The Loss of the Jane Vosper (24 page)

‘But you know, chief-inspector,’ he said when French had finished, ‘it’s not our shed. We’re only the agents. I don’t see that we have the power to give you this authorization.’

‘Then can you get in touch with the owner?’

‘Unfortunately we can’t. He’s abroad.’

French smiled. ‘I’m afraid we can’t wait for his return,’ he said pleasantly. ‘You understand that while we’re not at present making any charges, there’s reason to suspect a serious crime has been committed. An immediate investigation must, therefore, be made. We can, of course, get the necessary authority, but that means delay, and we’d rather go ahead at once. We can’t do any harm, Mr Duckworth. I’m prepared now to sign an undertaking that we’ll leave everything as we find it, and if we prevent you letting it, we’ll pay fair compensation.’

Duckworth shrugged. ‘If you’ll put that in writing I’ll give you the permission. As a matter of fact,’ he went on in a burst of confidence, ‘the owner told us he didn’t want to be bothered with business, and left us free to do what we thought best about his property.’

A short guarantee was soon drawn up, and this French signed in the presence of two of the clerks. He was extremely pleased. There would now be no delay through red tape, and the job would be pushed ahead as quickly as was humanly possible.

He borrowed Duckworth’s telephone and instructed Carter to go down to the shed as soon as he was ready. Then he walked on to Redliff Lane, opened the large entrance gates, and stood waiting inside them.

He had not a long vigil. Scarcely ten minutes had passed when a light van drove up and turned into the shed. French closed and locked the gates and, following down the laneway, saw his men dismounting.

It was half past four, getting dusk in the streets and almost dark in the shed. ‘We’ll have those lamps lighted before you start,’ French directed, and soon two small portable acetylene flares shone out. French had a look round to make sure their operations were invisible from the adjoining buildings. Then he gave the word to begin.

A sledgehammer, some sets, a pickaxe, shovel and other tools had by this time been unloaded, and the men had taken off their coats and were getting to work. ‘That area where you see the chalk marks,’ French explained, ‘and you needn’t break more of the bricks than you can help.’

Some strenuous work with hammer and set cleared away a few bricks, leaving exposed the concrete on which they had rested. The bricklayer examined this with a professional air.

‘Fresh concrete, sir,’ he said. ‘Not been here many days.’

‘Good,’ French returned. ‘You may cut through it.’

The operations were slow, and French covered his impatience as best he could. Cold chisels were driven under the remaining bricks, in the attempt to raise them undamaged from their bed. This was accomplished in most cases, and at last the whole chalked area was stripped.

Then followed the removal of the concrete. It was not very hard and was smashed up by blows of the hammer and the pieces lifted out.

French could hardly contain himself as he watched these operations. There was something exciting about an excavation, an excavation, that is, which was expected to reveal hidden mysteries. It was not the first time by many that he had been present at such an operation. Usually it had been out of doors and, by some strange coincidence, usually it had been in bad weather. He remembered that awful night of rain and storm on the slopes of Cave Hill above Belfast, when he and the Belfast police had watched four suspects digging for the black box they so much wanted. And that excavation in the filling of the new Guildford-Godalming bypass, with the ghastly finds that were there unearthed! Other more orthodox diggings he had also been responsible for, mostly in cemeteries: the exhumation of bodies. For French work with pick and shovel had grim and sinister memories.

The bricklayer and his helper, as good trade unionists, knocked off when the concrete was all out. The attack was shifted to the clay and the labourers had their innings. The clay came out easily, practically without the use of the pickaxe, showing it had been but lately placed in position. French noted with growing doubts that so far there were no signs of the timbering, though he realized that at the end of the tunnel there would be a large space for working in, and the timbering was probably set back beneath the overhanging brickwork. As the hole deepened his eagerness increased till he could no longer stand still. He paced jerkily up and down while the labourers took spells at the work.

Gradually the level of the clay fell. He needn’t be impatient, French reminded himself. The tunnel would have to be pretty far down below ground level. Otherwise the traffic of the railway and of Royal Mint Street would crush down all Rice’s timbering.

