Edward Marston - Inspector Colbeck's Casebook

It was in the early hours of the morning when a figure crept stealthily around to the rear of the house. There was enough moonlight to help him find his way to a particular window. Since the curtains had been left slightly open, he was able to make out the shape of a body in the bed. Making as little noise as possible, he inserted a knife and flicked the catch on the sash window. He then lifted the window up and stepped cautiously through it, intending to grab the pillow to smother the patient to death. When he approached the bed, however, he found that he’d have a lot more resistance than he’d expected. A man leapt suddenly out of bed, grappled with him then flung him hard against the wall before felling him with a vicious right hook. As he collapsed to the floor, the visitor heard the door open and someone came in with an oil lamp to illumine the scene.

‘Well done, Victor!’ said Colbeck. ‘Put the handcuffs on him.’

Having driven to the police station in the trap borrowed from the doctor, they left their prisoner in custody and went on to the hotel. After explaining the purpose of their visit to the duty manager, they went upstairs and roused the occupants of one room by pounding on the door. It was Beatrice Moyle who opened it a few inches, blinking in bewilderment when she saw the detectives. Colbeck gave Leeming the privilege of arresting both her and Humphrey Welling on a charge of conspiracy to murder. The prisoners were given time to dress then taken off to the police station to join their accomplice. As they left the building, Leeming wanted clarification.

‘However did you link Mr Welling with Mrs Moyle?’ he asked. ‘They just didn’t look like a married couple. Welling was so much older.’

‘So was her real husband, Victor. The lady is obviously drawn to more mature men. Unfortunately, marriage to Rufus Moyle did not live up to her expectations. She was a neglected wife in a house that reflected his personality and not hers.’

‘There was that portrait of him.’

‘It was only one of the indications that told me he was a strutting peacock.’

‘Then there was the fact that they had no children.’

‘I did say that she was a neglected wife and I meant it in the fullest sense. Mr Welling may not have seemed the ideal replacement but he was rich, indulgent and knew how to talk to a woman. How they first met,’ said Colbeck, ‘I don’t know but I believe there was genuine love on both sides. There had to be because that’s what drove them to the extreme of murder.’

‘Welling could have found out from Mrs Moyle when exactly her husband would be travelling to Sheffield,’ said Leeming. ‘He made sure that he shared the same compartment and his servant did the rest.’

‘Oddly enough, I rather liked Welling. He was an engaging companion and his love of cricket almost won me over. But he was also a ladies’ man whereas Moyle — remember the portrait and the attention to his appearance — sought company among his own sex.’

‘I can never understand people like that, sir.’

‘You don’t have to, Victor. You can simply bask in your glory.’

‘What glory?’

‘Don’t be modest,’ said Colbeck, patting him on the back. ‘You made three arrests in succession — Welling, his servant and Mrs Moyle. That’s what I’d call a hat trick.’

Having spent so many years in the army, Edward Tallis knew the importance of a disciplined way of life. As far as possible, he kept everything to an unvarying routine, leaving for work at precisely the same time every morning and organising each day in a similar manner. No matter how busy he was, he always found time for a brisk walk around noon to maintain fitness and to disperse the stink of cigar smoke that always clung to him. After leaving Scotland Yard that morning, he walked along Victoria Street. He was a big, straight-backed man with a moustache that he liked to stroke as if it were a favourite cat. His stride was long and his speed impressive. Few people could keep pace with him.

Tallis was about to cross a side street when he became aware of commotion to his left. Farther down the street, people were yelling and jeering at someone. Unable to see the object of their scorn, Tallis walked towards the crowd. They were gathered around the window of a butcher’s shop, howling abuse at a man who’d just emerged from the alley that ran alongside the building. Leading the verbal assault was the butcher himself, a solid man in a long apron that almost touched the floor.

‘Bugger off!’ he shouted, waving a fist. ‘Take that lousy cur of yours away or I’ll be after the pair of you with my cleaver!’

Other people felt obliged to add their own threats and some of the worst insults came from women. Tallis’s voice rose above the hubbub.

‘What’s going on?’ he asked, the authority in his tone imposing an instant silence. ‘What is this fellow supposed to have done?’

‘Just look at him, sir,’ replied the butcher. ‘You can see that he’s a miserable good-for-nothing. I caught him sleeping in the yard at the rear of my shop. These people are my neighbours. We don’t want him here but he just won’t leave.’

‘You’re not giving him any chance to leave,’ argued Tallis. ‘How can he move when you’ve got him trapped here? If you all disappear, I’m sure that he’ll take the opportunity to be on his way.’ When they hesitated, his voice became peremptory. ‘Go home,’ he ordered. ‘I’m a detective superintendent in the Metropolitan Police. I’ll deal with this situation.’

Deprived of the pleasure of baiting the man, some complained and others rid themselves of a few expletives but they all drifted away under Tallis’s stern gaze. With a dark scowl, the angry butcher withdrew into his shop and slammed the door behind him. Tallis was at last able to take a proper look at the person who had been at the centre of the rumpus. Tall, skinny and dishevelled, he was of indeterminate age. The lank hair that hung down from under his battered hat merged with his ragged beard. His clothing was tattered, his boots falling apart. What had enraged the crowd was his sinister appearance. One eye was closed shut and there was a livid scar down his cheek. Cowering behind him was a small, bedraggled dog with its tongue hanging out. The animal had been frightened by the crowd but the man had shown no fear, taking their invective on the chin as if used to such contempt.

‘What’s your name?’ asked Tallis.

‘Joel Anstey, sir.’

‘I fancy that you’ve been in the army.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said Anstey, saluting. ‘I was proud to serve Queen and Country.’

‘I feel the same.’ He stepped forward to examine the man’s face. ‘Where did you get those injuries?’

‘It was in the Crimea. A few weeks after we arrived there, I had my cheek sliced open by a Russian sabre. A year later, I lost my eye. But I don’t regret my days in the army, sir,’ he went on. ‘I spent the happiest years of my life in uniform.’ He gave a dry laugh. ‘Would it surprise you to know that I was considered handsome at one time? What woman would look twice at me now?’

‘And did you sleep in the butcher’s yard?’

‘No, sir — I merely climbed in there to see if he’d thrown out any old bones.’ He indicated the dog. ‘Sam is hungry.’

‘You look as if you both are.’

‘When the butcher found us, he threw a bucket of water over Sam.’

‘Well, you were trespassing.’

‘We did no harm, sir.’

Tallis sized him up. The man was articulate and respectful. There was no trace of self-pity. Evidently, he cared more for the dog than for his own welfare.

‘You sound as if you were born here in London,’ observed Tallis.