Anthony Wheeler was a short, rather uncouth lad with a thatch of straw-coloured hair and darting, restless eyes which gave him a, possibly undeserved, shifty appearance. He was seventh on PC Smith’s second list of names this time made up of ten of Bertrand’s pupil painters. There were more, he had been assured, pupils came and went, but these ten were the most consistent attenders.
If the paintings on the walls of Wheeler’s bare attic room were anything to go by, the boy was possessed of a prodigious talent. Even Smith could see that, although he found some a bit too misty and indistinct in places for his taste.
Wheeler’s recollection of Matilda proved similar to that of most of the other young men he had spoken to: he found her a pleasant, graceful and extremely pretty but rather shy girl, of much better education and class than the usual run of artists’ models. But, despite her obvious attractions, Wheeler claimed he had not made any romantic advances towards her.
‘Bertrand protected her like a mother hen. In any case,’ he grinned in man-to-man fashion, ‘she was spoken for.’
Smith sat up eagerly. So much had been hinted at by the others but never spelled out. ‘Was she? Who by?’
The boy was suddenly more alert, and hesitated before replying with a shrug, ‘Oh, I dunno that.’
Smith was convinced that he did and cursed himself for his clumsiness in reacting so obviously, yet again. Best wouldn’t have done that. He would have pretended only polite interest and maybe even changed the subject and come back to it later, casually, oh so casually, when he had made a friend of the boy. It was so hard to keep an interview going and hold all these things in mind. Well, he must let it pass now and try to go back to the subject later.
As a rather desperate diversion he pretended a great interest in harmless details, such as the times the pupils went for their lessons and how often. What they actually did whilst they were there (most of Bertrand’s painting, it seemed to Smith) and how helpful the lessons were to them. He began to get the distinct impression that, to Wheeler, the value of the lessons was largely that of providing contacts which might help him further his career. He admitted as much, eventually, when Smith had chatted him into a form of comradeship of the lower orders against the toffs.
‘What you got to understand,’ Wheeler explained conspiratorially, his eyes darting about the room as though the whole place was new to him, ‘is that some of them are just sons of gentlemen – playing at painting. They gives it all up as soon as they gets their inheritances, or they wants to get married and Papa will only cough up if they toes the line. But’, he grinned knowingly, ‘with a bit of luck, if I ’elps them to paint now and they see how good I am – they’ll remember an’ help me later, knowin’ that they’ll get themselves good pictures into the bargain.’ He hesitated, then spread his paint-stained hands. ‘Well, that’s my plan, anyway. D’you see?’
Smith did. He could not but admire a fellow inhabitant of the bottom of the heap reaching up so determinedly and so deviously for the top. ‘Good luck to you,’ he grinned, and meant it.
Wheeler laughed at Smith’s reaction, slapping his thighs noisily in his mirth. Smith chortled in return.
Encouraged by such comradely applause, Wheeler began to elaborate. ‘You see, their parents don’t like to see ‘em doing this, so it’s a sort of rebellion, mostly. Some of ’em mean to keep it up an’ they have to be dead devious. Take young Charlie Venables. That’s not his real name; he daren’t use that, his old man – who’s loaded with booty – definitely don’t want him to be an artist so Charlie has to use a false name when he goes to classes.’
This time Smith controlled his excitement and slapped his thigh too; so that was why he hadn’t been able to trace this Venables – it was a false name. He asked a question, the answer to which did not really interest him.
‘Why can’t he just go off and be a painter anyway?’
‘Well, it’s hard to get started, innit? If he can’t make it, he’ll be in dead trouble.’
‘What’s his real name then?’ Smith asked, still laughing. ‘The Prince of Wales?’
They both roared with laughter at this, Wheeler pausing only to wipe his eyes with his grubby sleeve. ‘No, no – it’s Eddie.’
‘Oh, Prince Eddie!’
Both parties collapsed with giggles at this. As they quietened down Smith asked, slightly more seriously, a question to which he really did want to know the answer, ‘Eddie what?’
‘Oh, I dunno,’ exclaimed Wheeler, ‘who cares?’
Smith gave him a very direct look and answered quietly but firmly, ‘I do.’
It was time, he had decided, to become a policeman again and reel in his catch. Wheeler’s eyes suddenly stopped roaming about and he looked uncertainly at Smith. Then he grinned. The young policeman was putting him on again. This time Smith did not return the grin, but keeping his eyes steadily on the boy enquired, ‘Are you quite sure you don’t know Eddie’s full name?’
Wheeler was clearly disconcerted, his eyes once again darting wildly around the room in an attempt to avoid Smith’s steady gaze until he could gather his thoughts. But Smith was not going to let that happen.
‘This is a very serious business,’ he said with every serious fibre in his being. ‘Heaven knows what charges may arise from it and, if you withhold evidence from me now, you could be charged with aiding or abetting, or, at the very least, obstructing a police officer in the execution of his duty. Your gentry wouldn’t want anything to do with you then, would they? Your career would be finished. Don’t forget, you’ve got no rich daddy to fall back on.’
