Breaking the Circle, page 16
‘Sergeant,’ Crawford murmured, but was ignored.
‘And started packing up Evadne’s things.’
‘She was my wife,’ Principal pointed out.
‘With the emphasis on was.’ The woman turned to Crawford and grasped a lapel. ‘He broke my daughter’s heart, Constable,’ she said, shaking him with every phrase. ‘Broke it, do you hear? All she did, poor darling, was to try to bring comfort to the bereaved and he treated her as though she was walking the streets. You pig!’ she suddenly screamed at her erstwhile son-in-law. Then, in normal tones to Crawford, ‘All men are beasts, I’m afraid, Constable.’
Crawford decided it was time he took control. He held the two protagonists out at arm’s length and as far as possible from each other. ‘Let us get a few things clear, sir, madam,’ he said. ‘Firstly, I am a detective sergeant, not a constable.’ They both shrugged – it was of less than no interest to either of them. ‘Secondly, I was unaware that this house had been handed back to the family by the police, as it is a crime scene until work on your wife’s,’ he turned his head, ‘daughter’s murder is complete.’
The woman huffed. ‘There were a few padlocks,’ she said, ‘but I assumed this pig had fitted those.’
‘No, madam. They would have been Metropolitan Police padlocks. I hope this isn’t the case, but by doing what you have done here, you may have completely ruined any chance we had of catching Mrs Principal’s killer.’ He stopped to let it sink in, but if he was expecting remorse, he was doomed to disappointment.
With a sigh, Crawford resumed. ‘So, what I would like to happen now is that everything currently on the pavement and on the cart is brought back into the house. And that one of you, I don’t care which, finds me a picture of the late Mrs Principal, which I can take back to the station and use as part of my investigations.’ He looked first at the husband, then at the mother and thought, not for the first time, how some people just seemed to draw the short straw when it came to family.
‘Well,’ Perceval Principal drew himself up again and tugged his jacket straight after it had been touched by constabulary fingers. ‘I certainly don’t intend to do any lifting of anything. And I don’t have a photograph of my wife; I don’t believe in images of people, it smacks of idolatry.’
‘You must have been a lot of fun to live with,’ Crawford remarked, surprised to hear the words coming out loud. ‘I suggest in that case, you leave the building and, on your way out, tell your men to return the crates. And you, Mrs …?’
‘Farquharson,’ she told him, begrudgingly, as if each syllable cost money.
He didn’t bother to repeat it back to her but carried on with his demands. ‘You will also leave the building, but I am sure that as her mother, you have a photograph?’
She looked him up and down as if he smelled like the Thames with the tide out. ‘No,’ she said, ‘indeed I do not. I warned her, I warned her not to marry that man and when she did, I removed all of her pictures and have never replaced them. Your superiors will hear of this,’ she said, with a final nose-wrinkled glare, and swept out on the heels of her son-in-law, only to collide with a packing case carried by a burly carter.
‘Sorry, m’um,’ he muttered, touching the brim of his cap.
‘Pig!’ she screamed and was heard clattering down the steps and, he fervently hoped, out of Andrew Crawford’s life for ever.
‘I’ve got a picture, Mr Crawford.’
The soft voice at the sergeant’s elbow made him jump and he looked down. ‘Oh, hello, Annie,’ he said to the maid. Crawford prided himself on remembering names and he could tell she was pleased as her face wreathed in a smile. ‘I didn’t recognize you up there on the landing.’
‘You wouldn’t have been expecting me, Mr Crawford, I don’t expect,’ she said. ‘But Mrs Farquharson, she came round for the keys and I come round, to see what she was doing. You could have knocked me down with a feather when I saw as he was here. No right, neither of them.’
Crawford decided to play devil’s advocate. ‘I suppose, as next of kin …’
‘So they might be,’ Annie said. ‘But Mrs P, she left all her things to me. Look.’
And she took a long, official-looking envelope out of her pocket and held it out.
Crawford glanced through it. It was a will, all properly witnessed, by a couple of girls from the brothel on the corner, judging from their names. It left all of which Mrs Evadne April Principal née Farquharson died possessed to her faithful maid, Ann Elizabeth Watkins. Short. And, for anyone who might be watching the faces of Perceval Principal and Mrs Farquharson when it was revealed, very sweet.
