Late Delivery, page 6
‘It doesn’t matter at all.’
‘Then why . . .’
‘Look at the stamp, man, look at the stamp!’
The stamp was badly smudged from the charring of the card but it was intact. For a moment it seemed a perfectly ordinary English stamp, with the familiar head of Queen Elizabeth II. Then Piet noticed – the profile of the head was reversed, facing the right hand edge of the stamp instead of the left. He rang through to his secretary. ‘Can you please bring me a couple of envelopes from today’s mail, with the stamps on them?’ he asked.
She was there in a moment, with the envelopes retrieved from her wastepaper basket. As she handed them to him she said dutifully, ‘I’m sorry to interrupt you, sir, but the superintendent at Newbury has been on the phone and he wants to see you urgently. He can’t come here because he wants to show you something at Newbury, and he says it’s important.’
‘I think I know what it’s about. Tell him I’ll be over as soon as I can. But I must look at these envelopes first. I’ll let you know when I’m free.’
The secretary had done what Piet had asked her about rescuing him from Sir Gordon. She had no idea what had happened, but she knew that something had, and she knew also that Piet wanted no more interruptions until he sent for her. When she had gone out Piet put Sir Gordon’s postcard on his desk with the envelopes from the morning’s post beside it. There was no doubt about it. In the stamp on the postcard the royal portrait was reversed.
Piet’s mind was racing. Stamps are printed by the million, and although there have been imperfections much sought by stamp collectors they are rare in British stamps, and if they do occur are likely to affect a sheet of stamps rather than a single one. If the stamps on Sir Gordon’s postcard had come from Netherwick Post Office it must have come from a sheet: where were the rest of that batch? Philately is highly organised, with collectors and dealers always on the look-out for valuable stamps, and if there had been a whole sheet, possibly several sheets, printed with the Queen’s head reversed it seemed inconceivable that nobody had noticed. Was Sir Gordon’s stamp a genuine misprint, or could it be a one-off imperfection? He took a magnifying glass from a drawer in his desk and studied the stamp. As far as he could see beneath the smudging and the postmark the stamp seemed wholly normal apart from the extraordinary reversal of the Queen’s head.
‘You are doing what I did,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘I have been a stamp collector all my life, and I look at stamps instinctively. This is not some badly printed or spoiled proof. It is a stamp identical with those in normal use, except that the portrait is reversed.’
‘Could it occur only on one stamp?’ Piet asked.
‘I am a philatelist, not a printer, though after a lifetime’s study of stamps I know something of the processes by which they are produced,’ Sir Gordon said. ‘If this were an error of perforation it could, just possibly, affect only one stamp at the corner of a sheet. But I do not see how a change of engraving could appear on only one stamp. The postmark is a special one by the department of the Post Office dealing with damaged mail – obviously my card was un-postmarked when it was collected from the fire-damaged letter box. It is quite a light postmark. The stamp will have to be removed from the card for examination of the paper and ink, but it looks genuine enough.’
‘Do you read the stamp-collecting papers?’
‘I get catalogues and newsletters from the main dealers, and I have one or two specialist magazines.’
‘And you have seen nothing about such a stamp?’
‘Nothing. If anyone who knows anything about stamps got hold of one it would not be a matter for specialist magazines – it would be widely reported as a big news-story. Anyone possessing such a rarity could make a great deal of money.’
‘Many people scarcely notice stamps on letters. I suppose it’s possible that other stamps with the reversed portrait have simply not been noticed.’
‘Most things are possible, but if the change of engraving affected a whole sheet there must be at least 200 of them.’
‘Why 200?’
‘Stamps are normally supplied to Post Offices in sheets of 200, and since I do not believe that only a single stamp could have been printed like this I think you must accept that there was at least one sheet of similar stamps. And I do not think that 200 of them would have gone unnoticed. More people than is commonly realised are interested in stamps, and always on the lookout for possible rarities. And many postmen have some knowledge of stamps.’
