Smallbone Deceased (10 page)

IV

A thousand miles to the south.

Although it was only mid-March the sun of Central Italy already had power in it. Il Sergente Rosso, of the Carabinieri Reali, district of Florence, substation of Arrugia, sweated and grumbled as he wheeled his black-painted bicycle up the steep hill from the Arno Valley to the upland village of La Chioccola.

It was a Sunday and it was a fiesta: one of the many fiestas which bestar the Italian Catholic year. At lunch in the substation there had been consumed, besides the inevitable pasta schuta, lamb, a rare delicacy, and great square wedges of Monte Nero cheese. Wine had been drunk. Sergeant Rosso sweated.

Nevertheless, he persevered. There was a certain measure of pride in the perseverance. It was not every day that appeals for help came from England to the police of the substation of Arrugia. Prestige was involved. And beside and above all this, Sergeant Rosso was a friend of the English. Had he not fought, in the black days of 1944, as a member
of the partigiani?
Had he not shared in the triumphs of 1945? Had not the very bicycle which he was wheeling been stolen from the Royal Corps of Signals?

Sergeant Rosso sweated but persevered.

Presently he reached the iron gate and white walls of the Villa Carpeggio, and five minutes later he was in official converse with Signora Bonaventura. He produced for her inspection a photograph and a card. Signora Bonaventura laughed over the one and clucked over the other. Certainly she recognized the photograph. It was Signer Smolbon, who stood apart from all other Englishmen in her memory, in that he was of a reasonable size. Not six feet high and a yard broad, like most Englishmen. But of reasonable stature: smaller, almost, than an Italian. But to say that he owned
her
house! She examined the card and clucked again. Certainly, he had stayed there for some weeks – two months, perhaps, in the previous summer. He had visited the galleries of Florence, and had purchased a number of earthenware cooking utensils of doubtful value. She had not seen him since, nor heard of him. What was it that brought the sergeant on his mission? So! Signor Smolbon was dead.
Santa Maria!
All must come to it.

A thousand miles to the north.

Sergeant Plumptree called on the secretary to the Bishop of London. He referred briefly to the circumstances outlined to him by the Reverend Eustace Evander. The secretary was able to reassure him. The clergyman concerned in the incident was now on missionary work in China; he had been out of England for more than a year. Sergeant Plumptree thanked the secretary. It had not seemed to him a very hopeful line, but all lines had to be hunted out.

Meanwhile, Sergeant Plumptree's colleague, Sergeant Elvers, had visited Charing Cross and spent a tiresome hour in the stationmaster's office. All the booking office clerks who had been on duty on the morning of Friday, February 12th. inspected a photograph of Marcus Smallbone and they all said that he looked very like a lot of people they had seen but they certainly couldn't swear that he had taken a ticket to anywhere in Kent on that particular morning. Sergeant Elvers thereupon departed to repeat the process at London Bridge, Waterloo and Victoria. One of his difficulties was that there was no station in Kent called Stanton or Stancomb.

At Maidstone, a member of the Kent Constabulary, equipped with a gazetteer, a large map, a county history and other useful books of reference, was compiling a list. Stancomb Peveril, Stancombe Basset, Stancombe Earls, Stancombe House, the Stancombe Arms, Stanton-le-Marsh. Stanton Heath, Staunton, Staunston-cum-Cliffe …

So the little wheels clicked and the spindles bobbed and curtsied, and the mesh was woven.

V

“The monetary position would seem, at first sight, to be fairly straightforward,” reported Mr. Hoffman that evening. “Under the Articles of Partnership the total net profits of the firm—and by that I mean, of all the allied firms—are to be divided into ten equal shares. Of these shares Abel Horniman took four, Mr. Birley three, and Mr. Craine three. The whole of Abel Horniman's share has now passed to his son, who is, I understand, his sole executor and beneficiary.”

“What about the other partners—Ramussen and Oakshott and those people?”

