three years’ almost continuous sea service he found himself attached to one of the less orthodox sections of the Navy.
Since his demobilization Henderson’s horizon had been bounded by boys to the exclusion of everything else. His undoubted flair for handling these incalculable creatures combined with an ability to impart knowledge interestingly to even the most slothful backslider of Lower Fifth had soon secured for him the post of Housemaster at Rockingham. In this capacity he had proved an unqualified success; so much so, in fact, that many parents entering their sons for Rockingham asked tentatively if there were vacancies in “Henderson’s”.
Henderson never deliberately sought popularity. But he earnestly believed, unlike some public schoolmasters, that intimidation and sarcasm played no part in the moulding of a boy’s character. The cane he used sparingly and reluctantly but on very rare occasions with devastating and lasting effect.
As Henderson neared the entrance to his house he grinned gently to himself. The boy waiting in his study was in all probability expecting a caning within the next few minutes.
Roger Ford was waiting at the entrance of the study as Henderson came round the corner. His expression suggested that the outcome of the forthcoming interview with his housemaster was a foregone conclusion. “It is a far, far better thing that I do.…” Sydney Carton to the life, thought David Henderson indulgently.
Roger Ford was the son of a detective-inspector of some repute and owed his presence at Rockingham College almost entirely to Henderson. A detective-inspector’s salary rarely permits a public school education for his son, but as a result of Henderson’s coaching young Ford had achieved a scholarship. In common with almost every schoolmaster Henderson had his favourites amongst his boys, but was at pains to conceal the fact from them. Roger Ford was by way of being one of his favourites.
He was a tall, grave-faced boy with an intelligent face and an oddly disarming manner. He shuffled his feet and moistened his lips at Henderson’s approach.
“Ah, Ford,” said Henderson. “Come on in, will you?”
The boy murmured “Yes, sir,” and followed the master into the study.
Henderson had experienced his fair share of hard living and liked comfort when he could get it. His study was spacious, not aggressively bachelor in appearance, and radiated comfort. Roger Ford thought it would be nice to sit down to some tea and toast. As things were, sitting down might present certain difficulties in the near future.
“It’s a pity to get into trouble right at the end of the term,” observed Henderson. He hung up his gown and sat himself at his desk. He regarded the boy with a calmly judicial look. Your number’s up, Roger, thought the boy. He’s just going to do a bit of the cat and mouse stuff first and then—six of the best.
Ah well, it didn’t last long.…
“I’m sorry, sir,” said Ford at length.
“Mr. Granger recommends that I beat you,” continued his tormentor. “Not at all sure that I shouldn’t, as a matter of fact.”
“No, sir,” said Ford. “I mean yes, sir.”
“After all,” continued Henderson, “if every boy pushed another boy into the swimming pool just because he didn’t like him where would our discipline be?”
Roger Ford searched his mind for a reply that seemed neither fearful nor flippant and eventually settled for: “Where indeed, sir?”
Henderson’s sudden smile flashed across his face. He said: “Since it’s the end of term and Justin Major probably asked for it we’ll overlook the matter.”
Ford relaxed visibly.
“But next time you see Justin Major bending over the swimming pool control your natural impulses, Ford. Understand?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Good. Now then, what about some tea and toast?”
“Thanks awfully, sir.”
A jolly good chap, old Henderson. One of the best.
The tea and toast were produced with seemingly miraculous speed by Mrs. Williams, Henderson’s housekeeper, and with them she brought a small package.
“For you, sir,” she said. “Just come by registered post.”
Henderson studied the package for a moment and then placed it on his desk. “Thanks, Mrs. Williams.”
“If you don’t want me for anything more,” said Mrs. Williams, “I think I’ll just nip into Medlow.”
Henderson nodded. “That’s perfectly all right.” He smiled at Ford who was staring at the buttered toast. “You can start, Ford.”
After a little while Henderson finished his tea and lit his pipe. “Anyone coming to fetch you Thursday morning, Ford?”
“Yes, sir. My father.”
“Good. What time?”
“Seven o’clock, sir.”
“Seven o’clock? That’s rather early even for a detective-inspector, isn’t it?”
