Peter Lovesey - Swing, Swing Together

“He’s over there,” said Barry. “You’d better introduce yourself.”

He was conspicuous by being in a plain suit, but otherwise Fernandez Senior was a disappointment in appearance, smaller and more mild-looking than Cribb had expected of a man who had fathered thirteen children and reorganized the largest prison in London. He had a winged collar and a spotted tie. He was hairless except for a thin, reddish moustache.

Cribb lifted his bowler. “Mr. Fernandez? The name’s Cribb, sir. Detective Sergeant. Scotland Yard. Might I have a word?”

“You are obstructing my view of the clock,” said Fernandez in a pained voice.

Cribb sidestepped. “I shan’t take up much time, sir.”

“I hope you don’t, or twelve prisoners will tread a forty-minute shift, instead of twenty, and they won’t thank you for that. I am supervising an innovation in the exercise. The present group is due to be replaced at twenty minutes to the hour, but the order has to come from me. You have two and a half minutes of my time, Sergeant. What is it you require-an interview with a prisoner?”

“With you, sir. It concerns your nephew, John Fernandez.” Cribb could not have been prepared for the reaction this provoked. “Does it indeed? What did you say your name was?”

“Cribb, sir.”

“The Metropolitan Commissioner shall hear of this, Cribb. Reasonable inquiries are one thing, but this amounts to persecution, and I won’t tolerate it. I was personally assured by Inspector Abberline that I should not be subjected to more questions about my nephew. It was conclusively established that he is unconnected with the matters under investigation. I will not have my family hounded by policemen. Have you spoken to Inspector Abberline?”

“No, sir, but-”

“I suggest you do. I have nothing more to say on the matter.” He turned his back on Cribb and pushed through the line of convicts to the center of the yard. “Odds!” he piped in a voice just strident enough to be heard above the mechanism of the treadmill. “On your feet! Sharp now, unless you want a turn on the crank.”

Twelve convicts stood up in the stalls, which Cribb now saw were numbered from one to twenty-four. The odd numbers were about to start their shift. “One, two, three, change!” called Fernandez.

The evens backed away from the mechanism and leaned on the sides of the stalls or crumpled to the floor. The odds took up the tread.

Cribb had eased his way through the chain and was speaking to the Deputy Governor at a rate that brooked no interference. “Someone nearly murdered your nephew, Mr. Fernandez. It happened yesterday morning in Oxford. A man was drowned. We think the murderers mistook him for John Fernandez. That’s why I’m here.”

“Kindly modulate your voice,” said Fernandez. “I would rather that the whole of Coldbath Fields did not hear about the misfortunes of my family. Somebody tried to murder him? Whatever for?”

“I hoped you might be able to tell me, sir. I’ve reason to believe that somebody travelled from London to Oxford with the intention of drowning him.”

“Why question me about it?” said Fernandez. “Naturally it causes me concern, but I know nothing about it.”

“Your nephew raised the possibility that released prisoners might seek revenge on you by attacking your family, sir.”

“Revenge?” said Fernandez, screwing his face into an expression of horror. “What an ill-informed idea! These men bear no malice towards me. They have their term to serve and I am here to see that it is served as the law dictates. They have much to thank me for, if you want to know. I inaugurated many of the procedures which contribute to the general efficiency of this house of correction and, in consequence, the well-being of its inmates. The fact that you see me supervising treadmill exercise does not mean that I am not concerned with the things of the spirit, Sergeant. The improving texts displayed throughout these buildings are here on my initiative.” In case it had escaped Cribb’s notice, he extended his hand towards a card above the treadmill bearing the legend Be Sure Your Sin Will Find You Out (Numbers, Ch. 32, v. 23). “ As a matter of fact, they were chosen by my own dear wife and daughters. No, Sergeant, I have no fear of former prisoners, nor need my nephew be alarmed.”

“I’ll try to reassure him, sir,” said Cribb. “Perhaps he hasn’t had the advantage of visiting the prison.”

“This is a house of correction. A man of your vocation ought to know that prisons are for long-term convicts. No, my nephew has never been here. I have not set eyes on him for a year. The last occasion was his father’s funeral. That is why it so infuriates me that I am plagued with policemen asking questions about him. The man has a slight imperfection of character, I concede-‘the little rift within the lute,’ as Tennyson puts it-but to my knowledge it has never been more than that. They understand him at Oxford. I’m sorry, if what you say is true, that somebody tried to murder him. These are violent times, I am afraid. It could happen to any of us. The Queen herself, God bless her, has survived a number of attempts upon her life. Savage times. Now, if you will excuse me, I think I see a man shirking up there. An hour on the crank will do him good.”

From Coldbath Fields, Cribb caught a green Victoria bus to Whitehall and marched briskly into the Metropolitan Police Office in Great Scotland Yard. At half-past eight on a Sunday evening the sergeant at the information desk was deep in his News of the World. Cribb’s curt “Inspector Abberline-is he on duty?” got a less instant response than it warranted.

“Abber what?”

“Fred Abberline, for God’s sake. Where have you been for the past twelve months? The man in charge of the Ripper investigation.”

“Jesus!” The desk sergeant dropped his newspaper. “Abberline’s off duty. There hasn’t been another …?”

“No.” Cribb had conducted this conversation as he was moving through the information room to the registry.

The clerk on duty here was sharper to react. He had dropped his Bicycling Times into the wastepaper basket before Cribb reached the counter.

“The Whitechapel murders,” Cribb announced. “I’d like to look at the file on them.”

“File!” The clerk pulled a face. “There’s twenty altogether, Sergeant. One for each of the five victims; one for others murdered in similar circumstances; nine for correspondence; one for suspects, principal; two for suspects, other; and two marked miscellaneous.”

“I’d better take them all. Where do I sign for them?”

“You’ll need a handcart to move them. The correspondence was coming in at the rate of a thousand letters a week last winter. We’re still getting upwards of a hundred, mostly from lunatics.”

“Give me Suspects, Other, will you? I’ll start with those.” He gave a long whistle as two bulging files tied with tape were dumped on the counter. “I should think you’ve got the whole of London in there.”

In the adjoining office Cribb turned on the gas, placed his watch on the desk and unfastened the tape round the first file. He leafed through the contents carefully, not without excitement. Up to now there had not been much to get excited over in this investigation. Detective work held more disappointments than rewards, he knew, but occasionally, just occasionally, the shade of Sir Robert Peel, or whoever it was who interceded with the gods for detectives in despair, procured a small advantage for the side of law and order. Unless they were playing false, the gods had favoured Cribb when Fernandez Senior had mentioned Inspector Abberline’s name.