“They are salaried partners only.”

“I see. Yes. What did the total profits amount to last year?”

“After everything had been paid” – Mr. Hoffman consulted his notes – “a little short often thousand pounds.”

“That's not an awful lot, is it,” said Hazlerigg. “That would mean that Abel netted—let me see—a little under four thousand. He had that big house in Kensington to keep up—and, I understand, a country house.”

“A large farmhouse,” said Mr. Hoffman. “Almost, as you say, a small country house, with about two hundred acres of land, in Kent.”

“Yes. I thought he was making rather more. How do the figures compare with ten years ago?”

“A gradual but marked decline. In 1938 the net profits were in the neighbourhood of fifteen thousand.”

“But he was solvent. I take it—”

“That's not a question I can answer at once,” said Hoffman cautiously. “There may be undisclosed debts. But I think that the probability is that he was solvent.”

“Is there any real doubt about it?”

“Both the house in Kensington and the farm in Kent were subject to very full mortgages. No doubt, with house and farming property at their present levels, they could afford to carry them. But there was no margin in them.”

“What about other assets?”

“There's just his current account at the bank. As I say, it's difficult to be precise about it at this stage. There is about four thousand pounds in it at the moment.”

“I see.” It didn't accord very well with Hazlerigg's notion of the senior partner of a well-known firm of solicitors. “It's a bit hand-to-mouth, isn't it? Are you sure there were no securities no investments?”

“None that I can trace,” said Mr. Hoffman. “Most of the entries in his account are self-explanatory. There is his share of the firm's profits coming in, and regular payments out for housekeeping, tradesmen, club subscriptions and so forth. It's all done very methodically. There is a quarterly payment out of £48 2
s.
6
d,
for which I can see no immediate explanation. It may have been an insurance premium.”

It was not for him to comment or speculate. He was interested only in facts. Figures were facts. And facts, if handled aright, could be considered as so many figures. They could be grouped and set in proportion; they could be added together or subtracted from each other. And someone would doubtless say what the result signified. But not Mr. Hoffman.

“I'll be quite blunt with you,” said Hazlerigg. “I want to know if Abel Horniman had been embezzling money from clients. Our first idea, as you know, was that he might have been embezzling from a certain trust—the Ichabod Stokes Trust. If that trust proves to be all right, then I want equally to know about all the others. All the trusts of which Abel was trustee and the estates of which he was executor. Any place where he may have dipped his fingers into money which did not belong to him.”

“The present system of solicitors' accounting,” said Mr. Hoffman, “was designed to prevent that sort of fraud, or if it could not prevent it, then to bring it easily to light. I can assure you that if any such irregularity exists I shall very shortly know about it.”

“I'm sure you will,” said Hazlerigg. “But don't forget—Abel Horniman was a very good lawyer. He was also a methodical and painstaking man.”

Mr. Hoffman said nothing. He himself was exceedingly methodical and infinitely painstaking. It was not his place to say so.

As he was going a thought occurred to the chief inspector. “That farm that Abel had. You said it was in Kent. It hadn't got a name like Stanston or Stancomb?”

“Not that I know of,” said Mr. Hoffman. “As I recollect the name, it was something like Crookham-Crookham Court Farm, I think. I'll check it up for you.”

“Don't trouble,” said Hazlerigg. “It was just a passing thought.”

VI

“I couldn't help noticing,” said Eric Duxford to Bohun, “that the chief inspector confides a good deal in you. I understand that you knew him previously.”

“He is the friend of a friend,” said Bohun cautiously.

“Ah, yes.” Eric on-offed his smile briefly. “It must be very nice to have a friend at court.”

Bohun was not unduly upset by this innuendo. He was too busy speculating on what might lie behind the approach. Nor was he kept long in doubt.

“If I was the inspector,” said Eric, “there's one person I should keep a very careful eye on, and that's John Cove.” He leaned a bit closer and added: “I suppose you know that he was expelled from his public school for dishonesty.”

