It was a great foolishness to remove him from the scene of action for so long at such a vital time, thought Best. Trails grew colder by the minute.
The fly boats were gliding along the high ridge of the Tring Summit Level which was shared, somewhat ironically, by the tracks of the London/Birmingham railway. Soon they would begin going downhill again but before they reached Marsworth Junction, Best’s destination, there would be a run of no less than seven locks to work through. He decided to walk the rest of the way.
The late afternoon was pleasant, the air was fresh and he needed the exercise. In any case, he was becoming impatient of the slow progress. The sooner he got to Marsworth the sooner he would be back where his presence mattered. Nonetheless, he would be the first to admit that the rest and change had done him good and he strode out on to the sunlit towpath with a lively step and a whistle on his lips.
The path was busy. He dodged towing horses waiting for their boats to pass through the locks and hordes of unkempt children playing while doing the same. He acknowledged greetings from boat people and fishermen on the bankside, obviously bemused to see such a spruce and dapper gent striding along their lowly towpath. Some of the children were so affected by the sight they upped and followed him, Pied Piper-like, until called back by their parents.
Below and to his left, glinting in the slanting sunlight were two of the three huge reservoirs built to hold the water necessary to keep the locks operating. Many of the water birds they gave home to were new to Best, although he did recognize the mallards, tufted ducks and crested grebes common to London’s parks. The queue of colourful boats were making magical reflections in the murky waters of the canal. Even the more decrepit and dirtier kind managed to look quite appealing in their mirror image.
The news he received when he reached Marsworth brought him up sharp. A telegraph awaited him. It was from Cheadle:
Proceed immediately to Braunston – missing woman,
Mary Elizabeth Jones, answers description. Letter follows.
Well, at least he wouldn’t be expected to go the rest of the way by boat. With the aid of the lock-keeper’s railway guides he set to work. He could catch the train either by going north a few miles to Cheddington or south back to Tring, from where he would travel to Rugby. Trouble was, he could not get to either station in time for the next train in an hour’s time and there wasn’t another for four hours. Then, of course, when he arrived in Rugby it would be late and so most unlikely he would be able to obtain a horse and trap to take him to Braunston at that hour. That would mean he would have to stay overnight and incur more expense. He sighed. Not only would it be cheaper but probably quicker, and a great deal less of a headache just to stay on the canal.
Now, his boat had to complete the run down the locks to Marsworth, then up another run on the other side towards Leighton Buzzard. He decided to utilize the time by doing what he came to do in the first place, trace up Minchin.
Having come to a dead end with ‘Mary Evans’, PC Smith decided to begin work on Best’s list of male artists’ models to see if they could tell him anything the police did not already known about Matilda Franks. He didn’t feel entirely dejected by the Minchin episode, consoling himself with the thought that at least he had discovered that the man was a regular gambler – which could mean something.
Giving some money to Mrs Minchin had made things a little more difficult for him. To make up for the loss he would have to walk a bit more, but he was used to that. Divisional detectives and their assistants always had to walk the first three miles before becoming eligible for travel expenses – something the Yard men didn’t have to suffer.
Number one on his list proved wonderfully handsome and eager to assist, but somehow told him very little having only met Matilda twice and then only briefly. Numbers two and three were obviously effeminate and, while agreeing they had spoken to Matilda in passing, were clearly much more excited by their recollections of sharing the artistic stage with the beautiful number one. About him, they could remember a great deal. About Matilda, not much. When they began commenting on Smith’s well-developed torso being very paintable, he beat a hasty retreat.
The fourth man was quite elderly, obviously used by Bertrand to portray an old beggar, a blind man, a wise old senator or a young maiden’s grandfather. He had no recollection whatsoever of meeting Matilda, but Smith suspected his recent recollections on any subject were somewhat limited.
The fifth man, Montague Price, would have seemed more at home holding a straight bat on the playing fields of Eton than gracing a historical tableau in an artist’s studio: fair, clean-cut, impeccably English, with a slightly supercilious manner softened by a touch of humour in his pale-blue eyes.
‘Yes, of course I knew Matilda. A very pretty girl. Knew both girls, in fact.’
‘Both?’ Smith was puzzled.
‘Yes, Matilda and Helen.’
‘Helen posed as well?’
‘Oh, no, no. Helen is the painter. She took lessons.’
‘From Bertrand? You mean when Matilda sat?’
Price waved his hand correctively. ‘Only sometimes. She was just a member of our class and sometimes we were there when Matilda was posing and sometimes not.’
Smith felt at sea. ‘Your class. I don’t understand. I thought you were a model?’
‘I’m both, old boy. I’m a budding artist for my sins, who earns a crust with a spot of posing. Pater cut me off when I said I wanted to paint. Not an unusual story, I can assure you.’
‘And Mr Bertrand gives you lessons?’
‘Correct, Constable. Master classes he calls them. For myself and others, of course. A group of about ten.’
‘A mixed group?’
‘Well, Helen was the only lady, until she went off to Paris, now we are all male.’