The message hit home. Smith had correctly divined that the one thing in life that really meant anything to Wheeler was his painting. But, obviously, he felt he couldn’t betray his friend without at least a show of loyalty. ‘But I don’t know, honest. Eddie’s all he’s ever said – ’e goes on about his father wanting him to go into the business …’
‘Where does he live, this Eddie?’ Smith cut in coldly.
‘I dunno, honest.’
‘This girl might be dead,’ snapped Smith with icy bluntness.
All the bravado evaporated. The boy was at sea, eyes everywhere. Smith knew he had him. He pinned him down with a glare. ‘Murdered!’
The lad began to stutter, ‘I know – North London – I think that was it. No, I know, near Regent’s Park, somewhere. He used to walk there and paint.’
‘St John’s Wood, was it?’
‘That’s it. That’s it! St John’s Wood.’ His relief was palpable. He was off the hook but had not told tales. Well, not really.
But Smith was not finished. ‘And,’ he said softly, ‘it is him who had spoken for Matilda?’ The boy was riveted by Smith’s icy gaze. ‘Isn’t it?’
Wheeler, fish-like, opened and closed his mouth.
‘Say it!’ shouted Smith. ‘Just say it!’
‘Yes,’ the boy whispered, ‘it was him.’
‘And his name?’ Smith almost spat the words.
‘Eddie, Eddie Van Ellen.’ The lad looked about to cry.
I’m learning, thought Smith.
Joseph Minchin’s body was suspended at an angle face down on the low bushes. Head near the ground, feet in the air, and right arm outstretched as though to ward off a blow. Leaves had died off and fallen from the undergrowth leaving a mesh of bare branches which afforded a good view of what was left of the body. But it was of little use apart from convincing Best that this was the body of Joseph Minchin. He could see no evidence of a wound. Holding his handkerchief to his nose and mouth he tried hard not to be sick, but failed miserably.
Oh, God what a mess this was going to be, he realized, after he had got over the initial shock and revulsion and began hurrying back in the direction of the junction buildings. Now he had the task of obtaining the services of the local police and doctor – without arousing too much local interest.
He must also inform Cheadle via an electric telegraph message written in language which explained to the Chief Inspector what had happened, but did not alert the telegraphist. The clerk, like so many of his kind, would doubtless have direct and profitable links with the Press but, in this backwater, little opportunity to benefit from them. But inform Cheadle quickly, that was essential. He needed reinforcements – fast.
His haste and worried look were attracting attention. With some effort he slowed his pace and assumed a less concerned expression. The last thing he needed was hordes of curious sightseers tramping all over the scene before he had a chance to look at it properly. He had already taken some notes, before nausea again overtook him, but he wanted a better look around and under the body.
‘Oh no, we ain’t got none of those,’ said the local constable with some satisfaction when Best asked about getting their detectives to the scene. ‘We just do it all ourselves, like,’ he added, managing with his half-smile, to make the whole concept of detection appear an unnecessary, uppity idea.
Of course you do, thought Best bitterly. Then you call in the Yard when the bird is well flown and all the evidence has been destroyed. Then you put obstacles in our way and encourage the local community to thwart us and treat us as enemies. Then you can blame us when we can’t find the culprit.
Best knew he shouldn’t anticipate trouble, but should be looking on the bright side, counting his advantages. For example, it was a great advantage that he was there at the outset, indeed that he had found the body. His knowledge of the case and the Force having no detectives at all were also blessings. Being called in when they had their own detectives could be worst of all.
He began forming his plan of action. He would offer, oh so tactfully, to take over the investigation, using his foreknowledge of the case and characters and its connection with the one they were already handling, to justify his immediate control. He would be modest, helpful and make it clear that he did not assume that his position of control was inevitable. Moreover, he would acknowledge that he would be utterly dependent on, and extremely grateful for, the local knowledge of the Hertfordshire officers. He needn’t have worried. When Captain Robertson, the divisional superintendent, arrived from Hemel Hempstead, he proved a reasonable man in charge of an overstretched division. Indeed, he confided with some disgust, the whole county Force numbered only 117 men. The fact that the Hertfordshire Police were well established helped as well. No beginners’ inferiority complex niggling its senior officers. And it was sufficiently close to London to make contact with the Metropolitan Police more usual and less threatening.
Superintendent Robertson was only too willing to let his constables guard the scene and leave the rest to the Yard man subject, of course, to permission from his chief constable. Blessedly, that officer was not only on the best of terms with the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police but was also situated miles away in Hertford which delayed the seeking of permission and gave Best merciful breathing space. Panic over. Now to work.
Minchin’s twisted body had been lifted on to a board which, in turn, had been placed on a hand ambulance and spirited away along a pathway which took it a long way round to the village, but avoided alerting those on the canal towpath. But such news travels like lightning and Best knew it was only a matter of time before the deluge of attention would begin. Nonetheless, before returning to search the area again, he had to contact Cheadle. He spent precious time writing and rewriting his message trying to find a way to say that he had found his quarry, but that he was dead.