“As a matter of fact, I believe he did mention it,” said Bohun. “I didn't take him very seriously though. Even if it is true,” he added mildly, “I can't think that it forms a very firm ground for suspecting him of murder.”

“Once a bounder, always a bounder,” said Eric.

“Well, I'll pass it on to the inspector.”

“I thought you'd like to know.”

VII

“Are you off?” said John Cove.

“I think so,” said Bohun. “It's been quite a week, hasn't it?”

“Never a dull moment,” said John. “I say—you seem very pally with that copper.”

“Er—yes. Yes. He's a friend of a friend of mine.”

“Good,” said John. “Well, you can pass this on from me. If he really wants to lay hands on the murderer, he can't do better than watch our Eric.”

“Eric Duxford?”

“That's the chap. Oleaginous Eric, the only man who has been to more public schools than the Western Brothers.”

“What makes you say that—not about the public schools, I mean about the murder?”

“Well,” said John. “I admit it's not much to go on, but you can take it from me that he's a slippery customer. When he used to share this room with me he was always sliding out somewhere, and saying to me, if anyone asks where I am, tell them I'm at the Law Society,' or ‘Tell them I'm examining deeds in the City.' He'd always have the excuse cut and dried. Well, that's fair enough in a way, and I expect I shall ask you to alibi me if I want to get off early or push out and have some coffee or something. But Eric was
always
doing it. I got quite browned off telling lies for him. And another thing, I believe he fiddled the petty cash—”

“Even so,” said Bohun, “that's a long way from murder.”

“Once a cad, always a cad,” said John.

“Well,” said Bohun, “I'll pass it along to Inspector Hazlerigg.”

“That's the stuff,” said John. “After all, even if we don't get him for murder, we may catch him for embezzlement. Well, if you're coming my way, I'll walk across with you.”

They were putting on their coats when John said: “Just a second, while I warn Mrs. Porter. She's on with me tomorrow.”

“What do you mean, Lon'?” said Bohun. “Tomorrow's Saturday.”

“Of course, you only arrived on Monday, so you wouldn't know. We always keep a skeleton staff here on Saturday mornings. You know—to attend to telephone calls and deal with any important letters.”

For a moment the full import of this did not strike Bohun. “Who has to do it?” he asked.

“We do it in pairs, in turn. I expect you'll be next on the list, being the new boy.”

“You mean,” said Henry slowly, “that on Saturday mornings there are just
two
of you in the office—one qualified man and one secretary?”

“That's the style,” said John. “What's so madly exciting about it? If you're looking forward to a long Saturday morning alone with Anne Mildmay, take my tip and lay off. That girl's ginger.”

“No. It wasn't that. Tell me, who opens up the office on these occasions?”

“Sergeant Cockerill. He gets here at nine, and opens everything up. Then he comes back after everyone's gone and locks up again. That's about twelve-thirty, after the mid-morning post has come in.”

“Excuse me a moment,” said Henry, and fled.

He found Hazlerigg on the point of departure.

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg, when he had told him. “Yes. That certainly does sound promising. I'm afraid we've been wasting our time a bit. Thank you very much. Oh, and by the way, you might get me a list showing who was on duty on different weekends for the last three months.”

He took up the phone and dialed a code number, asked for an extension, and found Dr. Bland in his laboratory. “Hazlerigg here. That Smallbone job. Yes. I want a reautopsy.”

The telephone said something grudging.

“Certainly it's important,” said Hazlerigg. “I want to know exactly when he died. Anyway, to within a week.”

This time the telephone sounded distinctly rude.

Chapter Seven

… Saturday and Sunday …

LOCAL SEARCHES

I have often been told – I do not know whether it is true – that, in country cases particularly, local searches are often not made (laughter). Well, if that is so, I dare say it is alright, but it will not do in future.

