The entrance to the small up-river docks was being dredged. The dredger was an old one of the bucket type and had a squat, black, filthy-looking hopper alongside. As the work went on, bucket after bucket of slimy mud, stones and an incredible assortment of river debris came up and was deposited in the hopper.
The docks were at the confluence of the river and a canal and served as a short-time repository for the goods brought on the canal boats from the Midlands, and as a temporary warehouse for the cargoes to be carried north again.
Although a dead man lay out on the mud a hundred yards away, the four men working on the dredger did not notice him; neither did the occasional stroller along the path on the opposite side of the river. There were willows on that side and, further to that, the banks were high and had been shored up with sacks of concrete and the dead man was lying too far in, where the high tide had left him, to be visible to any casual walker who did not go right up to the edge of the bank and peer over.
The person who first spotted him was the youthful cox of a pair-oar racing skiff who was out early practising with his two-man crew for the local Easter regatta. As the skiff was undergoing a time trial over what was to be the course on the great day, he said nothing of his discovery until the skiff was being paddled back to the boathouse.
‘Go easy and pull over to the Surrey side when we gets to the dredger,’ he said to his brothers. ‘I reckon I seen a stiff laying out on the mud.’
His rowers were sceptical, but he soon proved himself to be right. They could not take their frail craft up to the edge of the river, for fear of damaging her, but even from twenty yards out there could be no doubt that, fairly close under the bank, lay a very dead man. He was fully clothed, even to the extent of wearing an overcoat, although his head was bare.
‘Dead drunk, and fell in and the tide took him,’ said bow oar as they paddled downstream.
‘Suicided hisself, poor b—,’ said stroke. ‘Lots does it in the river.’ The youthful cox said,
‘Means the police, anyway. I got to go to school and, anyway, they wouldn’t take no notice of me, so one of you better tell ’em.’
‘We’ll get Dad to do it. He’s the one with the spare time. We got to get to bloody work,’ said bow oar.
‘Tell ’im it might be a murder. That’ll be meat and drink to Dad. Loves his murders. Sunday paper lasts him all day and Monday as well,’ said stroke. ‘Besides, he knows the Sergeant.’
‘Been dead a couple of days or more,’ said the police surgeon. ‘Who is he?’
‘Nothing to show,’ said the local Superintendent of Police. ‘No papers, no wallet, nothing to identify him at present. Have to be an autopsy before the inquest, I suppose, just in case.’
‘In case he’s been mugged and murdered? You’re quite right, of course, to investigate,’ said the doctor, ‘although it looks a straight case of suicide to me. Clothes seem quite good. Well-kept body, too, well-nourished and clean. Age somewhere around thirty, at a guess. All his own teeth and well-tended hands and feet. Professional class I should think. Not a manual worker, anyway. Who found him?’
‘Three young lads out rowing. They told their father that the kid acting as cox had spotted him on the foreshore mud when they were out for early morning practice, and the old man came along and made a report. I’ve got their names and the address. Locals. Practising for the regatta. Well, until somebody comes forward and reports him as missing, it’s not going to be easy to identify him. Clothes came from one of those multiple chain stores which sell menswear – Angler Brothers, to be exact – and the shirt was the kind you can buy at any M and S store, socks ditto. The shoes were from Bugloss, who’ve got a shop in every town in the country and dozens in London alone. We’ll probably have to wait till somebody misses him. If it’s a suicide, probably nobody will. Half of ’em do it because they’re either loners or misfits.’
‘Not to worry. Somebody will come forward. It’s not as though he was one of the Embankment down-and- outs with nobody to care whether he lived or died. Probably in a job. If so, he’ll be missed at work after a day or two.’
This prophecy was fulfilled three days later. The first day on which Palgrave failed to turn up at school without telephoning that he would be unable to take his classes affected nobody but the deputy head, who had to deprive resentful colleagues of their free periods, and these colleagues themselves. The headmaster, who, secure in his sanctum behind his desk, was unaffected by the changes, merely remarked, when Palgrave’s unexplained absence was reported to him: ‘Not like Palgrave. He must be too ill to get to the telephone.’
‘There is a landlady, Headmaster. She could have rung up,’ said the deputy head.
‘Some people don’t think of these things or else can’t be bothered. Are his classes catered for?’
‘Oh, yes.’
‘That’s all right, then. I expect we shall hear tomorrow. If not, somebody had better go round there.’
This short conversation took place immediately after Assembly on the Monday morning after the body had been found on the same day. No message came during the afternoon or on the following day. When, after Assembly on the Wednesday, Palgrave was still reported missing, the headmaster was sufficiently concerned to send a junior master, who had a car which was parked in the school playground, to Palgrave’s address to make enquiries. He returned with unhelpful news.
‘I couldn’t get an answer at the house, sir, so I enquired of the neighbours. They told me the landlady was called away last Friday to nurse her mother who lives in Basingstoke and they know nothing at all about Palgrave.’
‘We shall have to notify the police and ask them to break in, I suppose,’ said the headmaster, discussing the matter with his deputy. ‘If the poor fellow is ill in bed with nobody to look after him, matters may be serious.’
He rang up the police station. An inspector came to the school.
‘Not reported for duty so far this week, sir? Last seen at your school on last Friday afternoon? I shall have to request you to come down to the station, sir, before we go to the lengths of breaking into a private house.’
‘Down to the police station? Whatever for?’
‘We’ve got a photograph we want identified, sir.’
Mystified and not too pleased, the headmaster did as he was asked. The photograph was not pretty, but it was identifiable.
‘To make sure, sir, the body having been in the water – there’s an autopsy report pending, we understand – I’ll have to ask you to identify the clothes the deceased was wearing. Perhaps you would come along again, sir, when we’ve got them, and see if they tally with your identification of the photograph.’
‘I couldn’t guarantee to do that, unless the clothes are the ones Palgrave wore to school, Inspector. As the poor fellow seems to have drowned either last Friday night or on the Saturday or Sunday, one of my younger staff would be of more use to you than I shall. Mr Winblow was closer to Palgrave than any other, I think. They played golf together, I believe, and spent weekends together sometimes for this purpose. Winblow doubtless will be more familiar with the contents of Palgrave’s wardrobe than I am.’
‘Very well, sir.’
Winblow identified first the photograph and then the clothes.
‘Do you know of any relatives who ought to be informed, sir?’ the Superffendent asked the young man.
‘I knew he was an orphan, but I never heard of brothers or sisters, or anybody close to him.’
‘Oh, well, there’s nobody to get a nasty shock, then. You wouldn’t have any idea why he did it, I suppose? — not that it’s a criminal offence any more.’
‘Did it? Did what? Good Lord! You don’t suppose it was anything but an accident, do you?’
‘We have every reason – it doesn’t matter telling you this, sir, because it will have to come out at the inquest, where we shall want you to repeat your evidence of identification – but we have every reason to believe that it was suicide.’
‘But – Palgrave? He wasn’t the type! I knew him pretty well. He had no troubles, no worries. He’d just finished his second novel and was all lined up to write a third. Those sort of chaps don’t put an end to themselves.’
‘I’m afraid the evidence given at the inquest will convince you, sir, that sometimes they do.’
‘So it’s our old friend arsenic, Bob,’ said the Inspector, when Winblow, still expressing disbelief, had left.
‘Probably took it in black coffee, the pathologist thinks,’ said the Superintendent.
‘And then went and chucked himself in the river? I thought the stuff laid you out with pains and vomiting. Would he have been in any state to leave his digs and go for a walk?’
‘Wonderful what you can do when you’ve made up your mind to it. But, if you’re right, you see what you’re