‘Yours passed through the Post Office without being noticed.’
‘My card was handled by a special department concerned with damaged mail. You will know more about the work of detecting arson than I do – if experts are looking for evidence of arson they are unlikely to pay close attention to a stamp. You were not thinking about stamps when I gave you the postcard, and you did not notice the stamp until I mentioned it.’
‘No, but I think I should have noticed it if I’d had the card for prolonged examination. But obviously it wasn’t noticed, so it is idle to speculate. If there was a whole sheet of such stamps, what do you think has happened to the rest of them?’
‘My own deduction would be that the remaining stamps from this sheet have not gone through the mail.’
‘Where can they have gone?’
Sir Gordon got up. ‘That, Chief Constable, is surely a question for you.’
Piet said nothing for a moment. Then he, too, stood up, and held out his hand. ‘Yes. But I think it also concerns you, Sir Gordon, because it means that we must reopen the Marshall case. May I keep your postcard for the moment? And may I ask you to say nothing to anyone about the stamp?’
‘I understand. Of course I shall say nothing. Doubtless you have your own experts in the police force, but I know a good deal about stamps, and any knowledge I have is at your disposal.’
‘Thank you. And now there is much for me to do.’
IV
The Reversed Head
THE FIRST JOB was to get in touch with the Post Office. The local people would have to come in, but Piet wanted to know more about the possibilities of error in the printing and distribution of stamps before consulting them. Postage stamps came rather vaguely under his old Fine Art Squad at New Scotland Yard, but more in the sense of investigating the theft of valuable collections than in matters relating to the supply of new stamps. However, he knew that the Post Office had a Special Investigation Branch, and he was sure that his old superintendent would know precisely where to go. He rang him now, and after a few moments’ chat explained that he had a problem about the disappearance of a sheet of stamps with a possibly valuable misprint.
‘The man you want is Sam Evans,’ the superintendent said. ‘He’s not a policeman, but he knows a lot about police work because he’s head of the Security Division of the Post Office. He’s a good chap, and you can get him at his office in Scrivener’s Lane, which is a little alley just round the corner from the Post Office headquarters at St Martin’s Le Grand. Hold on a moment, and I’ll give you his number.’
*
Piet was lucky in ringing the Post Office number, for Mr Evans was in his office. Having introduced himself, Piet said guardedly, ‘We have a problem here about the disappearance of a sheet of stamps which may contain a misprint that would make them valuable. I don’t know much about stamps, and I’d be immensely grateful if I could have a word with you about our problem as soon as possible.’
‘A misprint on a British stamp is very unlikely,’ Mr Evans said.
‘I have one of the stamps and I’d like to show it to you. Could I see you if I came up to London today?’
‘Do you mean you want to come yourself? We don’t get many Chief Constables on our doorstep.’
‘There are some special circumstances in this case that I don’t want to disclose for the moment. Yes, I’d like to talk to you myself.’
‘Sure. How about four o’clock this afternoon?’
‘I can manage that.’
‘Well, come along then. I’ll ask the girl to have some tea ready – the Post Office is supposed to be fuelled on tea, you know.’
Piet laughed, thanked Mr Evans and rang off.
*
Scrivener’s Lane is not easy to find. Presumably it once had enough daylight to enable the medieval scriveners to go about their work of copying legal documents, but now it is reduced to a slit of an alley between the cliff-like sides of huge office buildings, with the chink of sky between them barely enough to provide a sort of gloomy twilight. Piet travelled by train from Newbury, leaving his car there, and having just enough time to call at the police station to congratulate his men on the arrest of the presumed arsonist. Having glanced at the man’s statement, Piet felt that there was little doubt that they had caught the right man. Arriving in London by train he got a taxi to Scrivener’s Lane, and the marvellous knowledge of metropolitan cab drivers prevented his having to hunt for it. The driver, however, warned him that he would have to be dropped at the corner of the lane. ‘Can’t go down it, guv’nor,’ he explained. ‘Not wide enough.’
