Late Delivery, page 13
When the Governor returned, he said, ‘I’ve arranged things as you asked. Marshall will be here in a few minutes.’
The boy was brought in by a prison officer, and stood stiffly to attention in front of the Governor’s desk. ‘You can go now,’ the Governor said to the officer, ‘but I’d like you to wait in the ante-room. When we’re ready I’ll ring for you.’ The officer saluted, and left.
‘May the boy sit down?’ Piet asked.
‘Of course.’ The Governor pointed to the chair in front of the desk, and the boy sat awkwardly on the edge of it. The Governor then explained who Piet was, and told the boy to answer truthfully to any questions that might be put to him.
‘What for you come?’ the boy asked. ‘I know constable is policeman but I don’t know chief constable.’
‘He is a very senior policeman, the head of his police force,’ the Governor explained.
‘I been before judge and sent to jail. What for you want to see me now?’
‘You may not think so, but the police are concerned with what is called justice as well as with arresting people,’ Piet said. ‘I make a point of reviewing important cases where there may be an appeal, to make sure that anything in an accused man’s favour may be brought out fairly.’
‘My lawyer say no good appeal. I tell the truth all the time, but no one believe me, except my mother.’
‘Why did you use the flat of your cutlass instead of the sharp edge?’
‘I not use cutlass at all. I find Mrs Denny lying dead. I get down to see if anything I can do, and I get covered in blood. Then I get scared and run home. Then the police come for me.’
‘When you went into the Post Office did the shop doorbell tinkle?’
‘No hear any bell. I tell you door was open. That why I went in.’
‘You know that money from the Post Office was found in a drawer in your room at home. Did you take any stamps as well as money?’
‘I take no money, sir, I take away nothing, except my own cutlass.’
‘When you ran out of the shop did you see a car anywhere near the place?’
‘Yes.’
‘What sort of car?’
‘A green car. I don’t know what sort.’
‘Did you see anybody in the car?’
‘No, sir. It wasn’t just outside the shop, but a little way up the road towards the church. I not look for people. I scared, and running away.’
‘Why did you say nothing about the car before?’
‘No man ask me. No man ask me about shop bell, either.’
‘What do you think is going to happen to you?’
‘I have to spend life in jail. Jesus died on Cross. He innocent, too, but He died save all of us. I don’t know why I have to be in jail, but Jesus knows. His pain worse than mine – He understand pain. I just bear what must be. I trust Jesus, in jail or out of jail the same.’
Piet longed to offer some word of hope or encouragement, but he dared not. ‘I think I’ve asked all the questions I wanted,’ he said. The Governor pressed a button on his desk and the prison officer came in. ‘You can take Marshall back now,’ he said.
‘Thank you for answering my questions,’ Piet said politely.
The boy said nothing, and was led out.
*
‘I don’t know about you,’ the Governor said, ‘but I could use a drink. I don’t often drink in my office, but I think this is an occasion for a dispensation.’
Piet agreed, and was grateful for the Governor’s whisky. ‘I found the whole interview horrible,’ he said. ‘The boy is absolutely consistent, and says exactly the same now as he has said all along. The dreadful thing is that there is a remote possibility that he may be telling the truth.’
‘I study the papers of everyone who is sent here, and from the evidence at the trial it seems inconceivable that Marshall isn’t guilty,’ the Governor said. ‘I have a long experience of convicted criminals, and although most of them in fact admit their guilt it is not common for an obviously guilty man to continue to protest innocence. For myself, I seldom have any doubts. Our courts may not be infallible, but in the vast majority of cases justice is done.’
‘What do you feel about this boy?’
‘I can’t doubt the evidence at his trial. He maintains his innocence in an unusually restrained and resigned way, but I think he may be slightly mad – a touch of religious mania.’
‘He seemed withdrawn, but not, I thought, unbalanced.’
