After the Exhibition: A Jack Haldean 1920s Mystery (A Jack Haldean Mystery) (13 page)

They walked along the field path to Lythewell and Askern, coming out, as before, opposite the chantry. This time, thankfully, there was no Henry Cadwallader to impede them. They were guided to the workshops, a horseshoe of single-storey buildings enclosing a cobbled yard, by the sound of hammering. A blue-painted gate, large enough to admit wagons and lorries, stood open and they walked into the yard.

An intelligent-looking, khaki-overalled man, a clipboard in his hand, was standing in the entrance to one of the buildings, totting up the numbers of a pile of barrels and long wooden boxes.

‘Bill,’ murmured Jack, indicating the pile. ‘I know we were interested in the chantry, but you could easily fit a body in one of those barrels.’

Bill grinned. ‘So you could, you old ghoul.’

The khaki-overalled man finished his calculations. ‘All right, Harris,’ he called to someone at the back of the shed. ‘You can get them loaded onto the carts, now.’ He turned as Bill and Jack approached. ‘Can I help you, gents?’ he asked. ‘I’m the foreman. Were you looking for the offices?’

‘We were actually looking for Mr Askern,’ said Bill. ‘Mr Colin Askern.’

The foreman pushed his cap back and scratched his head. ‘I saw him go up to the house,’ he said after a few minutes’ thought. ‘At least, that’s where I think he was off to, but if it was about an order, though, you’d be better going to the office. They can get in touch with Mr Askern for you.’

‘It isn’t about an order,’ said Bill. ‘As a matter of fact, I’m a police officer and we’re looking into a report of an incident that happened on Saturday night.’

‘An incident? Here, you mean?’

‘The incident actually happened in Pollard Wynd,’ said Jack, ‘but we wondered if anyone reported a car, say, waiting in the road near here on Saturday night.’

The foreman shook his head. ‘I can’t help you there, I’m afraid. There wasn’t anything to do here on Saturday night, as far as I know. You’d better talk to old Stroud. He’s the night-watchman. He might have seen something, I suppose. He doesn’t start till six o’clock but he lives in Bryce Street, if you want a word. I’m not sure of the number, but it’s next to the Guide Post pub.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bill. He took out his cigarette case and offered it companionably to the foreman. He nodded at the wooden boxes. ‘What’s in the crates, Mr …?’

‘Jones, Andy Jones,’ said the foreman, taking a cigarette. ‘Thanks very much.’ He took a light from Bill’s match and leaned his elbow on the boxes. ‘This is a consignment of church pews going up to …’ He inclined his head to look at the label on the nearest box. ‘Liverpool.’

‘That’s a fair old way,’ said Jack.

The foreman grinned. ‘That’s nothing. We ship stuff from here all over the world. Australia, South Africa, New Zealand … You’d be surprised. Mind you,’ he added, ‘those are usually single items, carved wood and statues and the like.’

‘Can you take us through the routine?’ asked Bill. ‘What happens when an order comes in?’

Mr Jones nodded affably, nothing loath to take a few minutes off. ‘I organised the way we do things. Someone places an order, maybe from the catalogue or perhaps after having corresponded with the office, for a custom-made piece, then the exact details of what’s to be made up are sent down to the yard. This is wood and stone I’m talking about, you understand. Mr Askern sees to anything that you might call fine art, pictures and such-like, but all the craftwork is produced here.’

‘It’s all despatched from here, though, isn’t it?’ asked Jack. ‘To the customer, I mean?’

Mr Jones nodded. ‘Yes, it’s all checked by me.’

‘So say I’d ordered a wooden pew. What would happen?’

Mr Jones pointed across the yard. ‘First it would be made in the wood shed, then it would be carved and varnished. Once it’s finished, one of the bosses, Mr Askern, say, will take a look if it’s a single item, or, if it’s part of a larger consignment, I’ll check it over to see it’s up to our standards. Then it’ll be marked as passed and taken to the packaging shed where it’s crated up and labelled. All our crates are custom-made for each item, of course. As each piece is made, there’s a label attached.’ He smiled. ‘We don’t want anything going to the wrong address, as you can imagine.’

‘No, I can see you wouldn’t,’ said Jack, looking at the hefty crates.

‘After it’s crated up, the final despatch labels are fixed on, and it’s brought here, to the despatch shed. Then it’s loaded onto the wagons and taken to the railway station.’

He tapped his clipboard. ‘I’ve got copies of all the labels of the goods we’re working on here. Then, when they’re despatched, they’re filed away with a note of the carrier. If it’s only a small package, such as a statue or a wood carving, that’s the end of it, but for larger items, such as these pews, for instance, we send a team of workmen to the church or chapel in question and make sure everything’s assembled and in place to the customer’s satisfaction.’

