my mental condition. It was a letter tucked away at the foot of the correspondence column and read:
THE PRISONERS’ FRIEND
Sir,
I have been awaiting the publication of some tribute to Mrs. Harold Dawson, Lucy Dawson to her friends, whose seemingly pointless murder at Pompeii must have shocked so many of her friends. As a Governor of one of H.M. prisons for many years, I came into contact with the wonderful work she carried out, unobtrusively, and indeed secretly, for the rehabilitation of released prisoners.
Hers was largely an individual effort, without the backing of any of the devoted organisations which now carry out this work. She had no office and she had no staff, yet there must be many former criminals who today owe their present happiness and honest prosperity to her tireless work on their behalf.
Let their gratitude be her memorial.
A. Pearson Lt. Col. (Ret.)
14 BENTON HOUSE,
LONDON, S.W.1.
I read the letter through twice with rising excitement.
Here, somewhere, might lie an obscure motive for her murder. I finished my breakfast quickly, grabbed a notebook, and took a taxi to Benton House, which lay behind Eaton Square. On the way, my mind revolved round theories of the psychological reaction of some people towards other people who have helped them including the old one about the desire to strike down the benevolent Father Figure, though in Lucy Dawson’s case it would be the Mother Figure.
I wondered whether Scotland Yard would note the letter, and send a copy to the Italian police, and interview the colonel. Perhaps the colonel could supply a list of names of people she had assisted in the past. Perhaps, somewhere on the list would be the name of one who was again in trouble, who had attempted to extort further assistance, or, if not assistance, then money.
I remembered the pencil marking on her map of Pompeii, and how her meeting with the killer must have been a planned one.
I had a feeling, as I read the letter, that if my well-being was in danger-and I was only on the fringe, so far- then what about the colonel’s? Perhaps that was why I was in such a hurry to see him.
I do not know about subconscious instincts, but I know that by the time my taxi had reached Sloane Street I was aware of a feeling of desperate urgency.
Somebody felt himself menaced by Mrs. Dawson’s past activities. Somebody with power, riches and organisational ability. Somebody who, as Juliet had pointed out during her period of anxiety, was sufficiently cautious to prefer to gain his means by fear rather than risk a killing, if this could be avoided. But somebody who would kill, if need be; who might consider, if he had read the letter, that there was no time to try psychological warfare as far as Colonel Pearson was concerned.
Benton House was a block of old-fashioned mansions turned into flats. I do not think I would have been surprised to find a couple of police cars and an ambulance outside, and a crowd of people being kept back by a constable, and although I saw that the little road was clear, I was still in doubt about what I would find when I reached his flat.
I glanced at the board showing the tenants’ names and saw that his flat was on the second floor. There was an old-fashioned lift, but the cage was in use somewhere at the top of the building, so I ran up the two flights of stairs, and rang the bell.
I was just in time, but not in the way I had imagined.
A small, dapper man in check tweeds, well-polished shoes, and wearing a regimental tie opened the door. He was thin, aged about seventy, with a good head of white hair clipped close round the ears, bright blue eyes and a weather-beaten face.
“Colonel Pearson?”
“Come in-they’re in the kitchen. Just give ’em a rub up,” he said.
I hesitated.
“What are in the kitchen?”
“Aren’t you Brigadier Robertson’s son?”
When I shook my head he smiled and said:
“Sorry-sold my guns to the Brigadier last week. He didn’t want to take ’em then. Said his son would pick ’em up this morning. I was getting worried. Just off in an hour or so.”
He beckoned me in and pointed to some piled luggage in the hall. There were two old-fashioned cabin trunks, a black tin trunk with his name and regiment painted on it in white, an old, battered suitcase, held together with a strap, two fishing rods, binoculars, an ash walking-stick, a mackintosh, and an overcoat. I said:
“Going away for a bit? You’re lucky, with the winter coming on.”
“Going away for good. Going to live in Portugal,” he said shortly. “Can’t afford to live in England. Been struggling to keep this flat going for the last ten years since my wife died. Can’t afford it, or anything else, as far as I can see.”
He looked at me with angry blue eyes.
“Serve your country-thirty years in the Army, and fifteen in the Prison Service, and your country sees to it you can’t afford to live in it. Bad show, you know, dam’ bad show. Still, there you are! What can I do for you?”
“I saw your letter in the paper this morning,” I said, and told what I had in mind. He nodded.
“Poor old Lucy Dawson-bad show. Don’t understand it, I don’t understand it. Come into the drawing room.”
I followed him in, and he stood in front of the empty fireplace, looking around him forlornly.
“Bit of a mess in here. Sold the contents of the flat, lock, stock, and barrel. Sorry to go, but there you are. Still a British colony in Portugal, I’m told. Hope to make a few friends in time. Miss the Hampshire trout-still, can’t be helped. Given up shooting anyway. Like to see ’em alive, rather than dead. Don’t mind eating ’em, though.”
He began to fill a Lovat Fraser-type pipe from an old-fashioned, black leather tobacco pouch.
“About Mrs. Dawson,” I said.
“Lucy Dawson-it’s simple enough. Got in touch with me when I was Governor of Parkway Prison, up in the Midlands. Asked me to keep an eye open for intelligent young first offenders who might do all right when they came out-given a chance. Not many, just ones I felt sure about-as far as you can ever feel sure of that type. Said she couldn’t handle many. Maybe one or two a year, not more. Think she was in touch with one or two other Governors, also with a women’s prison.”
He paused to put a match to his pipe, and sucked in and blew out big clouds of smoke, tamping the glowing tobacco down with his forefinger as though his finger was heat proof.
“How did she find them jobs, Colonel Pearson? Can you tell me?”
“That was the trouble. Always is. Especially with these types. She wanted special types who might really make their way in the world, given a chance. Field was limited. Couldn’t ask banks to take ’em on, could you? Nothing like that, if you see what I mean. But she succeeded all right. Wonderful woman.”
He shook his head admiringly.
“She just went around, you know-interviewing people who might help. Heads of firms. People like that. Nobody knew, except the Governor of the prison, and the head of the firm. She depended upon me, or whatever Governor she was dealing with. It was a tricky do, I can tell you. But it worked.”
“No failures?” I asked.
“None, as far as I know. And she kept in touch, you know. With them and with me. Had a card from her shortly before the tragedy. Sent a wreath, as a matter of fact, for old times’ sake.”
“You sent a wreath?” I repeated. “There was only one wreath.”
He took his pipe out of his mouth and stared at me in astonishment.
“Only one wreath? None from all those others?”
I shook my head.
“But that’s awful!”