‘You can’t tell. A life sentence is a terrible thing, and allied to feelings of guilt, and, possibly, repentance, it can have extraordinary effects on personality. Looking ahead, I should not be surprised if Marshall develops symptoms that made his transfer to a criminal lunatic asylum probable. But I don’t know. He may continue to be a model prisoner, working out his own sense of punishment in his own way. I don’t think he has much chance of release on licence, at least not for very many years. What do you think about it? You must have some doubts, or you wouldn’t be here.’
‘Like you, I find it rationally almost impossible to doubt the evidence. I am less sure that we have all the evidence. There remain several puzzling features in the case. He was covered in blood at the time the money was taken from the Post Office, and it is hard to see how no trace of blood occurs on any of the notes found in his room. There are other matters that are difficult to reconcile with a straightforward reading of the evidence. It is my job to go into all these things, and I don’t yet know what to make of them. You may have noticed that I said nothing to the boy to give him any reason to hope that his case may be reopened.’
‘Yes, I did notice that. Well, Chief Constable, I’m as concerned with justice as you are, though perhaps less directly – I have to accept men on the records that come with them. But I have known cases where a prisoner has confessed to a crime for which another man has been sentenced. Such confessions are not always accurate, or even honest, but I go into them exhaustively, and on rare occasions I have been able to help to right a miscarriage of justice. In this case it seems to me unlikely that the truth has not already been established, but if there is any real doubt, I can only hope that you may succeed in resolving it.’
A good man in a vile job, Piet thought as he left the prison.
*
For all the energy of the police and their band of volunteer helpers, it was a blackberry picker who found the poker. And the police effort was justified, for without it the finder of the poker would almost certainly have done nothing about it. As it was, he took it to Sergeant Clifford at the Golden Fleece for advice, and Clifford at once took it to police headquarters.
The blackberry is a curious fruit, in that berries at all stages of development, from full purple ripeness to green immaturity can be found within a few inches of one another in the same hedge. The hedgerows round Netherwick are good blackberry country, and local knowledge of the best bushes makes little trodden paths through the grass of road verges to the hedge. Normally, there is a deep drainage ditch between road verge and hedge, and the approach path treads down the undergrowth of the ditch. Sometimes there is water in the ditches, but at blackberry time after a normal summer all except the very deepest ditches are no more than a bit muddy.
About two miles out of Netherwick, on a winding road to the hamlet of Foldworth, there is an established blackberry hunting ground. The ditches are deep, and pickers tend to stay on the little trodden paths, but at one point all the ripe berries within reach of a path had been picked, while a magnificent crop hung enticingly a few yards to the left. One of the more enterprising pickers found his way through the tangle of nettles and dog roses that lined the ditch – and tripped over a poker. It had apparently been thrown into the ditch, and, being heavy, had gone through the undergrowth to lodge on a sort of shelf in the hedge-side bank of the ditch. The finder, knowing that the police were looking for a weapon that might have been used to injure Sir Gordon Gregory, thought the poker a possible candidate. But he didn’t want to make a fool of himself, so he went to the pub where he knew that the landlord was an ex-policeman. Sergeant Clifford was impressed. The heavy steel poker, with a reinforced poking section making a weight at the end of the shaft, could certainly have been used to inflict serious injury. Moreover, there were dark stains on the steel that might or might not be blood. He got out his car and took the finder first to show him the exact spot where he had come upon the poker, then, dropping the man at Netherwick, he drove to police headquarters.
*
Piet returned from his visit to the prison more than ever depressed. To him, somehow the boy’s improbable story rang true, but how to reverse the damning evidence? There were two more small points now in the boy’s favour: he had not heard the shop doorbell ring when he went into the Post Office, and he had seen what was apparently the same car reported by Bert Small. The car was not exactly evidence in his favour, at the moment it was evidence of nothing, but the fact that the boy corroborated Bert Small indicated that in at least one instance he was telling the truth.
Simon Begbroke was out somewhere, and Piet had no one to talk to. He was studying his diary for the next few days without enthusiasm when Sergeant Clifford was announced. He saw him at once.