A.F. Topham, K.C., to the Solicitors'

Managing Clerks' Association (1925)

Saturday morning in Lincoln's Inn was generally a restful time. Most of the firms observed the Saturday truce, and such members as turned up were apt to appear, briefly, in loose and disreputable clothes. Contrary to the general rule, however, a good deal of quiet activity seemed to be taking place in the offices of Horniman, Birley and Craine.

True, none of the partners put in an appearance, and the only official representatives of the firm were John Cove and Mrs. Porter. But in other rooms Mr. Hoffman and his industrious assistants were poring over books and papers, only too glad of a free hand for forty-eight hours. In Bob Horniman's office Mr. Gissel pursued his patient study of the bound volumes of Law Reports. He had disposed of the courts of Queen's and King's Bench and was working his way, via Admiralty and Probate, to Divorce.

John Cove was looking unenthusiastically at the morning mail when he was surprised by a visit from Bohun.

“What on earth are you doing here?” he asked. “You needn't imagine,” he went on uncharitably, “that you'll get any credit for attention to duty. None of the partners are here.”

“It isn't that,” said Bohun. “I want your help. You know you were talking about this weekend roster business. Can you tell me who was on duty and when—in the last few months, I mean?”

“It's all on the notice board,” said John.

“Yes, I know. I've got the list here. But did it actually happen as it says or was it fiddled about?”

“The Horniman system is not susceptible to fiddling. Let me look—yes. That's about right. I was ‘on' last on March 15th, and it was Tubby the week before, I remember, and Bob before him: then Eric. That would have been February 20th, and that's right, too, because he wanted me to stand in for him and I couldn't, because I had a heavy date—not that I would have done it anyway. The week before was Bill Birley, and before that, me again. You could check it with Sergeant Cockerill, of course.”

“Abel Horniman didn't take a turn with the rest of you?”

“Good heavens, no. Not in my time, anyway. He may have done it in the old days.”

“What about the girls—are they as stated?”

“I'm not sure,” said John. “I think so. I say, what's it all about? Are we supposed to have murdered the old boy on a Saturday morning?”

“Well—I—”

“Not a bad idea at that,” said John. “The office would be nice and quiet. Supplies a motive too. I mean, any client who comes to see you on a Saturday morning is really asking for trouble, isn't he?”

II

Sat., Feb. 13th Mr. Birley and Miss Chittering

Sat., Feb. 20th Mr. Duxford and Miss Cornel

Sat., Feb. 27th Mr. R. Horniman and Miss Mildmay

Sat., March 6th Mr. Craine and Miss Bellbas

“That's far enough,” said Hazlerigg. “Until we get a reautopsy. Bland said that Smallbone had been dead at least six weeks and he always errs on the side of caution. It gives quite enough scope as it is. In fact, unless Bland can be more definite it doesn't take us much further than List Two.”

“It lets out John Cove.”

“It would seem to do so,” agreed Hazlerigg cautiously. “Has the list been checked?”

“Not exactly. Cove says the male side of it is right.”

“Does he now?” The inspector regarded the eight names thoughtfully, clothing each set of symbols with its living flesh.

“If you accept this idea,” said Bohun diffidently, “about the murder being committed on a Saturday morning, does it mean that it must have been a joint effort by two people?”

“Not necessarily. It depends a little on the Saturday routine. Let's get in young thingummy and ask him about it.”

“John Cove?”

“Yes. He ought to be able to help us.”

“You're accepting his innocence as proved?”

“Not a bit of it,” said the inspector cheerfully. “I'm only going to ask him some questions. If he tells us the truth then we know what we want. If he doesn't then that's interesting, too, isn't it?”

John Cove was apparently a candid witness. He said: “I'm not sure how other people manage it. When I'm on duty I turn up about half-past ten. Sergeant Cockerill gets here first and opens the offices, and takes in the post and sorts it out and so on. When I arrive, or the girl, whichever turns up first, that's the signal for the sergeant to push off. I don't know what time he gets back to lock up, because, speaking personally, I'm always gone by then. About half-past twelve, I think, or perhaps one o'clock.”