In the end he could think of nothing better than: Quarry found, dcd. Taking charge, please send assistance. Letter follows. He was optimistic that Cheadle would realize what ‘dcd’ meant and the telegraph operator wouldn’t, although he didn’t hold out much hope of that. In any case, a telegraph addressed to Scotland Yard would doubtless put the man on full alert. Maybe he should just be straightforward and say, ‘Minchin found dead’. Otherwise, he would be accused of being fancy – and even obtuse, if Cheadle knew what that meant. Perhaps he shouldn’t say ‘taking charge’ until he had the chief constable’s permission?
‘Can I help you?’ asked a vaguely familiar melancholy voice. Best looked up to see Traffic Manager Albert Thornley, framed in the doorway, ‘I’ve heard the news,’ Thornley said, and sighed. He looked more worried than ever, as well he might. But what on earth what was he doing here?
The traffic manager sensed Best’s puzzlement, ‘I came up to see if I might trace up Minchin,’ he offered apologetically, avoiding Best’s incredulous eye. The man is well aware that that is precisely what I’m doing, thought Best, and he had made sure he got here before I did. In fact, he must have come by train! Small wonder he looked abashed. Curious wording that, too, ‘I came up’ not ‘I was sent up’.
‘I hear it was suicide?’
‘Seems so.’ Best was not going to be drawn.
‘That must be a relief – not too much work to do.’
‘Oh, I don’t know about that,’ said Best casually. ‘In a case like this – got to be sure.’ He paused and, without attempting to take the edge off his voice, asked, ‘You been here long?’
‘Oh, just a few hours.’ Thornley shifted his weight from one foot to the other under the Sergeant’s icy gaze.
Not prepared to be specific, obviously. What was going on?
‘He was our employee,’ explained Thornley stiffly, ‘and, of course, we felt it our duty to check what happened to him.’
Touching, that, answered Best’s unrelenting stare.
‘And the company want to be of as much assistance to the police as possible, naturally.’
Now, he really is lying, thought Best.
‘I’ve been asking around the village. Just see if he knew anyone here, or if any stranger had been seen hereabouts,’ Thornley added lamely. The man was embarrassed, as he might well be. He knew that asking around was exactly what Best had intended to do. But then again he certainly could use the help of a man who wielded some authority hereabouts.
Thornley could see to it that the telegraph was despatched quickly, get him a list of the canal company men likely to be at Marsworth on the night in question, help in parrying reporters, and find some trusty men to assist in guarding the scene. What he did not want Thornley to do was to accompany him when he went back to examine it – which he must do now, before complete darkness fell. Then he realized the futility of that – if the man was in any way involved in Minchin’s demise he would already have done what he had to do to cover his tracks. Nonetheless, Best gave Thornley enough work to keep him busy elsewhere and returned, alone. He was pleased to note that the local constable had carried out his guard duty discreetly and well and had not succumbed to the temptation to trample round the scene. Doubtless, the lingering, pungent smell had helped dissuade him.
When removing the body, the cause of death became apparent. Not only was Minchin’s outstretched hand loosely grasping an open razor but his wrists had been slashed and beneath them were pools of dried-up blood.
Suicide.
It looked quite conclusive but, just to be on the safe side, Best now went back to go over the ground again, raking through the broken branches, his handkerchief once again clamped to his mouth and nose. Something might have fallen from Minchin’s pocket, or there could be a letter and, although everything pointed to it, he mustn’t just presume that Minchin had killed himself. He had to keep an open mind. It seemed an odd place to go to end one’s life – but, then again, maybe only to a landsman like himself. These canals and their surrounds were the boatmen’s roads and streets.
But Minchin wasn’t a regular boatman. Maybe the compulsion just came over him and he headed for the nearest spot. Would it have been light enough, Best wondered? As a townie, he took little notice of the moon’s waxes and wanes but he knew it became very dark in the country on moonless nights. He must find out whether it had shone that night and if the sky had been clear or cloudy. But then, he mimed the movements, you wouldn’t need any light to find your own wrists. He continued his search, wavering only when maggots rolled slowly down the slimy leaves as he lifted them with his stick, before plopping on to the ground.
He had all but given up when he spotted something in the soft, peaty earth he had now revealed with his stick; a boot print just below where Minchin’s head had rested. What’s more, it was a deep and definite print with a clear, hobnail pattern. Obviously, the man had trodden around a deal before he did the deed, quite a natural thing to do thought Best, who couldn’t imagine cutting himself deliberately under any circumstances. He cursed himself for not noting what Minchin’s boots had been like. He made a note to get hold of them. Meanwhile, he had better get some plaster of Paris to preserve the print, just to be on the safe side.
One thing was certain, if anyone else had had a hand in the death of Joseph Minchin he would have been heavily bloodstained. But who would have noticed in the dark? He must ask Thornley to check. Ah, no, better not do that: he was no longer sure about Thornley.