The sergeant handed him the poker, wrapped in a tea towel from the Golden Fleece. ‘This was found this morning, in a ditch about two and a half miles from Netherwick. It was found by a man picking blackberries. I’ve been out to see the place and marked it with some bits of string tied in the hedge.’
The poker seemed to Piet to match exactly the heavy, old-fashioned fire irons in the grate at the Post Office. He studied the dark stains at the heavy end. ‘I must get this off to the forensic people at once,’ he said. He was about to ask Sergeant Clifford if the poker had been sufficiently protected by undergrowth for blood stains to have stayed on it for six months, when he remembered that as far as the sergeant was concerned they were looking for a weapon used within the last few days. ‘Did you see exactly where it was lying?’ he asked.
‘Yes, sir, I got down into the ditch to mark the hedge. It’s a deep ditch, and the poker wasn’t at the bottom. It had lodged in a bit of a recess in the bank, maybe an old entrance to a rabbit burrow. It was covered by nettles and things, and the earth above the old burrow, or whatever it was, overhung it. The handle stuck out, and the blackberry man tripped over the handle. That’s how he found it.’
‘So the heavy end would be protected to a considerable extent. You’ve done very well indeed, Sergeant. What is the blackberry picker’s name?’
‘George Oak, sir. He’s one of my customers, that’s why he brought the thing to me. There’s a tribe of Oaks living round Netherwick and Foldworth. George is a bricklayer, but he’s been laid off for the past few weeks. That’s how he came to be blackberrying. As a matter of fact I buy some of the fruit from him for the hotel. He’s a good, clean picker.’
‘I don’t know that you can keep anything secret in a village, but ask Mr Oak to say nothing about the poker, and try to impress on him that this is really important.’
‘I’ll do my best, sir.’
*
Piet rang through to the Assistant Chief Constable. ‘Can you spare a few minutes, Grahame?’ he said. ‘There’s been a rather important development.’
He showed Grahame the poker. ‘I haven’t had it identified by the man at the Post Office, and I don’t think I want him to know about it yet,’ he said. ‘But it seems an exact match with the tongs and shovel, and I think it likely that it came from the Post Office. Can you take it to the forensic laboratory yourself and ask Dr Southern to see what he can make of these stains as a matter of the absolutely first priority?’
‘Sure. I hand it to you, Piet. Your crime seems to have paid off.’
‘Can’t say yet, but at least we’ve got somewhere. Don’t make any announcement about finding the weapon.’
‘What about the police hunt?’
‘You can run it down forthwith, but we won’t officially call it off until we’ve brought Sir Gordon back to life. I hope to do that tomorrow.’
‘How on earth are you going to do it?’
‘I’m going to ring him in the States and try to get him on a London plane tonight – it helps that our time is in advance of theirs. Simon will meet him at Heathrow in the morning, and after a bit of doctoring to his clothes he’ll find him in a bad way in a lonely wood about twenty miles from Netherwick. We might as well get a bit of credit for the Force. When you tell the Press you can say that the Chief Superintendent’s discovery was the outcome of sustained effort by the police in tracking him. He was wandering and living rough, you see, after being concussed by a blow on the head. It was straightforward robbery – his wallet and watch were taken. We found him in the nick of time. Simon will take him to hospital in Oxford, where I shall arrange with one of our friends among the doctors to admit him at once to a private ward. He’ll have to stay there for a few days, but I think he’ll get over his head injury all right, and be none the worse for his ordeal. You can make a good story for the Press, and we’ll get a pat on the back for finding him. There’s one thing though, that’s important. Say anything you like about our brilliance in finding Sir Gordon, but don’t say that we’ve found a possible weapon. In fact, I think you might go out of your way to say we are still looking for it.’
Grahame Stevenson went off with the poker, still wrapped in the Golden Fleece tea towel. Just before he reached the door, he turned and said, ‘If I’m honest, Piet, I have to admit that I’m damned proud of you.’
*
It was still before lunch in Massachusetts when Piet telephoned Sir Gordon. ‘We’ve found the poker,’ he said. ‘I think we can bring you back to life.’