The building that housed Mr Evans and his staff had merely a number, and nothing to indicate that it was occupied by the Security Branch of the Post Office. Inside, Piet found that he was expected, and a girl at the inquiry desk summoned a messenger to take him to Mr Evans’s office on the second floor. Mr Evans was an alert, neat little man, with a carnation in his buttonhole. ‘Grow them myself,’ he said after shaking hands, ‘hobby of mine.’ He seemed in his late fifties, and Piet thought that he could not be far off retirement. ‘How about that tea?’ he asked as Piet sat down. Without waiting for an answer he pressed a button on his desk, and within a minute a pleasant, middle-aged woman came in with tea and biscuits on a tray.
‘You’re certainly well organised,’ Piet said.
‘Have to be. No regular hours in this job, and in spite of what they say about the Post Office you have a cup of tea when you can.’
‘Been doing the job long?’ Piet asked.
‘Twenty years or so. This is specialised work and once in it, you’re likely to stay. I’m a postman more than a policeman, but I’ve got some good friends among your people, in the City as well as the Metropolitan police. I don’t deal much with the public – that’s your job. I’m primarily concerned with internal security. Postmen are a remarkably honest lot, but there are bad hats, and I investigate things like missing registered mail. Frauds on the Post Office Savings Bank are another load of work, though we have a special banking division to look after that. They come under me and I’m responsible for them, but they’re another specialised department. What’s your own particular worry, Chief Constable?’
‘It’s a longish story. Does the name Netherwick mean anything to you?’
‘The place where that sub-Postmistress was murdered. Of course I know about it.’
‘Did you have any dealings with the case?’
‘Hardly at all. The regular police – your Force, I suppose–’ Piet nodded ‘–were on to it so quickly that there wasn’t much for us to do. My Area Security Officer checked the safe and estimated the missing money, but that’s about all. We vetted her successor at the sub Post Office – a nephew of the murdered woman. That’s routine.’
‘Have you a file on the case? There are several things I want to ask you.’
‘I doubt if I can tell you much. And isn’t it all over now? Wasn’t a black youth sentenced for the murder only a few days ago?’
‘A youth was sentenced, yes. Whether it is all over I’m not sure – it depends to some extent on what you can tell me.’
Mr Evans rang for his secretary and asked for the Netherwick file. She was back in a minute or two with a thin folder. ‘Not much in it, you see,’ Mr Evans said.
‘There may be more than anyone realised at the time. When your officer checked the safe, did he discover if any sheets of stamps were missing?’
Mr Evans studied his file. ‘Some £760 of Post Office money was missing, but you know about that because it was found in the boy’s home.’
‘Actually I think nearly £900 was found,’ Piet said.
‘That doesn’t conflict – I said “Post Office money”. It was kept on a separate shelf in the safe. The rest would represent shop takings.’
‘What about stamps and postal orders?’
‘As far as I know none were found with the money. It’s impossible to say definitely whether any small quantities were missing, because they may have been sold before the robbery. Mrs Denny was a meticulous Postmistress, and kept admirable accounts. But she wouldn’t necessarily make them up every day. My Area Officer might know, I’m afraid I don’t. But here is his report.’ Mr Evans read from the file:
‘Postage stamps to the value of £397.50 were intact in the Post Office book. This tallies with the value of stamps supplied at the last delivery, less £49.35 entered in the ledger as “stamps sold” up to the previous day and £8.15 unaccounted for. That sum is in fact entered in Mrs Denny’s rough account book, and represents a reasonable day’s sales. Postal orders in the safe tally with the quantity supplied less £3. This figure is not in the rough accounts, but the orders are so easily checked for entering up the ledger that there was no particular reason for them to be recorded separately.’
‘So it looks as if no stamps were missing,’ Piet said.
‘It looks like it, but nobody could swear to it. There might have been a mistake in the rough accounts, though I don’t think it probable.’