‘That seems a very thorough system,’ said Jack.

‘It’s not bad,’ agreed Mr Jones thoughtfully. ‘I wish I could organise the way we do a few other things. This is a great business, you know, but …’ He broke off, shrugging. ‘It’s not my place to offer suggestions. Anyway, I’ve worked here for nearly ten years and we’ve never had a consignment go astray yet.’

‘That’s an impressive record,’ said Bill, finishing his cigarette. He glanced at Jack who nodded in agreement. ‘Can you direct us to Mr Askern’s house?’

‘Go out of the yard,’ said Mr Jones, pointing, ‘turn left, and walk along the road for a little while and you’ll see a big house. Heath House, it’s called. It’s less than ten minutes’ walk. You can’t miss it. Don’t,’ added the man helpfully, ‘take the turn to the right or you’ll come to Whimbrell House. That’s Mr Lythewell’s. It’s easy to get the two mixed up, but Heath House is smaller.’

‘Thanks,’ said Bill easily. ‘Much obliged.’

Jack was thoughtful as they walked away. ‘It’s difficult to see,’ he said eventually, ‘how a body could be slipped into a crate without Mr Jones noticing.’

‘I knew you were trying to work that out,’ said Bill with a laugh. ‘It’s tempting, isn’t it? There’s lots of crates and boxes and it’d seem easy to get rid of it that way, but I just can’t see it, Jack, not with every crate made to order for the individual item. They do know what they’re crating up. No. If there’s a solution to where this body has disappeared to, I think we’re going to find it a lot closer to home.’

A butler opened the door of Heath House to them. ‘Mr Colin Askern, gentlemen? I will enquire if he is at home.’

‘I’m aware of the social conventions,’ said Bill, ‘but if he is at home, we need to see him. I’m from Scotland Yard and this is official business.’

The butler, startled out of his deferential imperturbability, allowed his eyebrows to rise. ‘Indeed, sir?’ He coughed. ‘I do believe Mr Askern is partaking of morning coffee in the garden. If you follow me, sir, I will take you to him.’

They went through the house and came out onto a delightful, sun-filled terrace where, under the shade of a tree, a stout lady, dressed in pastel violet, together with Colin Askern and Betty Wingate were sitting at a table with a tray of coffee. Askern had his back to them, but Betty started and gazed at them apprehensively.

The butler coughed politely. He was about to announce them when Colin Askern turned round and got to his feet in surprise. ‘That’s all right, Kingsdown,’ he said, dismissing the butler. ‘I know these men. Rackham, Haldean, what on earth are you doing here?’

‘Colin,’ chided the stout lady. ‘That’s not the way to greet guests.’ She adjusted her lorgnette and gazed at them. ‘Won’t you introduce us?’

Colin took a deep breath. ‘This is Chief Inspector Rackham and Major Haldean. I knew Rackham in the war. This,’ he said rapidly, completing the introductions, ‘is my stepmother, Mrs Askern, and you know Betty, of course.’

‘I remember you mentioning both Mr Rackham and Major Haldean, Colin,’ said Mrs Askern. ‘Pleased to meet you …’ She stopped, obviously taking on board Colin’s unease and Betty’s awkward silence. ‘Excuse me, did you say
Chief Inspector
?’

‘That’s correct, Ma’am,’ said Bill. ‘And I’m sorry to say, we’re here on official business.’

Betty’s startled squeak was amplified by Mrs Askern. ‘Official business?’ she repeated waveringly.

Colin turned on Betty Wingate accusingly. ‘Betty! You didn’t ask Rackham to come here, did you?’

She nodded dumbly.

‘Well, of all the …’ said Colin in disgust. ‘For heaven’s sake, Betty, we’ve been through this
endlessly.
’ He looked at Bill apologetically. ‘You’d better sit down. All I can say is that I’m sorry you’ve been dragged down here on a wild goose chase. You too, Haldean. This,’ he explained to Mrs Askern, ‘is about Betty’s nightmare,’ adding, seeing she was still flummoxed, ‘when Betty thought she saw a murder.’

‘Good heavens! But that was just a dream, surely?’

‘Unfortunately,’ said Bill heavily, taking a seat, ‘we have good reason to think it wasn’t.’

The silence was absolute.

‘Miss Wingate,’ said Bill, ‘made a full statement to us of what she saw and, as a result of that statement, we are proceeding with an investigation.’

‘They believe me, Colin,’ said Betty in a small voice. ‘They don’t think I’m making it all up.’ She stuck her chin out defiantly. ‘I told you so.’

