Bones in the Barrow (4 page)

“Balmy, I should think,” said Inspector Cole, as, after pacifying the old lady as best he could, he and the sergeant moved away from her door. “That's the style they go on like, as a rule. Want to tell you some cock-and-bull story, and then get frightened about nothing.”

“She's watching us out of the window, still,” said the sergeant. “Talking to herself, too, by the look of it. Round the bend, as you say, sir.”

“We'll try the houses in turn,” went on Inspector Cole, stopping a little further on. “Fourteen before Sixteen.”

They had to stand for some minutes at the door of Number Fourteen before it was opened to them. Even then, only a mere slit appeared, through which a timid voice said, “No hawkers, no circulars, no agents.”

“Well, we aren't,” said Inspector Cole, leaning a little on the door to widen the gap. “May we have a word with you, please? Police officers.”

The door was released abruptly, so that the inspector nearly fell forward into the dark little hall of the house. A thin young man with hair drooping over his forehead stepped back as the two men drew close.

“What do you want? Mrs. Field is out.”

“That the owner of the house?”

“Yes. Shopping.”

“You her son?”

“Good heavens, no. I rent a room here. Upstairs, back.”

“Can I have a word with you?”

“Why me? I know I haven't attended my lectures this week, but that's not illegal, is it? I wasn't in the rag at all. I don't even know who it was painted the statue, and I wouldn't tell you if I did.”

“The amount of undisclosed crime in this street is something astonishing,” said the inspector, grimly.

“I tell you I had nothing to do with it.”

Disregarding this protest, which seemed to Cole to be futile to the point of witlessness, he motioned to the young man to show the way to his room. The other, after hesitating, turned about, and led them up the stairs.

“From information received,” began the inspector, while the sergeant quietly closed the door, “we have been given to understand that your neighbour has shown violence to an official of the Electricity Board, calling at her house.”

“Mrs. Hunt? Who told you? The old mad woman at Number Ten?”

“Never mind that,” said the inspector, annoyed by the promptness of this response. “Is it true?”

“No. At least—”

“At least, what?”

“There were words, I've been told. I was working in the lab pretty hard all that week—”

“Are you a student at London University?”

“Yes. Chemistry. My second—”

“I'll go into that later. About Mrs. Hunt. Can you tell me anything about this alleged quarrel?”

“Only at second-hand.”

“It'll do for the present.”

“Well, then. It was over a refrig. Some lodger of hers had a refrig. Or rather, hired one, so they say. There was some talk about it at the time he went to Mrs. Hunt's, on account of her being the last house in the row to get the electricity, after they rebuilt the houses, since the war. Something to do with the mains, and the way they run now. I never tried to understand it. Our end of the street—I mean, from Mrs. Hunt's going up this way, was rebuilt a couple of years previously to that end, and was supplied with gas, like it had been before. Usual muddle.”

“Go on,” said Inspector Cole.

Muddle, he thought, was not confined to the bureaucracy. He foresaw a long-winded tale, so he gazed out the little window over an expanse of mean roofs, where chimney stacks of irregular shape and size stood up like the severed trunks of a coppice of small trees.

“He wasn't there so long, either. Came a month before Christmas and left in the New Year.”

“Did he quarrel
often
with Mrs. Hunt?”

The chemistry student stared at him.

“He didn't quarrel with her at all. Not that I know of. There was no talk of any such thing. That was after he'd gone. After the hiring firm went to collect the refrig, too. That was when it started. Mrs. Hunt argued with them first; said they couldn't take it back till he'd paid her for the current he'd used. They said he'd paid them up his hire instalments, and ended the contract, and it was their property, not hers, and they were going to take it. She tried to stop them. But they never came to blows. As far as I know.”

“It was the Electricity Board's representative the old lady mentioned.”

“Oh, them. I did hear something of that from Mrs. Field. Tried to stop the bloke cutting her off. He agreed to call back if she'd go straight down and pay for it. Which she did, I believe.”

He moved across the room to stand beside the inspector.