“And when do you leave?”

“That all depends what my program is,” said John frankly. “I have been away as early as half-past eleven. But it's usually a bit later than that. Say midday.”

“And does the typist get away at the same time, or later?”

“Usually about the same time. Earlier if anything. There's not much for her to do really. She takes a note of any telephone calls, and she might have to type a couple of letters. The man who's on duty on Saturday is supposed to read everything that comes in, and deal with anything absolutely urgent. So far as I'm concerned I usually decide it can wait over till Monday.”

“Well, now, what do we get out of all that?” said Hazlerigg, when the door had shut behind John Cove.

“It looks,” said Bohun diffidently, “as if the scheme would work out quite well for a man, but it would be very risky for a woman. I mean, for instance, Mr. Birley could easily have arranged an appointment with Smallbone for midday. At a quarter to twelve he would tell the typist that there was nothing more to be done, and that she could depart—a hint she would be happy enough to take, I expect. This would give him an absolutely safe forty-five minutes, or perhaps an hour, before Sergeant Cockerill came back to lock up.”

“Yes, I think that's fair enough. Or if he wanted to avoid suspicion altogether he could leave the office at the same time as the girl—he could easily slip back again as soon as the coast was clear.”

“But if one of the girls was planning the job” – Bohun considered the idea – “it wouldn't be impossible, but the risks would be bigger. She'd have to take a chance on the man leaving early, and then come back herself. Besides, could she get Smallbone to the office at the time she wanted him—?”

“There's nothing much in that,” said Hazlerigg. “She'd only have to telephone him and pretend to be speaking on behalf of one of the partners. ‘Mr. Birley wants to see you at the office. Would twelve o'clock on Saturday be possible?' That sort of thing. She'd have to accept the risk that he might check back on the appointment.”

Hazlerigg leaned back again, and treated himself to another bout of swivelling. It was a lovely chair.

“There's one thing we get out of this weekend business,” he said at last. “I don't know whether you've spotted it, but I think it explains the rather curious method of concealing the body. What puzzled me before about this choice of hiding place was this—that the body was certain to be discovered in the end. It was a fair chance that it might be several weeks before anyone opened any individual deed box. From that point of view the particular box was rather well chosen, for as I understand it, the Ichabod Stokes Trust was a matter in which Abel Horniman did most of the work himself and, as he was ill, it was the least likely to be disturbed. We can see now that all the murderer was concerned with was that the body should not come to light
too soon.
It had to stay hidden just long enough to make it uncertain which weekend was the fatal one.”

III

“Excuse me, Inspector.”

“Of course. Come in.”

“You wanted to know at once if I found anything at all …”

“Certainly.”

“It's only a small thing.”

Mr. Hoffman held in his hand two receipts.

“I found them among some miscellaneous papers belonging to Abel Horniman.”

Hazlerigg read the first. “Dear Mr. Horniman, I write to thank you for your check £15 0
s
. 0
d
. which arrived safely today and very welcome. Thanking you once again for your great kindness and hoping you are keeping well. Ada Groot (Mrs.).” The second was in similar terms and was signed by Clarissa Holding.

“What about them?”

“Three things,” said Mr. Hoffman primly. “First, I can't find any record of any client of the name of Groot or Holding. And it ought to be easy to locate any client, with the system they've got here. Secondly, I can't find any record in the books of these particular payments having been made. Thirdly—well, look at the date. March 29th. The receipt says: ‘Your check which arrived today.' So it must have been posted on March 28th.”

“You mean—?”

“I mean,” said Mr. Hoffman slowly, “that Abel Horniman died on March 15th.”

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “That's quite a point. What's your idea? Do you think they are faked receipts? Cover for some payment that was never made?”