‘Yet some stamps were apparently taken. Have a look at this,’ Piet said, handing him Sir Gordon’s postcard.
Mr Evans took the card, and at once the impression he gave of being a rather dry Civil Service type promoted by age and length of service vanished. Something of the real quality of the man emerged. As Piet had done, he took a magnifying glass from a drawer in his desk and studied the stamp. ‘I should not have believed it possible,’ he said, ‘but this is an apparently genuine stamp with the Queen’s head reversed.’
‘What would such a stamp be worth?’ Piet asked.
‘Impossible to say. If it is a genuine misprint, and occurs on only a few individual stamps, a great deal of money. If it can be proved to be a forgery, that is another matter. How did it come into your possession?’
Piet explained, ‘The charred state of the card tells its own story, and accounts for the delay in delivery,’ he said. ‘It seems to me astonishing that the Post Office was able to deliver it at all, with so little of the address decipherable.’
‘That is not so remarkable. Although I say it, the Post Office is extraordinarily good at delivering badly addressed mail – and the public is extraordinarily careless, posting letters with names, street numbers, and even towns omitted. An experienced sorter develops an uncanny knack for getting things right; and we have a special department for dealing with mail that defeats ordinary sorting. It used to be a popular game to post trick letters to try to catch the Post Office. Fortunately that particular pastime seems to have diminished, perhaps the crossword puzzle has replaced it.’ He scribbled a few words on a piece of paper and passed it across to Piet. ‘Here is a famous one.’
Piet read
Wood
John
Hants
‘That was correctly delivered with a delay of only one post to a Mr John Underwood, Andover, Hants,’ Mr Evans said. ‘That particular catch goes back half a century or more, but the old skills remain.’
‘It’s fortunate that any of the card was left to deliver,’ Piet said.
‘Not really so unusual. In fact it is quite difficult to burn all the mail in a pillar-box without using explosives. We get trouble with kids thinking it fun to drop lighted matches into letter boxes, and rarer cases of deliberate arson. But unless something like a petrol bomb is used, an attempt to set fire to mail in a pillar-box is usually defeated by the exhaustion of oxygen at the bottom of the box. A few letters on top of the pile may be burned, but the fire puts itself out by using up the air.’
‘In this case, according to the man’s statement, he used bits of rag soaked in paraffin,’ Piet said.
‘I should have expected something like that.’ Mr Evans sniffed at the card. ‘I think there is a faint smell of paraffin left. Some mail will have been destroyed, and other items left charred like this. Even paraffin can’t burn without air. If there is an explosion it is another matter – intense heat may destroy everything, or the explosion may crack the box and let in air. But the fire in this case seems of secondary importance to your stamp.’
‘Sir Gordon Gregory is a philatelist, noticed the stamp, and brought it to me at once,’ Piet said. ‘From his story, it seems probable that the stamp was bought at Netherwick Post Office just before it closed on the evening before the Postmistress was murdered. Sir Gordon says – and this is where I need your expert opinion – that it is almost impossible for a single stamp to be printed with such a defect. In his view there must have been at least one sheet of 200 stamps like this.’
‘Offhand, I’d say he was right. But we may know more after scientific examination of the stamp. May I keep it for the moment, and may it be removed from the card?’
‘It is Sir Gordon’s property, but he knows that it will have to be removed. Apart from smudging, the stamp itself appears to be undamaged, and you might do what you can to prevent damage to it.’
‘We’ll do our best, but I can’t promise. The structure of the paper may be important. It may be possible to determine this by spectroscopic analysis, but if chemical analysis is needed the stamp will have to be damaged.’
Piet shrugged. ‘You must do what you consider necessary. I’ll accept responsibility for it. Now, can you give me a general picture of the printing and distribution of stamps?’
‘In general terms. In detail, it is a matter for specialists.’
‘I’m sure you can tell me enough to be getting on with.’