Smith was stunned by this new turn. ‘Male young men?’
Price laughed uproariously then said, ‘Well, maybe not – you’ve seen some of them!’
Smith blushed and stuttered, ‘I didn’t mean . … I mean, what I did mean was it’s just that we didn’t realize that there were other young men coming to the studio besides models. It, it … complicates things.’ He felt foolish, but struggled to adjust his thoughts and think of the kind of questions Best would ask. Was he missing something again – like he had at the Three Tuns? His next question, when it came, came out clumsily. ‘These young men, were any of them particularly friendly with Matilda?’
Price hesitated very slightly before saying casually, ‘Not that I noticed, old boy. But then, I wouldn’t. Too busy learning the elements, don’t you know. Getting things in perspective.’ He grinned. ‘Hopeless at that I am, judging where the disappearing point should be …’
Joseph Minchin had last been seen going off to relieve himself by the final locks in the approach to Marsworth. Where had he gone after that, and why? Not for the first time Best wished he knew more about the man. The main impression, gained at the inquest was of a gaunt, sullen, non-communicative man. Woman trouble, Grealey had claimed. But maybe Minchin had merely been bored with his fellow workman’s chatter, or justifiably worried that the inquest might reveal some carelessness which could cost him his job. In the event, that seemed not to be the case. True, carelessness had been revealed but largely of a general kind pointing more to lack of good management. The revelation, of course, could still affect Minchin’s job.
He might have been afraid of revelations about the woman victim but those, too, had not as yet transpired. But why, if he was innocent of the murder, had he gone missing? Was he trying to escape woman trouble? Did he fear the police were on his track? If so, what had given him that idea? Must have been something definite; he didn’t seem like a man who would panic. And how do you know that, Best chastised himself. You saw him once, side view, for a few minutes – and heard a little about him from his colleague, Grealey, and boss, Albert Thornley – both of whom may have had their own reasons for blacking Minchin.
Maybe Minchin had stolen the woman one of them wanted? Seemed a bit unlikely. Thornley was too preoccupied with his work to get up to that kind of thing and a well set-up man like Grealey could surely outshine Minchin? But you could never be certain about such things. For example, he had never heard Minchin speak and people could alter before your eyes as soon as they did that. The charms of a pretty girl could diminish swiftly and, conversely, her plainer sister could flower and begin to wind herself into your dreams, and you could begin to wonder how you ever imagined she was plain! Take Helen Franks. She had seemed so colourless when he had first seen her but now seemed to make many of her brighter sisters seem flashy, silly and frivolous. But then, she was an accomplished deceiver, wasn’t she? A murderess, even? He shook all thoughts of her from his mind. Or tried to.
Back to business. Why had Minchin gone missing at Marsworth of all places? Was this where the murder had taken place? Did he have some unfinished business with regard to the deed, some telltale tracks to eliminate? Did he have friends here? Or was there something else about this place? Best gazed across the canal up over the sloping fields dotted with grazing horses to the squat Norman tower of Marsworth village church. From here, it looked a quiet, peaceful, pretty little spot. What could Minchin have wanted here? He must go up into the village to investigate – if he had time.
But first, he should look again at the precise place where the missing man had last been seen – back alongside the locks which ran down into Marsworth. He stood outside the junction offices on the west side of the canal, in a triangle of land formed by the Grand Junction, which here curved off north eastwards, and the narrow Aylesbury Arm which turned west dropping down abruptly and spectacularly to the plain below. Retracing his steps he climbed over one of the Aylesbury Arm locks, and gazed down the steep staircase of seven locks, on to the picturesque bridge and white house which sat at the bottom of the drop, and then over to Aylesbury in the distance. A delightful scene, unbelievably pretty. This was better than following criminals up the dingy Caledonian Road! Had Minchin been similarly struck and decided to leave London and his troubles behind?
On the Grand Junction towpath, heading south again, he passed two large, square, water pits and began to wish he had taken advantage of facilities back at the offices. With water pits on his right and the canal on his left Best’s urge to urinate became urgent. It was no use, he must find a convenient spot. Maybe he should go back to the pub which overlooked the canal a few yards back? No, it was just too late and too far. The matter was urgent.
He made a dash for the light fringe of trees and bushes which lined the towpath and pushed his way far enough to ensure discretion before giving way. Such relief! But what a dreadful smell! As relief became more complete the smell became more overpowering. Maybe this was a favourite watering-hole but, somehow, the odour was not that of human excrement but something thicker, richer and far more unpleasant. Surely, thought Best, the innocent townie, even rotting vegetation could not smell so vile? Maybe there was a pig farm hereabouts?
Gazing around, still suffused by the lingering glow of satisfaction at a relief mission accomplished, his eyes lit upon a scrap of brown corduroy peeping from the undergrowth a few yards away. At least, that’s what it looked like. He smiled, had someone got there too late and been forced to leave their trousers behind as a result? His curiosity aroused he went to investigate. It was then that he found Joseph Minchin. It was not a pleasant sight.