“I should require more positive evidence before committing myself to a definite assertion—”

“And a very proper Civil Service reply,” said Hazlerigg. “However, there's one place we might look for corroboration, if you haven't done so already.” He led the way out into the secretaries' office. “All these secretaries keep address books. Try Miss Cornel's.”

One theory fell to the ground at once. Both Mrs. Groot and Miss Holding were in the book.

“They both live at Sevenoaks. The same street, too,” said Hazlerigg thoughtfully. “Sevenoaks. Now isn't that where—yes, of course it is. Miss Cornel herself has a habitation at Sevenoaks. Is that only the arm of coincidence or is it something more sinister? We will send Sergeant Plumptree down there. Get hold of Mr. Cove, Hoffman, and find out Miss Cornel's address.”

Mr. Cove, who was busy in his office, managed to disengage his attention from his six – away forecasts long enough to oblige with Miss Cornel's address.

Inspector Hazlerigg telephoned Sergeant Plumptree with a fresh set of instructions, and went back to Scotland Yard in the hope of securing a few moments' conversation with Dr. Bland. In one of the basement rooms – the one used by Mr. Prince, the litigation clerk – Mr. Hoffman made a final note in his meticulous handwriting, cast a couple of columns of figures and then recast them absentmindedly, closed the books and went home to a vegetarian lunch.

Mr. Gissel finished with the last volume of the reported cases from the Judicial Committee of the Privy Council and straightened his aching back. He thought that it was all very probably a waste of time, but it didn't do to leave anything undone. He had once hanged a man by finding a single strand of wool caught in the join of a lavatory seat.

In his room John Cove listened to these sounds of diminishing activity. Twelve had struck some time ago from the Temple Church and Mrs. Porter had long been dismissed to her flat and her husband at Bow. At last he got to his feet and set out on a careful tour of the offices. It was as he had thought. They were empty.

John consulted his watch again.

Sergeant Cockerill, he knew, would be back at any time between half-past twelve and a quarter to one. He had, therefore, twenty minutes.

With rather a malicious smile on his face he made his way into the room next to his own – the one normally occupied by Eric Duxford.

Once inside he slipped the catch and started to search. In deference to what he had observed of Mr. Gissel's methods he took the trouble to put on a pair of wash-leather gloves and wore them throughout the proceedings.

A knowledge of Horniman routine saved him a certain amount of trouble, and he paid only nominal attention to the card index, the neat rows of folders and the stack of black deed boxes.

“It's the desk or nothing,” said John to himself, and without more ado he sat himself down in Eric's chair and started to pull open the drawers. The bottom ones on either side of the knee hole contained the usual jetsam of a lawyer's office – old appointment diaries, prints of the National Conditions of Sale, apportionment tables, a paper knife (put out as an advertisement by an enterprising Law stationer), a carton of saccharine tablets, several sets of auction particulars, a small box of legal seals, a number of rubber bands and the endless lengths of red tape which coil, Laocoönlike, through the pigeonholes of any solicitor's desk.

Only one drawer was locked: the one in the top left-hand corner: and finding this circumstance suspicious, John immediately devoted his whole attention to it. Like Sergeant Cockerill, he was of the opinion that opening locks with bent pieces of wire was an operation confined almost entirely to fiction. First, therefore, he tried all his own keys in the lock, only stopping when he had nearly jammed one of them on the pivot. “And it wouldn't look too good if I had to leave half a key broken off in the lock,” he reflected. “I think perhaps the time has come for some brute force and bloody ignorance.” He examined the office fire irons with an eye to their felonious possibilities, but finally left the room and went downstairs, bringing back with him a strong, stubby spade used by Sergeant Cockerill for shovelling coke.

He inserted the steel end, which fortunately had worn both fiat and thin, into the space between the top of the desk and the drawer, and leaned downward on the handle. The result was excellent. There was a sharp crack and the whole of the top of the desk came up three inches. Keeping his weight on the spade John used one hand to slip the drawer open under its now ineffective lock.