“What do you really want to know?” he asked.

Inspector Cole laughed.

“I wish I could tell you,” he said.

The young man looked both offended and suspicious.

“You won't find anything wrong at Mrs. Hunt's,” he said. “This is a quiet neighbourhood. At least it always was, and it is again now. At least—”

He stopped again. He seemed to reach these qualifying pauses at very regular intervals.

“At least, what?” asked the inspector, patiently.

“The cats,” said the young man, pointing to the window.

He threw up the sash at the bottom and beckoned to Cole to come nearer.

“After they took the refrig away again the cats stopped making their din. Before that it was getting chronic. I wonder the old woman at Number Ten didn't mention it. Only she's mad on cats, herself.”

“I don't follow you.”

“It's my belief he put out some for the local cats. To get rid of his surplus, perhaps. Only of course he had the refrig.”

“Who had?”

“The cat's-meat chap at Mrs. Hunt's. You wouldn't credit the row they made, every evening, almost, while he was there. And chasing one another half the night, and snarling and yelling and fighting. I noticed it, of course, my window being placed as it is. I'd have thought the old woman would have mentioned it.”

“Sir,” said the sergeant, sharply.

Inspector Cole, who was leaning out the window, pulled in his head, and looked at his subordinate. The sergeant's face was rather pale, and he breathed deeply.

“Yes, Rivers,” said the inspector. “It's a possibility.”

Thanking the student of chemistry, he made his way down the stairs and out into the street, followed by his subordinate. They moved next door to Mrs. Hunt's, and the inspector applied himself to the knocker. There was an electric bell, but it seemed to be out of order.

“Cats,” murmured Cole, gazing at the roofs of the houses opposite.

“Were they really proved to be
human
bones?” asked Detective Sergeant Rivers, with a certain shrinking in his voice.

“Yes,” said the inspector, and added, as footsteps could be heard approaching the door. “A queer business altogether, come to think of it.”

Mrs. Hunt did not in the least resent their visit. She presented herself to the guardians of the law as a woman wronged, and one who expected, even demanded, a sympathetic hearing.

“I'm not surprised,” she kept repeating, as she led the two officers into her brightly decorated sitting-room. “A criminal type. The smooth kind. I'm not often in, but I was at fault this time. I'd believe anything of him now. I'm not at all surprised.”

“Can we have a few facts?” asked Inspector Cole, taking a grip on himself.

“What's he done now?” asked Mrs. Hunt. “Imposed on some other poor widow, I expect. I must say he paid his rent regular, and always quiet and respectable-looking. Have your arrested him?”

“You can help us best,” said Inspector Cole, ignoring this outpouring, “by answering a few questions I should like to put to you about Mr. Rust.”

Seeing in Mrs. Hunt's eager expression that the flood waters were gathering again, he went on rapidly, “What was his full name?”

“Harold Rust, as far as I know.”

“Did you board him? I mean, did you have his ration book?”

“Oh, no. My lodgers cater for themselves. They are out all day. I see to their rooms if they require it. Extra charge, of course.”

“Of course,” said the inspector. He was a middle-aged man, and remembered the boardinghouse of his youth, where he had been housed, fed, and waited on at table into the bargain. And for much less money than Mrs. Hunt's lodgers paid for the bare use of an ill-furnished room, providing their own bed linen into the bargain.

He went on, “Can you tell me the exact date when Mr. Rust came here? And how much notice you had of his coming?”

“The date was November 26th,” she answered promptly. “You may be surprised I know it so pat, but I've had plenty of reason to remember it, what with the dealings I've had with the Electricity. Robbery, plain and simple. Don't talk to me about nationalization.”

Nothing could have been further from Inspector Cole's intention. He pursued his own course doggedly, and managed, after much sifting, to secure the following facts.