He smiled down at Annie. ‘That was very kind of her,’ he said.
‘Well, she didn’t think of herself as having no family,’ Annie said, simply. ‘And that lady being offed … I mean, passing Beyond the Veil … she wrote this out and got it witnessed as soon as she heard. She said you can’t be too careful.’
‘Indeed, you can’t,’ Crawford muttered. Was this another red herring dragged across his path, with another suspect in its wake, or … he looked at Annie, her face turned up to him full of trust. ‘Look, Annie, if you need any help with you-know-who, just show this card to any policeman and they will let me know. And meanwhile … the picture?’
‘Oh, yes.’ She rummaged in another pocket. ‘Here she is, poor lady. Looks different in this picture, don’t she? Than when … well, you know.’
Crawford looked at the postcard he held between finger and thumb. Very different from the dead woman stretched out in her séance room. But very like Muriel Fazakerley. Very like indeed.
TEN
Like most people who had seen Florence Rook after she died, Crawford had tried to wipe it from his memory. And in any case, she was not looking her best. He made his way to Rose and Crown Yard to find a picture, but he knew already what he would find. That without the hair matted with blood and the missing teeth, the swelling and the trauma, Florence Rook would look very much like her two dead sisters. He knew that he would probably face some derision from his colleagues – after all, there was nothing to stand out about these women; theirs were faces which, with the occasional quirk and twitch, could be encountered on any street of any town in the land.
One person who could not be encountered in any street of any town was the moustachioed and quiffed figure of Stockley Collins. He and Constable Leyton were at work in the dead medium’s house, clicking, dusting, adjusting as usual. The lad had felt a little queasy over this one, it was true, but he’d pulled himself together and had got on with the job.
‘Hoping for a match, Stockley?’ Crawford asked him.
‘Expecting one rather than hoping,’ the fingerprint man said. ‘Ten to one the same incriminating dabs will be all over this place as they were over Evadne Principal’s – and, had I been called in, Muriel Fazakerley’s. Whether any of said dabs will match the collection at the Yard, however, is a different matter.’
‘How many have you got now?’ Crawford asked.
‘Thirty-six,’ Collins told him, ‘and that includes the two Stratton brothers. I reckon by the time we’ve got a meaningful collection in the shoeboxes, it will be the year of our Lord 2022 or thereabouts.’
‘Constable.’ Crawford turned to the young man crouching under the black hood, rather like a wretch facing the Billingtons. ‘This is what the late Mrs Rook used to look like.’
Leyton shook his head.
Collins looked at the photograph too. ‘Arsonist,’ he said, ‘with a tendency to kleptomania and sadistic impulses.’
‘Really?’ Crawford was nonplussed.
‘No, but pretty well everybody back at the Shop believes all that Lombrosian mumbo-jumbo. It’ll take young Leyton and my good self years to show them the error of their ways. Don’t … oh, bugger.’ Collins nudged Crawford aside. ‘I’d just dusted that and you’ve brushed your bum against it.’
He wondered, as he walked back to Scotland Yard, how seriously he would be taken when he pointed out the similarity to John Kane. Kane was a reasonable man and probably gave Crawford more rope than almost any other inspector would give a lowly sergeant, but even so … he mulled as he walked, his mind elsewhere than on his direction, so it came as somewhat of a surprise to him to find, when he stubbed his toe on a low step, that it was the step up into the Petrie Museum, rather than his place of work.
He stood for a moment, looking up at the façade of the building in some confusion. It was true that he would probably get more sense out of Margaret Murray than anyone at the Yard, but as a way of moving the case forward, of getting the faces of the mediums out to the Press and on flyers, it was not really a helpful move. Reluctantly, because he could do with a cup of tea and a sit-down as much as anything, he turned to make his way back to the Yard, another half an hour’s walk, at least the way his feet were throbbing.
Before he could cross the road, he heard someone call his name and turned to see Thomas emerging from a side door.
‘Hello, Detective Sergeant,’ the tea shop proprietor carolled, with only a slight trace of irony. ‘What brings you here?’
‘I don’t know, Thomas, to be honest,’ Crawford said, scratching his head. ‘Feet. Exhaustion. Desperation.’