“Oh, my father’s a very early riser, sir,” said Roger, idly opening a book on the table beside him and glancing at the fly-leaf.
“If you’d like to borrow that book,” said Henderson. “Just say so.”
Roger looked up with a guilty start. “Well, as a matter of fact I would rather like to, sir. It looks jolly interesting.”
“It is,” said Henderson. “Help yourself.”
The boy picked up the book and looked at the fly-leaf again. “Could you tell me what this is, sir?”
“A dirty mark occasioned by the impact of a recently buttered finger!”
Ford grinned sheepishly. “Sorry, sir,” he said. “I actually meant what does this quotation mean?”
“Quotation?” said Henderson, “what quotation?”
“This, sir. ‘Suavitor in modo, fortiter in re …’”
“Let me see,” said Henderson quietly. He looked in the fly-leaf of the book and for a moment his eyes narrowed. Then he smiled at Roger.
“It means ‘gentle in the manner, but vigorous in the deed.’ ” He looked at the writing again. “ ‘Gentle in the manner but vigorous in the deed,’ ” he said quietly. “I’m not sure that isn’t an improvement on the school motto.”
Henderson passed the book back to Roger and glanced at his watch.
“You’d better cut off, young Ford,” he said. “I’ve got twenty-five vilely written and misspelt essays to wade through and it’s time I started on them.”
When Roger Ford had left the room Henderson glanced idly at the first essay in the pile. He smiled as he read the first sentence; evidently Sinclair Minor, the somewhat truculent son of a Socialist Member of Parliament, proposed certain sweeping changes in the country’s future education scheme. Then suddenly and abruptly he slapped his hand down on the pile of essays and almost regretfully turned to the small package that had arrived by the afternoon post.
The wrapping revealed a man’s wristlet watch. Henderson studied it for a moment or two then unfastened his own wristlet watch and strapped the new one on to his wrist. From a drawer in the desk he took out a small leather notebook and an automatic—a .32 of Spanish make. His manner was calm, deliberate, unhurried. He shot another quick glance at the pile of essays and expelled a barely audible sigh; almost it seemed that he deplored the contemplation of a lethal weapon and would prefer to be reading, marking, and inwardly digesting Sinclair Minor’s plans for reform. Finally he put his own watch in a drawer and examined the automatic. He was examining it with the sure touch of one who is no stranger to firearms when the telephone rang.
Henderson picked up the receiver. He said: “Hallo…? Henderson speaking.”
A precise and cultured voice said: “This is Cooper.”
Henderson said: “Ah.…” There was an air of finality about his voice as if he were finally relegating Lower Fifth’s essays to the back of his mind.
“Have you got the watch?” said the voice at the other end.
Henderson fingered the watch for a moment. “Yes, it’s just arrived. Are we in time, d’you think?”
Cooper’s voice became crisp and incisive. “We’ll have to take a chance. Can you go there at once?”
“Yes,” said Henderson.
“Right. I’ll see you there.”
Cooper hung up with a decisive click. Henderson glanced at the watch on his wrist and picked up the automatic.
The houseboats on the river at Medlow have an idle and carefree elegance that is all their own. Nothing disturbs their serene anchorage. At week-ends tired City businessmen find that they are not so tired as they thought they were—the tiredness manifests itself on Monday morning; the young and not so young frolic discreetly; illicit friendships flourish. There is always love and laughter in plenty on the river at Medlow and the few permanent houseboat residents regard the junketing with aloof tolerance. It is almost impossible to imagine anything sinister happening in this little flesh-pot of the Thames which one of the more enterprising of the houseboat-agents describes as “a natural paradise”.
Katherine Walters would have agreed with this house-agent’s assessment on this particular afternoon. She was reclining in a punt which she had manoeuvred into the shade of a large tree. Only one houseboat was in her immediate vision and she had noticed its name as she had drifted down river: High Tor. It was painted white and looked cool and inviting. Idly Katherine wondered who lived in it.
She was reading a novel that was agreeably beguiling but not so absorbing as to intrude on the magic of the afternoon. Every so often she dipped a well-manicured hand into the water. Apart from an occasional rowing boat idling backwards and forwards the river seemed completely deserted.