‘But I’m having a wonderful death! I’m drinking a John Collins, and I’m just about to have a superb lunch of the local clam chowder!’
‘Sorry to push you out of Paradise, but I’m afraid it’s important. Can you get to New York airport for tonight?’
‘The Service always comes first, doesn’t it?’
‘Thank you for taking it so well. The next thing’s a bit more difficult. I want you, if possible, to fly direct to London. Can you travel on your friend’s passport?’
‘How the police lead one into crime! Well, I can ask him. Hold on. At least you’re paying for the call.’
Sir Gordon was back on the line in a minute. ‘He says yes,’ he said. ‘We’re roughly the same build, and his is a diplomatic passport too, only an American one.’
‘Splendid. Well, at the airport tonight there’ll be a ticket for you in Mr Coverdale’s name at the London flight desk. Chief Superintendent Begbroke will meet you at Heathrow. Will you put yourself in his hands? Coming back to life will mean being in hospital in Oxford for a couple of days, but we’ve got you a private room, the best of specialists, and recovery is assured.’
‘Have you cleared the Marshall boy yet?’
‘No. And there’s still a great deal of work to be done. But thanks to you we’ve found the poker, which is an immense step forward. I’ll tell you all about it when I visit you in hospital. May I have a word with your friend?’
Piet thanked Mr Coverdale for his help with the passport, and then said, ‘Sir Gordon will have told you all about how your postcard with the extraordinary stamp ultimately reached him. Can you remember if there was anyone else in the Post Office when you bought the stamp?’
‘The place was just shutting up, which was why I didn’t write the card then and there. Yes, I think there was one other customer – a woman, young or youngish.’
‘Can you recall what she was doing?’
‘That’s asking a lot. I didn’t look at her specially. I noticed her mainly, I think, because the shop was shutting, and I wanted to get out of the way so that she could be served. As far as I remember she was looking through a rack of greetings cards. It was near the rack where I bought my postcard.’
‘Could you recognise her?’
‘I doubt it.’
‘Can you say what she was wearing?’
‘Lord, I’m no expert in women’s wear. My impression – but it was months ago – is that she was wearing a skirt rather than trousers, but that’s about all.’
‘Well, it may be vital evidence that there was another person in the shop. Thank you very much indeed for all your cooperation. When you next come to England perhaps you’d be good enough to join Sir Gordon at a small dinner party in my house.’
‘If I’m not in jail for passport offences I’d be glad to.’
*
Simon Begbroke was back by the time Piet had finished telephoning. They ran over the plan for bringing Sir Gordon back to life. Simon thought that it would work but said he thought that Sir Gordon ought to have three or four days’ growth of beard. ‘Yes,’ Piet said, ‘it would be better, but I don’t think it matters all that much. I’m relying on you to get his clothes suitably torn, and nobody is really going to see him except the doctor who admits him to hospital, and he knows about things, anyway. I suppose some nurses will have to look after him, but they’ll accept the doctor’s diagnosis of a post-concussion state, and he’ll be in a private room anyway. It will need a bit of play-acting by Sir Gordon, but I’m sure he’ll cooperate. I’ve arranged with the doctor that when you get to the hospital you will leave Sir Gordon in your car while you get in touch with him, and then he’ll come out and do the rest. He’s a top consultant at the hospital, and nobody is going to question what he does.’
‘A bit of mud, and some work with a nail driven through a piece of board can do wonders. It has to be a nail rather than a knife, because a nail produces the right three-cornered tear in cloth which looks as though it’s caught on branches or barbed wire.’
‘Curious how you can use detective-observation in reverse. You’re a good detective, Simon.’
‘I know about tears in cloth because they cropped up in a case I had years ago, when I was a sergeant in the CID. A man claimed to have been attacked, and his jacket was certainly badly torn. But on examination of the tears under a microscope you could see that the fibres had been cut, not torn. The man was a night-watchman, and when his story of being attacked fell through we got him for robbing the premises he was supposed to guard. I’ll see that Sir Gordon’s rough and tumble looks authentic.’