Thomas laughed. ‘You’ve come to the right place,’ he said. ‘I’ve just been up to the Prof’s room with a top-up of garibaldis but she’s on her way down. I’ve got a batch of Chelsea buns coming out of the oven and she was tempted. Why don’t you pop over and join her – you know she’s always pleased to see you. And I wouldn’t mind a chat either, now you’re here.’
The thought of Thomas wanting to talk to the police on purpose rather tickled Crawford’s fancy and, apart from that, he could almost smell the Chelsea buns. But he really should … ‘Oh, all right, Thomas,’ he said. ‘You’ve twisted my arm.’
They approached the kerb and looked both ways; the traffic was murderous as always. They darted across, taking opportunities when they could.
‘In my old dad’s day,’ Thomas observed, ‘the crossing sweepers never had to contend with all this. They had all the time in the world, the odd cab, a dray perhaps. But now, you take your life in your hands every time you step off the pavement. You lot ought to be doing something.’
‘There is a man on point duty,’ Crawford said, quite reasonably. ‘If no one takes any notice of him, it’s hardly his fault.’
‘There should be rules,’ Thomas grumbled.
‘There are,’ Crawford said, ‘and same as before, they only work if people take notice.’
They pushed open the door of the Jeremy Bentham and were immediately enveloped in the warm, tea-scented ambience that Thomas had made his own. For an old lag, Crawford thought, he has a lot of taste and discernment.
‘I assume you didn’t want to talk to me about the traffic arrangements in London,’ Crawford said.
‘No.’ Thomas looked serious. ‘Let’s go into the back parlour. The prof’ll know where to find us.’
The back parlour was known only to a special few. It was discreetly lit and only Thomas and his most trusted staff served there. At the moment, it was empty.
‘I wanted to ask what’s happening with poor old Adolf,’ Thomas said, sitting down at a table in a corner, making sure he faced the door.
‘Adolf?’ Crawford was at a loss.
‘Adolf Beck. He was arrested in connection …’
‘I remember,’ Crawford said, apologetically. ‘To be honest with you, Thomas, I had quite forgotten the poor man. I would imagine they let him go.’
Thomas looked at him with as near to dislike as he ever showed on his face. ‘You would imagine, would you?’ he said, drumming his fingers. ‘You would imagine. Well, that’s all right then. He’ll probably be walking in any minute.’ He craned his neck theatrically, looking at the door. ‘No. No sign.’
Crawford started to worry. The last he had heard of Adolf Beck was that he had been arrested. But he didn’t usually deal with the paperwork involved in setting anyone free. Surely, he wasn’t still in the cells? Although, if he were, that could be a good thing. He tried to sell that point of view to Thomas.
‘I don’t think he is still in custody, Thomas, but if he is, that could be a good thing.’
‘Oh ar? Tell that to the marines.’ Sometimes Thomas delighted in letting his veneer peel away a little. ‘Banged up with God knows what lowlife and thinking he’s going to be in there years, like he was last time. It’s all very fine and good for you to say it would be a good thing, but I doubt Adolf would feel the same. Why would it be, anyway, a good thing?’
‘Because,’ Crawford said, aware he was about to share with a civilian things which currently only the police knew, ‘it would mean he couldn’t possibly have committed the latest murder.’
‘Another one?’ Thomas was not surprised as such, because murders in London were not really that rare. But he assumed, rightly, that it was another in the series. ‘Another medium?’
‘Yes,’ Crawford nodded. ‘Last night, just off Pall Mall. Florence Rook.’
Thomas furrowed his brow. ‘Don’t I know that name …?’
‘You might well, but you’re thinking of Florence Cook. The victim was somewhat of a follower of the lady.’
‘I remember, yes. She was all the rage for a while, wasn’t she? Her and Katie King.’ He sighed appreciatively. ‘We all thought she had it pat. None of us could spring a lay like her.’ He doffed a metaphorical cap.
‘Well, anyway,’ Crawford said, ‘Mum’s the word. I’ll check on Mr Beck as soon as I get to the Yard.’
The door swung open and a diminutive archaeologist stood there, looking at two of her three favourite men in the world. She stepped forward, slipping off her coat into Thomas’s waiting hands.