Katherine Walters was an attractive woman in the late twenties. Her complexion and figure bordered on perfection but her cheek bones were a fraction too high and stopped her from being conventionally good looking. She had a good mouth, full and generous, but her dark brown eyes wore a slightly tired look.
David Henderson stood in the middle of the living-room of the houseboat called High Tor. The normally well furnished room was in a state of indescribable confusion. The writing desk had evidently been ransacked with wanton thoroughness; chairs had been overturned; a carpet had been ripped from the floor. A handsome cocktail cabinet had been upended and a standard lamp lolled drunkenly over the back of a sofa.
Henderson looked thoughtfully at the body of a man lying in the middle of the floor. The only description possible was that of an apparently youngish man of medium height, for little of his original features remained. He had obviously been battered about the face and head with a blunt instrument.
Henderson knelt by the body. He removed the wristlet watch he had been wearing and strapped it to the wrist of the dead man. He then rose, cast a final, critical, and all-embracing look round the room and went out on to the deck of the houseboat.
Katherine Walters closed her book and yawned. On a cooler afternoon she might have been able to give her undivided attention to the unco-ordinated antics of an unstable young woman who was in love with three men at the same time, but the heat had induced in her a pleasant feeling of drowsiness.
She glanced towards the houseboat called High Tor and saw the figure of a man who had just come up on deck. She studied him idly for a moment. She saw that he was tall, dark and quite good looking. The soporific atmosphere of the river precluded any real interest in tall, dark and good looking men on houseboats but Katherine continued to watch him disinterestedly.
The man glanced quickly in her direction and then fell to watching the bank of the river. His attitude was casual and relaxed. Probably waiting for a girl friend, diagnosed Katherine with somnolent romanticism.
Presently a car appeared on the road which ran parallel to the river. The man on the houseboat took a last look in Katherine’s direction and then turned and raised a hand in greeting to the driver. Finally he went ashore and climbed into the car. Katherine yawned, picked up her book again and forgot about the entire episode.…
The police quickly arrived at High Tor and with their usual patience and thoroughness started to take measurements and photographs of the living-room. The police surgeon had already been and given the usual banal and non-committal verdict: the man had died from repeated blows, presumably from a blunt instrument, about the head and face. The exact time of death was impossible to judge and an autopsy would be necessary. It was the usual story with very few variations and the police surgeon had long since lost count of how many similar murders he had been called in on. He was merely summoned for the purpose of pronouncing life extinct and to hazard a guess as to when death had taken place. This particular corpse, with its head and face practically battered to pulp, had called for little specialized medical knowledge. One of these days, thought the police surgeon with weary cynicism, they’ll fetch me to look at a body that isn’t quite dead. But that rarely if ever happened; they were either shot or knifed or poisoned or had their brains bashed out. The body in High Tor represented as thorough a job of killing as the police surgeon had ever seen. He did not linger long on the houseboat because he was required at the police station to give his considered opinion as to whether a motorist had been drunk or sober when he had collided with a “Keep Left” sign. Dead or drunk, it was just another job.
Detective-Inspector Michael Ford was examining the contents of a small writing bureau in the corner of the living-room. His movements were unhurried and deceptively casual. Twenty-five years in the police force, fifteen of which had been spent in the C.I.D., had taught him that things are very seldom what they seem and in murder cases practically never. He had learned that the solution of such cases often depended on cigarette ends, trouser buttons, broken mirrors and old pieces of blotting paper. With a little sigh, in which there was more than a suspicion of cynicism, he foresaw the wearisome days, weeks, months and even years of patient and painstaking inquiries which would inevitably follow the discovery of this body which had met with such savage violence. Clues would be found, followed up and discarded as worthless. The superintendent would get liverish and the Popular Press would harangue the police for taking so long to make an arrest. A seemingly endless procession of people would be interviewed, produce alibis, tell lies and be finally cleared of suspicion. On the face of it this one looked like being one of the more tedious cases attended by the usual lack of sleep and irregular meals that went with all murder cases.