Probably, he thought, they would not get down to anything of interest that night, and he began to consider how long they would work, and whether he would have some food sent in for the men. He didn’t think it would be fair to keep them later than about ten or eleven o’clock, but –

A hoarse exclamation from one of the labourers broke into his train of thought. He hurried over to where the man was standing in the hole, which was now about three feet deep.

‘What is it?’ he asked testily.

But before the men replied, he saw. There, just beginning to show at the bottom of the excavation, was a little hump, a small rounded projection sticking up above the general level. At one edge the clay had fallen away from it, and its surface showed clean. It was covered with grey serge!

After a sudden sharp exclamation French stood as if turned to stone. Grey serge! Grey serge with a tiny check pattern! How often in this case had he not read and written the words, ‘Grey serge with a tiny check pattern?’

Slowly and automatically he took off his hat and wiped the perspiration from his forehead, as he stood staring at the grey covered object. Paralysis seemed to have smitten the others also. The man who had made the discovery climbed awkwardly out of the hole, and joined the others as they stood round, looking down.

Then French pulled himself together. ‘Get it uncovered,’ he said in a low tone.

The labourer climbed down again and began very carefully to remove the clay from about the remains. Soon its form began to reveal itself. The body was lying on its side, and the hump that had first come into sight was the shoulder. It was lying with the knees drawn up to the chest, so placed, French imagined, to reduce to a minimum the excavation required.

‘Don’t move it,’ he went on. ‘Clear it as much as you can, then we’ll have it photographed before we get it out. Here, Carter, you know what I want. Carry on while I go and phone.’

French rang up the Yard, reporting briefly to Sir Mortimer Ellison, and giving instructions for a photographer to come at once to the shed. Then he informed Superintendent Nairn of Leman Street of his discovery. ‘The body’s in your division, super, so I suppose you’ll deal with it,’ he went on. ‘Your doctor, and so on?’

‘I suppose I must,’ Nairn agreed, ‘though I’d much rather leave it to you. Right. I’ll get the doctor and a stretcher and come round at once.’

French wondered if he were growing callous when he found that his feeling of satisfaction at this step forward in his case far outweighed any regrets for Sutton’s fate. Sutton he had believed to be dead from the first; indeed, he had never had much doubt that he had been murdered. From the point of view of Sutton, therefore, the discovery made little difference to his outlook. But to his investigation it made all the difference in the world. It meant probably the difference between success and failure. And success, apart from the advantage it would be to French personally, would enable him to perform the only service for Sutton that was left – to avenge his death. Success would mean that Sutton’s murderer would hang.

French had scarcely returned to the shed when those he had called began to arrive. First came Superintendent Nairn and the men with the stretcher. The superintendent was filled with interest, but declared that the case was French’s and that he would only interfere where his duty demanded. Then the photographer appeared and was set to photograph the body from different angles. Before he had finished the doctor arrived. This latter was a small talkative man with a perennial twinkle in his eye.

‘Hallo, Nairn, you ghoul,’ he began breezily. ‘What horror are you battening on now?’

‘Evening, doctor,’ Nairn returned. ‘Do you know Chief-Inspector French of Scotland Yard?’ And when the two men had shaken hands went on: ‘This is the chief-inspector’s case. He’s found this body and he wanted you to see it before he moved it.’

‘Sorry to have called you out, doctor,’ French said pleasantly. ‘I wasn’t absolutely sure it was necessary, but thought it better to be on the safe side.’

‘What he means by that,’ Dr Caldwell said in a loud aside to Nairn, ‘is that if he’s seen anything he makes the most of it, but if it’s missed it’ll be my fault. As full of tricks as a circus monkey.’ He glanced at French, and the suspicion of a wink floated over his left eye. ‘They’re all the same, police officers. Aren’t they, super?’

‘They can’t cover their mistakes so easily as doctors,’ Nairn rejoined with obvious pride at his powers of repartee.

‘Older than the hills,’ retorted Caldwell with cheery scorn. ‘Here, chief-inspector, do you expect me to get down into that blessed hole? For if you do, you never made a bigger mistake in your life.’