‘Andrew! How lovely! I hope you’re joining me for a Chelsea bun.’
‘Indeed I am,’ Crawford said, resuming his seat, out of which he had bounced as soon as he heard her voice. ‘I need to chat to you anyway.’
‘Ooh,’ Margaret sat down, settling herself comfortably. ‘More information on poor Miss Plunkett? I have been worrying about the poor dear, let alone feeling rather guilty.’
‘Guilty ain’t really the word, is it?’ Thomas had reappeared with a plate of buns and a tray of teacups. A maid followed with the pot and accoutrements but she left immediately with a courteous bob.
‘What a sweet girl she is,’ Margaret said, smiling. ‘Always so polite. Shall I be mother?’ And she poured the tea while Andrew Crawford handed round the buns. ‘I know I shouldn’t feel guilty, Thomas,’ she carried on when they were all settled. ‘But I do. Poor Christina was beaten mercilessly in mistake for me.’
‘So the only guilty party is the man who did it,’ Crawford said. ‘Not you. Reports from the hospital before I set out say that she is much better, expected to go home in a day or so.’
‘That’s good.’ Margaret Murray took a bite from a still-warm Chelsea bun and nodded to Thomas. ‘Delicious,’ she said, with her mouth full.
‘I just wanted to show you these,’ Crawford said, fishing the pictures out of his inside pocket and spreading them in front of her. She looked at them closely then picked them up and looked closer still.
‘They’re … well, they are all very alike, Andrew,’ she said. ‘But they’re not … unusual women, are they? I mean, mousey hair, greyish eyes, even features. If they all had something like a wall eye or a broken nose, but … Thomas.’ She held out the pictures to him. ‘What do you think?’
Thomas looked at them and could see her point. On the other hand, he could see Crawford’s point as well. As three women, they didn’t really need a second glance. Pleasant enough faces, but nothing startling. Slightly different ages, but they had all aged well. You wouldn’t gasp in amazement if they were lined up in front of you. But – and he couldn’t ignore it – they had one thing in common. They were all dead. And that had to trump everything else. He put the cards down. ‘If they wasn’t all dead, I’d say no more about it,’ he said. ‘But seeing as how they are, it’s a bit of a facer, ain’t it? My old man used to say there was no such thing as coincidence and I must say, in this case, I agree.’
Margaret Murray sat back. She was being outvoted, that much was obvious. And she was happy to be so. Thomas was right; the fact that they were all dead made the resemblance more than a mere quirk. It made it something important.
‘Does it help us, though?’ She had to express her doubts. ‘We can’t go round London warning every medium in her thirties and forties with mousey hair and a nice pleasant face to watch out, she might be murdered.’ She looked at the two earnest faces in front of her. ‘Well, can we?’
Crawford was the first to speak. ‘No, but …’ He looked rather crestfallen. ‘It’s a clue that isn’t even slightly helpful,’ he said, despondently.
‘No information is ever unhelpful, Andrew,’ the archaeologist said kindly. ‘That’s why in my line of work, we never throw anything away, no matter how unimportant it may seem. Who knows whether, in the future, the other half of it may emerge and everything will be clear. And so it may yet prove with this. Although we do seem dogged by similarities, don’t we? Miss Plunkett being mistaken for me. Poor Mr Beck being identified by Miss Lorne. We need to keep all this in mind and I’m sure something will drop into place. What do you think, Andrew? Thomas?’
The men nodded. Crawford still had to put the pictures into evidence, but he would let that take him where it may. And meanwhile, he was up by a Chelsea bun and a cup of tea, so the day was looking brighter.
Margaret could have watched him all day. The way Kirk Merrington etched the palm leaves and the reeds that fringed the Nile, the way he duplicated the folds in the robes of the high priests. She particularly admired the elaborate top-knot he had given the pharaoh, resting, in an unguarded moment, without his double crown of the Two Kingdoms.
It was the quiet time at the Petrie Museum, a little after lunch, when the hordes of the morning had gone and the hordes of the afternoon had not yet arrived. Merrington had found himself a little corner of Margaret’s inner sanctum where the light hit his table perfectly and he was transcribing his rough sketches into the finished article.