‘I think the less you say, the better,’ said Colin icily. ‘It’s a great pity you didn’t talk to me before running to the police.’

Betty’s eyes glinted dangerously. ‘I did talk to you. And you told me I was dreaming.’

‘Precisely.’

‘Excuse me, Askern,’ said Bill, ‘but why are you so sure nothing occurred?’

‘Because it’s all complete and utter nonsense, that’s why! I was there, at the cottage. I even went and got the police because Betty was so sure she’d seen God knows what. There was nothing there!’

‘Bodies can be moved,’ said Jack. ‘In this case, we’re fairly certain it was.’

Mrs Askern gripped the table. ‘Colin,’ she said, in a voice brittle with control, ‘go and get your father.’ She looked at Bill and Jack and shuddered. ‘And perhaps these … these
gentlemen
had better wait inside the house.’

‘Shall I take them into the morning room?’ asked Betty.

Mrs Askern shuddered again. ‘Just as you please.’

‘You’d better come with us, Miss Wingate,’ said Jack quickly. Out of sheer humanity he didn’t want Betty to be left alone with either of the Askerns at that moment.

‘I’ll talk to you later, Betty,’ said Colin Askern grimly as he pushed his chair back from the table.

‘And that,’ said Jack, as the three of them trooped into the morning room and Betty clicked the door shut behind them, ‘is what being sent off with a flea in your ear feels like. Whoa, easy there!’

Betty Wingate had broken into sobs.

Jack hesitated for a moment, then put a comforting arm around her shoulders. ‘Hold on. I’ve got a handkerchief somewhere. Go on, dry your eyes with that. I’m not surprised you were upset. It’s rotten when no one believes you, isn’t it?’

Between sobs, Betty agreed that was exactly it.

‘We believe you, though.’

‘But Colin was so angry!’ She gulped for breath. ‘Why have you come back? Now, I mean?’

‘Because,’ said Bill, ‘I’ve got official permission to do so. That was pretty hard evidence we uncovered yesterday, Miss Wingate, and it needs acting upon.’

‘There … There wasn’t very much. I was thinking about it all yesterday and there wasn’t much.’

‘We can’t expect to find dripping daggers and bloodstained footprints every time we turn up, Miss Wingate,’ said Jack encouragingly.

There was an attempt at a giggle between the sobs.

‘It would be very satisfying if it was so, but sometimes evidence is just little bits and pieces that look like nothing much. Why, Bill here once solved a murder because of a pin. And there was a burglary at Signora Bianchi’s last night. That’s evidence of something not quite as mother makes going on.’

Betty dried her eyes. ‘Burglary? What burglary?’

Jack and Bill explained.

‘But that
proves
I’m not making it up,’ said Betty, indignation mixing with relief. ‘They have to believe me now!’

‘Whether they do or not, it certainly needs explaining. Now, why don’t you go and have a wash and tidy up before all the Askerns pile in on us? There must be a bathroom somewhere and I’m sure you’ve got some face-powder or whatever in your handbag. Keep the handkerchief,’ he added hastily as Betty attempted to give it back. ‘Go on. You’ll feel much better afterwards.’

‘When did I solve a murder because of a pin?’ asked Bill with interest once Betty had left the room.

‘It was Sir Ernest Childerton, if you recall, and it wasn’t so much the pin, it was the note attached to it that gave the game away, but I thought she needed cheering up,’ said Jack wandering aimlessly round the room. He paused beside the bookcase. ‘I feel really sorry for that poor girl. I’m glad she came to you, Bill. I want to see her proved right.’

‘Don’t take your eye off the ball, Jack. What we’re actually here to do is to solve a murder, not cheer up young ladies, however pleasant they may be.’

‘She is nice, isn’t she?’ said Jack, taking a book from the shelf and idly thumbing through it. ‘Very nice indeed. Hello! There’s a brief biography of Mr Askern senior in here.’

‘Really? What’s the book?’

‘It’s a history of the firm. Privately printed, of course. I say, Bill, listen to this! It says that Mr John Cedric Askern studied art in Milan before joining the firm. That was when the original Lythewell was in charge.’

‘Milan?’ asked Bill sharply. ‘And Signora Bianchi’s an Italian.’

‘Yes, I thought you’d be interested. It could be a coincidence, of course.’

‘Or it could be a link. What else is in that book?’

‘Nothing much about Mr Askern that I can see. There’s that perfectly hideous painting from the chantry as a frontispiece. The firm was established in 1866 … Great success … Daniel Vincent Lythewell, after studying in New York, took control of the firm following his father’s death in 1898. Snapshot of Daniel Lythewell on the deck of the
SS Concordia
,
also snapshot of John Askern with Whistler.’