‘Then we may get the body out?’

‘Of course you may. Put it on to the stretcher and lift it on to that bench. Do you know whose it is?’

‘Yes, but I’ll wait and see before I speak.’

‘Profoundly wise and profoundly justified remark of old Asquith’s that,’ the doctor went on. ‘The sort of answer these meddlesome, questioning people should always get, eh?’ He grinned at French and went on: ‘Some day you can do better than what I asked: you can tell me how you came to find it.’

‘I’ll do that with pleasure,’ French promised, ‘but not, if you’ll excuse me, just at the moment. Carefully, now,’ he went on to the men, who were engaged in lifting their ghastly burden on to the stretcher.

As they put it down French moved round and looked at the face. It had been covered with a handkerchief, but this had slipped off, and he could see the features. Decomposition had already set in, but they were still perfectly recognizable. French saw that his suspicion was correct. The body was Sutton’s.

Operations now rapidly became routine. After a short preliminary examination of the remains, the doctor decided he would do nothing more till they were removed to the mortuary. Nairn thereupon arranged the necessary transport. The doctor, who had come in his own car, drove off at the same time, promising to proceed with the examination at once.

‘What about the inquest?’ went on Nairn. ‘I suppose I shall have to fix it up with the coroner?’

‘I imagine so, super. Your division, you know.’

‘Quite. But you’ll supply the evidence?’

‘I can supply some. Evidence of identity and of the discovery of the body; but that’s all.’

‘How you came to search in the shed?’ French grinned.’ “Information received” rather suggests itself.’

‘You don’t want to bring in this shipping affair?’ ‘No, and I couldn’t if I did. I’ve not proved any connection.’

Some further details settled, Nairn drove off, and French turned to his men. ‘I don’t want you to do any more tonight,’ he explained, ‘except one thing. I want you to see whether the earth below the body has been recently disturbed.’

A short examination supplied the answer to this question. The ground in question was hard. All four workmen were positive that it had not been opened for many years.

If so, all French’s elaborate theory about the tunnel to the Mint vanished from the realms of the actual and became a dream which had merely wasted a good deal of his time. There was no tunnel. There never had been a tunnel. Probably such a thing had never been thought of by the men he was seeking. The opening in the floor was for a grave, and for a grave only.

But, satisfactory as the discovery of the body was from the point of view of his enquiry, it did not clear up the case as a whole. It left it in fact more mysterious than ever. It seemed clear that Sutton had got on to whatever game Rice had been playing, but it did not suggest what that game was. The problem of what Sutton had learned, and of how he had learnt it, remained just as far from solution as ever. French told himself that what Sutton had discovered, he should be able to discover. But this, though the only comfort he had, did not take him very far.

He sent the workmen home, having arranged for them to return in the morning. Then, having asked Nairn to have the shed watched during the night, he took his leave.

Stepping into a telephone booth, he rang up Mrs Sutton to say that he was going down to see her by the first train.

His interview with the widow – the daughters were out – was very painful to him. He hated to be the bearer of bad news and to see people in trouble. In this case, of course, what he had to tell did not come as a surprise. Almost from the first Mrs Sutton had believed her husband to be dead, and French’s story only confirmed what her own inner consciousness had told her all along. All the same, the news came as a cruel shock. French minimized it as far as he could, pointing out that the deceased’s features were calm and had shown no signs of suffering. But he was glad when the visit was over and he had left the unfortunate woman in the charge of a kindly neighbour.

In the morning he was early back at the shed. There he set his men to sift every grain of the clay which had been removed from the grave, in the chance of finding some small object which the murderer might have dropped. Leaving these in charge of Carter, he went on to the Leman Street station and saw Superintendent Nairn.

‘The doctor’s examining the remains,’ said the latter. ‘Would you like to have a word with him?’

French chatted for a few moments and then a constable showed him to the mortuary.

‘Morning, chief,’ cried the doctor cheerily as he caught sight of him. ‘Looking for information, I suppose? Well, I can tell you nothing. Must have a P-M.’