Ford was forty-fivish, dark, heavily built and dependable looking. His expression was habitually stern but he periodically produced a smile of rare charm. His manner was quiet and uncompromising. He had a hard-won reputation for never giving up hope of solving a case. On several occasions seemingly insoluble crimes—crimes without apparent motives or suspects—had been handed over to Ford with entirely satisfactory results.
The detective-constable who had been taking photographs packed up his equipment. Ford looked up from the writing bureau.
“All finished, Morris?”
“Yes, sir.”
“If you see Sergeant Broderick outside ask him to come in for a moment.”
Detective-Sergeant Broderick strode jauntily into the living-room. He was a tall, sharp-featured man with an incisive and energetic manner. He radiated confidence and self-assurance. Broderick had risen to his present rank at the surprisingly early age of twenty-nine and Ford thought a little ruefully of the ten years he had spent on the beat becoming even a detective-constable. Broderick’s forceful personality and intelligence would undoubtedly take him far in his profession, thought Ford. A little too impatient at times, possibly slightly too sure of himself, but a first-rate detective for all that. Ford was always glad to have Broderick working with him on any case.
“Ah, there you are,” said Ford looking up from the writing bureau. “A messy sort of job.”
“Messy is right,” said Broderick. “Doctor been?”
“Yes, they sent Jennings.”
“Well, I suppose he knows a stiff when he sees one.” Apparently Broderick had a poor opinion of the police surgeon. “What did he say?”
“Usual story. Impossible to say without an autopsy and even then it might be difficult.”
“He’s improving,” said Broderick generously. He jerked his head towards the body. “I suppose he really is dead?”
“You’ll never see a deader one,” said Ford drily. “Now, what have you found out so far?”
Broderick produced a notebook with a flourish.
“The dead man’s an Italian, name of Rocello,” he said. “He’s been in these parts for nearly a fortnight. This boat belongs to someone called James Cooper.”
Ford nodded. “I know Cooper. Seen him in the village. Short, rather distinguished-looking bird with a long nose.”
“That’s him,” said Broderick. He consulted his notebook again. “It seems he’s a solicitor and works for a firm called Dawson, Wyman and Clewes.”
“Hmm … local firm?”
“No, London—Sloane Square. Pretty smart sort of practice I should think.”
“Oh? What makes you think that?”
Broderick waved a hand round the living-room. “Well, look at this lot. Must take a bit of money to keep a little nest like this.”
“I suppose it does. Now, what about this Rocello character. Was he a friend of Cooper’s?”
“Seems like it. According to Mrs. Prothero—she’s the old girl who keeps the shop in the High Street—Cooper went back to London last Wednesday and left Rocello in charge of the houseboat.”
Ford frowned. “Last Wednesday, eh? But didn’t Cooper come down for the week-end?”
“Apparently not. This Mrs. Prothero has two or three lock-up garages and Cooper usually parks his car in one of them.”
“I see.” Ford looked at the body again and then at Broderick. “This looks like being a tough one, Bob.”
Broderick shrugged. “We’ve had ’em tougher.”
Ford smiled. There was always something infectious about Broderick’s confidence. Of course, he’d had it nice and lucky so far in his career as a detective. Broderick had managed to solve two particularly baffling cases recently, both of them with a minimum of leg work and soul-destroying routine inquiry. Sometimes you were fortunate enough to get a case in which everything fell neatly into place but this one didn’t seem to come into that comfortable category.
Ford took two pieces of paper from his breast pocket. One was the routine occurrence report from the uniform man who had been first on the scene. The Superintendent, who was not given to verbosity on paper, had written on it “D.I. Ford please inquire”. That was the superintendent’s way of giving him an absolutely free hand to conduct the investigation as he thought fit. Better than some of these chairborne geniuses who badgered you from morning till night and expected the whole thing, complete with suspect, motive and statements, to be buttoned up within seventy-two hours. The writing on the other piece of paper was in Ford’s own hand. It said:
Katherine Walters—see anything?
Doctor Sheldon?
Barker Brothers?
Car. Anyone see driver?
Henderson—Italy.
Cooper?
He noted, wryly, that there seemed to be a lot of question marks. He said to Broderick: “Not much more we can do today, Bob. We’ll get started properly tomorrow.…”