Smith, known as Smithy, with his shock of white hair, gave up.
Inspector Fletcher took them through the names of their parents, the names of their wife or wives, if such were still alive, which he doubted, and the names of any children and where they were now. He asked for details of the jobs they had held and the places where they had lived. Had any of them, he asked, ever been employed by the government in any way? The post office perhaps? Most important, he said, what was the name and nature of their last job before they came to the Jesus Hospital.
Most of the old men were slow and suspicious, trying to remember some post they might have held thirty or forty years before. The sergeant took pity on them. He had a father the same age as these men, after all. This, he felt, was asking too much of the old boys, reminding each and every one of them how mentally frail they had become and the things they could no longer remember. When they had finished, they sat patiently in their places waiting for the Inspector to dismiss them. He had one last request for them all. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘My final inquiry does not relate to any of you, but I would like you to tell us anything that Abel Meredith may have said to you about his year of birth or his parents or his own family, if he had one, and any jobs or positions he might have mentioned to you. And one other question’ — this, in fact was the point of the entire exercise, heavily disguised under a cover of personal information — ‘did Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, ever ask you to go with him on a journey, to London perhaps, or maybe even abroad?’ Most of the old men looked blank at this point. Most of the information they gave was of little value, but in two cases the answers to this final question were pure gold.
Number Six, Colin Baker, said he had gone with the late Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, to Hamburg for a few days three months before. They had stayed at a modest hotel and seen the sights of the city and its many drinking establishments. Number Twenty had paid all the bills.
‘Were you with him all the time?’ asked Inspector Fletcher.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Number Six.
‘Was there ever a time when you were left on your own? When Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, could have gone to a meeting or something like that?’
There was a long pause while Number Six marshalled his thoughts. Sergeant Donaldson thought he might be about to fall asleep.
‘There was something strange, I suppose, now I come to think about it. It was on our first morning there, just before nine o’clock. I remember that because they had an enormous clock in the dining room where we were having breakfast. Not that you can get a decent breakfast in Hamburg, even the Jesus Hospital can do better than them. Anyway, Number Twenty, says he is just going to look for an English paper. I sat there trying to eat some disgusting cheese and a smelly sausage or two. Number Twenty came back after twenty minutes or so and said there were no English papers to be had. I suppose he could have met somebody in that time. I never thought about it.’
The Inspector and the sergeant exchanged meaningful glances but made no comment. ‘Did you get the impression that he had been there before? Was he able to speak to the natives in German?’
‘Well,’ said Number Six, ‘they certainly knew him at the hotel. I’m sure he’d been there before. And he could certainly jabber on to the locals in their ridiculous language, though I’m not qualified to say how good he was.’
That was all. Colin Baker, Number Six, the man with the wooden leg, could remember no more. Any attempts to obtain more details of this strange holiday were met by a shake of the head and a plea to be allowed to go home.
The other nugget came from Pretty Billy, Number Sixteen, who told of going to London for a day with Abel Meredith the month before he was killed. They had gone to an address in central London where Meredith said he had to see a man about some business to do with his investments. He, Number Sixteen, had been parked in the saloon bar of the Three Horseshoes, virtually next door.
‘Number Twenty left me with two large glasses of port, I remember that now,’ said Pretty Billy. ‘I don’t normally like port but I just fancied it that day. Isn’t it strange how these whims come over you!’ Number Sixteen sank back into a reverie of past port.
‘How long before he came back?’ asked Sergeant Donaldson gently.
‘What was that? Where was I? I see, how long before he came back. Half an hour? Both my glasses were empty by then and I was looking forward to another. But that was not to be. Not that day, anyway. Number Twenty was in a furious temper. “Bastards, bastards,” he kept saying to himself over and over again. He didn’t speak a word to me all the way back to Marlow. Then he went straight to the Rose and Crown and didn’t come out till closing time. I don’t think I can remember any more, Inspector.’
Number Sixteen was the last man to be interviewed. Inspector Fletcher scribbled a rapid telegram to Powerscourt with the news of Hamburg and the meeting in London and sent Sergeant Donaldson off to dispatch it. He leant back in his chair, considering the relevance of the German mission, when a stout constable knocked on the door and headed straight for him.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘it’s that woman, sir, the one at the Elysian Fields, sir.’
‘What woman? What are you talking about, for God’s sake?’
‘Sorry, sir, it’s the lady who goes up to Sir Peregrine’s quarters, sir, the suite on the first floor. Constable Jones has apprehended her, sir, on her way out. She’s waiting to talk to you now, sir.’
Inspector Miles Devereux was waiting to meet James Ibbotson in a private room at the Midland Grand Hotel at St Pancras Station. Ibbotson was the managing director ousted by Sir Peregrine from his post at a leading insurance company some years before. The Inspector’s reporter friend Sammy Wilson had not only located the man, but had set up the meeting here today. Ibbotson was a short, nervous fellow, with a fancy waistcoat and very small eyes.
‘Good day to you, Mr Ibbotson, how kind of you to come.’
Devereux told him about the murder of Sir Rufus Walcott at the Silkworkers dinner hosted by Sir Peregrine as Prime Warden of the Company.
‘Got the wrong man, didn’t he, our friend the murderer,’ said Ibbotson.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Should have bumped off bloody Sir Peregrine rather than the other fellow, if you ask me. Would have been a public service, don’t you know.’
Inspector Devereux had wondered before now if the intended victim might not have been Sir Peregrine, the death of Sir Rufus a mistake.
‘We believe this murder may be linked to one or two others, one in Buckinghamshire where Sir Peregrine was spotted some time before the killing took place, and the other in Norfolk, near to where Sir Peregrine has a house.’
‘Arrest him then,’ said Ibbotson, with rather a vicious smile. ‘It’s about time the man was put behind bars. One thing’s rather a pity, mind you. If he killed all of them he can still only be hanged once. Three times would have been more satisfactory. No chance of bringing back disembowelling, I suppose?’
‘I take it, Mr Ibbotson, that you are still protesting your innocence about the so-called forgeries at your previous place of employment?’
‘I am indeed, sir. I am as innocent as the newborn babe. I was cheated out of my position, sir, cheated. It’s a scandal.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but what is your occupation now?’
‘You may ask,’ said Ibbotson, ‘indeed in your position you must ask. It took me eighteen months, sir, to obtain a new post. My name had been blackened right across the City of London. I now have connections with the National Trust through my wife’s family. I am employed by them as senior accountant.’
‘I have to ask this question too, Mr Ibbotson. Where were you between ten o’clock at night on the twenty- first of January and nine o’clock the following morning?’
‘I was at home,’ said Ibbotson. ‘We had two friends from the Trust to supper. I suppose they went home about half past ten. My wife and I turned in shortly after that. The following morning I went to work in the usual way. I reached my office about half past eight and was there, or in meetings, all morning.’
‘And your friends and colleagues would support your account?’
‘They would. I shall give you their names.’ The former managing director entered three names into Devereux’s notebook. He turned back at the door. ‘Please let me know when you arrest Sir Peregrine, Inspector. I would be most interested.’