Mr. Rust had knocked at Mrs. Hunt's front door on November 25th, between eight and nine in the evening, encouraged, he told her, by the notice in her front window saying “Rooms to Let.” He had looked at her top floor back, and taken it on the spot, saying it was just the job, because it had a power point, and he needed that for his refrig. She had shown astonishment over this, and he had then explained his trade. He was a cat's-meat man. He did have a shop, but took his wares round the poorer streets on a barrow. He collected new supplies once or twice a week, at the end of the day, and brought them back to the refrig.

Mrs. Hunt, who was fond of cats, and owned a rather spoiled Blue Persian, acknowledged that she was drawn to “Pussy's butcher,” especially as she saw an opportunity of getting supplies for her pet's daily dinner on her own doorstep. She had been impressed by the hygienic system Mr. Rust followed. She agreed to take him the next day, and was willing to let him have the use of her yard to keep his barrow in at night. The refrig would arrive in a day or two, she understood.

As it happened she was out when the apparatus arrived. It was a largish refrigerator, and her cleaning woman who admitted the men with it had to deal with their objection to carrying it up to Mr. Rust's room. They knew all about his being a cat's-meat man, they said, but they hadn't bargained for him living at the top of the house. However, the refrig went in, and Mr. Rust came home in the evening, this time with a sack of fresh cat's meat on his little cart. Neither Mrs. Hunt nor her helper realized that the refrigerator was hired.

“You did not know that until the hiring firm came to take it away?” asked the inspector.

“That's about it” Mrs. Hunt's eyes gleamed with anger, as she remembered her defeat. “He paid his rent as usual, and went off with his cart as usual, not saying a word. He must have had 'is things on the cart under the sacks. Because I never set eyes on 'im from that day to this.”

“He left no address, of course?”

“I've told you. He never even said 'e was going. Address indeed! Vanished into the blue is more like it. And left the electricity unpaid for.”

“How was that? Don't you have separate meters for the rooms?”

“No. Fixed charge. Saves them always coming to me for shillings. I like them to have electric fires, on account of saving work, and as I put the fires in, see, I can charge for their use.”

“Make a bit of profit, too, eh?” said Inspector Cole.

“And why not? Don't I provide accommodation?”

“Oh, by all means. So you had a bit of a shock when the hiring company arrived? You thought you were covered by the refrig, or even, perhaps, going to make a bit out of it?”

This was so near the bone that Mrs. Hunt's expression became quite savage. She launched into a long tirade against Mr. Rust, his deception and double-dealing. Evidently she had been inclined to like him before his strange departure and unexpected betrayal. This led the inspector to ask, “What kind of man is this Mr. Rust? Tell me about him.”

She hesitated. Natural inclination fought with outraged memory.

“Some people would call him good-looking, I suppose. Not my type at all. Nothing special, really.”

“What about his colouring? His height, build, and that sort of thing?”

“Ordinary. I don't remember what colour his eyes were. Brownish hair, like most men. Not bald at all. He was taller than me, not so tall as you. More the height of the young chap over there.”

The young chap, who was Detective-Sergeant Rivers, looked resentful, but said nothing. He had been upstairs to examine the room Mr. Rust had occupied, and he was waiting eagerly to report to his superior. But Cole went on perseveringly.

“You haven't told me his age, or his apparent age.”

“Not in his first youth. Not old, either. Thirty-eight to forty, I should think, though he wasn't grey at all. Clean-shaved.”

“What was the name of the company that hired the refrig?” Cole asked. Mr. Rust's appearance seemed to be so ordinary it was no use asking for more detail.

“I don't remember.”

“Oh, come now!”

“I don't. Honest, I don't.” Mrs. Hunt was indignant. “I was too upset. I told you my woman took it in, and when they came for it, and he hadn't paid his bill for the current, I just blew up. I never asked the name, and they didn't show no papers, because 'e had settled up with them. I never noticed the name on the van. I was thankful to see the back of them at the last. I just shut my door in their faces, and had a good cry. So I don't know who they were from Adam. I can't tell you. I wish I could.”

Inspector Cole and Rivers stood just inside the window of the top-floor back at Number Sixteen, Waterbury Street. They had the lower sash thrown up and were carefully wiping away the grime from the sill with a damp rag.