expect to bring several charges later, including the theft on November 6th of one picture entitled
‘I deny it! You have no proof.’
‘But I have,’ said Cribb. ‘It’s in this glass of water.’ He held the still half-full tumbler six inches in front of the professor’s eyes. ‘See the small white object lying on the bottom? I put it in the glass a few minutes ago. It’s swelling nicely, ain’t it? I removed several like it from your trouser turn-ups when we carried you downstairs after Mrs Probert knocked you senseless with her book.’
‘What is it, for God’s sake?’
‘I don’t go in for stews over-much, sir, but I think I know what that is. There’s a lot of ’em still lying where you knocked ’em over climbing in through Dr Probert’s pantry. Devilish little things. Pearl barley, Professor, pearl barley.’
CHAPTER 8
Here’s a choice birth o’ the supernatural,
A hacking cough shattered the silence. ‘Lord help us!’ said Constable Thackeray to himself.
He should have been in bed. Eleven hours he had squatted behind a tree opposite Miss Crush’s house in Eaton Square. Eleven hours on one of the bleakest nights in November. By dawn he could have passed for Uncle Walter, he was so blanched by frost. And what had it achieved, apart from the likely onset of chronic pneumonia?
Nothing.
Not a living soul had approached the terrace until eight in the morning, when Cribb appeared and gave the sort of whistle a dog-owner gives when his animal lingers too long in the bushes. ‘I’ve got a job for you, Thackeray,’ he said, as if eleven hours behind a tree had not been employment at all. ‘Cut along to Sloane Square and take the Metropolitan line to Praed Street. It’s a short step from there to Homer Court. Here’s the key to number 10, Professor Quayle’s house. Let yourself in and locate Dr Probert’s missing picture in the umbrella stand. Miss Crush’s vase should be in a cabinet in the bathroom. No need to look surprised, Constable. Quayle confessed to me six hours ago. Oh, and make a list of Peter Brand’s personal effects, will you? He won’t be in his rooms. Died in mysterious circumstances last night. Lord, yes, I’ve been busy since I last saw you. I’m off to get some sleep now. Report to me at two o’clock, will you? Sharp, mind.’
As usual, there was no answering Cribb. He climbed back into a waiting cab before Thackeray had a chance to put two words together. All a man could do in the circumstances was brush off the worst of the frost and hobble away to the station, trying not to mind the chilblains.
Cribb had not mentioned it, but Thackeray decided to assume his orders included a short stop at the soup- stall in Sloane Square for a bowl of ox-tail. He would make sure the twopence went into his diary as legitimate expenses, too, and if he had to buy wintergreen ointment for his toes he was going to put that down as well, whatever anyone said.
Quayle’s house was large and detached, not so fashionably situated as Miss Crush’s, but certainly no slum. Remarkable that an occupation concerned with spiritual things should be so productive of worldly comforts. Thackeray had let himself in, removed the rolled-up Etty from a collection of walking-sticks and umbrellas and carried it upstairs to the second floor, collecting the Royal Worcester from the bathroom on the way. Both now lay on the floor of Peter Brand’s sitting-room, the painting still unfurled. There was not the slightest doubt that it was Dr Probert’s nymph. Cribb was sickeningly unlikely to have made a mistake. And Thackeray with his chilblains felt no overmastering urge to gaze at a naked form of either sex.
It was a salutary experience to occupy a dead man’s room and see the evidence of recent occupation, a discarded shirt over a chair-back, the collar on the floor, orange-peel in the grate and unwashed plates on the table. That it was a bachelor establishment was clear from the reek of stale tobacco. The picture over the mantelpiece was of a racehorse and there were betting-tickets strewn about the floor.
Thackeray had withdrawn his notebook and was starting to record the contents of the room when his work was interrupted by a clatter at the front door downstairs. He went to the window and peered out. A cab was drawn up outside. Uncertain what to expect, he descended the two flights of stairs and opened the door.
A cabman was standing in the porch, a barrel-shaped man in a brown bowler and one of those enormous greatcoats that reached from chin to bootlaces, the hallmark of the trade. The number 469 was prominently displayed on his badge. What was visible of his hair was grey, and his moustache protruded over his lips and was damp at the extremities.
He touched his hat. ‘Morning, sir. I’ve come for Mr Brand’s things.’
‘His things?’ repeated Thackeray. ‘ ’E’s dead, ain’t ’e? Won’t be wanting ’em now.’
‘How do you know he’s dead?’
The cabby shrugged his shoulders. ‘Common knowledge by now. News travels fast in my occupation. I ’eard about it at the cab shelter by Paddington station. ’Ad a fatal accident in Richmond, didn’t ’e? Who are you, if you ain’t the undertaker?’
‘I was about to ask the same question,’ said Thackeray.
‘Charlie Brand, sir. Father of the deceased.’
‘I see. I’m sorry.’
‘No need to be. ’E wasn’t much to me.’
‘Is that so? I’m a police officer. Detective-Constable Thackeray. Plain clothes duty.’
‘What you doing ’ere, then? Picking up a fresh set of plain clothes?’
‘Certainly not,’ said Thackeray with dignity. ‘I’m here to make a list of the deceased’s possessions.’
‘And I’m ’ere to collect ’em,’ said the cabman. ‘Next of kin, you see. Prior claim. I think I ’ave the right to look over that list of yours. There should be a silver watch somewhere. It wouldn’t be in your pocket by any chance, would it?’
‘It would not,’ said Thackeray firmly. ‘I have a watch of my own with my personal number scratched on the back. If you want to come inside you’d better keep a civil tongue in your head, cabman. How am I to know you’re Brand’s father, anyway?’
The cabman tapped his badge. ‘This is
‘Lord, no!’ said Thackeray. ‘I was just a babe in arms in them days. You’d better come in, then, Mr Brand. I can’t allow you to cart anything away, but I suppose I ought to let you see what’s there.’
‘Rubbish mostly, if you ask me,’ Brand senior remarked, as he followed Thackeray upstairs. On the first-floor landing he paused to gather breath for the second flight. ‘You ’aven’t come across the watch, then?’
Thackeray turned. ‘I have not, cabman, and I swear I’ll lay one on you if I hear another word about it.’
In Brand’s room they paused just inside the door. The cabman had not endeared himself much to Thackeray so far, but he was entitled to the respect that is due to any bereaved parent. It was impossible not to respond to the numerous reminders in the room of the life so suddenly cut short.
The response, in Brand Senior’s case, was unsentimental: ‘I suppose the picture might raise a pound or two, but I don’t see much else ’ere. You don’t suppose the landlord’s been round already and ’ad the pick of the stuff, do you?’
‘Impossible,’ said Thackeray. ‘The landlord’s been in custody all night.’
‘Copped ’im, ’ave you? What was ’e doing-keeping a disorderly ’ouse?’
‘That’s no concern of yours, cabman,’ Thackeray retorted. ‘If you’re quite sure there’s nothing here worth having, don’t let me delay you any longer. I’ve got my work to do.’
