The Secret Life and Curious Death of Miss Jean Milne (21 page)

“Can you tell me the date?”

“I don’t know dates. I don’t know. All I know is he comes back to my door and he says he is just then come from Amsterdam, and he would come again to stay here but he needs first a little money and borrowed half a crown from me. I have not seen him since. I remember it was on a Friday when he called.”

Mr Trench took half a crown from his pocket and laid it on the table. “Mr Walker wants you to have this,” he said.

H. M. Prison Dundee

December 1, 1912

Friend Aubrey,

Pay particular attention to this letter as I am in Scotland charged with murder. You spoke of going South but I sincerely hope you are still in Antwerp. You remember you told me you walked from London to Dover in two days. Well, I stole an overcoat in London and started to walk to Dover but was arrested at Tonbridge. I had lodging and breakfast and could not pay so was sent to Maidstone Prison for 14 days under the name of Charles Warner. On my discharge I was arrested and charged with murder in Scotland. I was never in Scotland and have given Police full account of my movements since landing at Havre, 19th. Go and see Mr Cox, Vice Consul and tell him everything you know about me and dates and also name I lived under at your hotel. Tell him exact date, how you got my parcel at Station and put me in small room over night. Tell him about my putting my name in Book next day. And also about writing to Turkish Consul. Be careful about dates. Tell about maid locking my room on me and then letting me in. Your Boss can prove everything. Don’t forget about young American that you took to ship. When the Officers come, tell them everything – I mean the Boy I borrowed 5F from Browning I think. Mention about Mr Thomas, ‘The Cowboy’. He came to Antwerp on same train as I did from Rotterdam. Get the date he registered at your hotel. Try also and find out exact date I first spoke to you, and you told me about a cheap Hotel in Brussels. Take young Boy from Terminal Hotel to Mr Cox and tell about Raincoat with German. In case this letter is forwarded to you write the Police here or Mr Cox in Antwerp. Be sure and speak about the Warrant you told me Boss took out. Bad pen.

    Truly yours

            C. S. Walker

Also tell about Transvaal Hotel and Rhinelander Hotel

CHIEF CONSTABLE SEMPILL was not a traveller. “Go out on deck, dear. So long as you can see the horizon, you’ll be fine,” that’s what Mrs Sempill said, but the fog had closed around the ferry the moment it left the quayside and he saw nothing but the heaving deck and a widow’s veil of grey mist all the way across.

The passage was agony, but the final moments, when the lights of Antwerp drew close and yet never drew closer, when they left the sea and rolled into the Scheldt and the rhythm of the engines changed and the ship slowed as it approached the dock and rose and rolled over the wash of its own bow wave, bouncing back from the harbour walls until, at last, the sailors shot their ropes and the ship was tied up and the ferry lay there, rolling greasily but hardly at all, and the smells of hot engine oil and funnel smoke hung in the air with no breath of wind to carry them off, and securing the gangplank took an age and queuing for it took even longer and those last steps onto dry land sprung and bounced under his feet – those were torment.

When he finally stood again on solid ground, Mr Sempill was chilled to the bone and flooded with nausea. He stood against a lamp post with his bag between his feet, his two boots planted on the granite cobbles, his back braced against that iron pillar, and he battled to control his heaving stomach. The torture of it went on, the terror of shaming himself by vomiting right there on the pavement, the sudden flush of icy sweat he could feel soaking his hatband, so he failed to notice the large man standing just a little way off to his left.

Sergeant Cosgrove was a caricature policeman: large brown boots sticking out from brown trouser cuffs, a rubberised raincoat that gave him the look of a mushroom and, above it, an enormous brown moustache under a brown bowler hat. “Rough crossing, sir?” he said, holding out a silver-topped flask.

“Not really. But I’m no sailor.”

“Brandy, sir. That’s the ticket. Just a drop, mind, a tiny drop to swill round the gums and take away the taste. Spit it out. Don’t worry, sir, nobody’s looking.”

Mr Sempill did as he was bid and tasted the brandy, just a sip – he barely tipped the flask – but it was enough to let the fumes flood his head, and the moment he tasted the brandy he felt his gorge begin to rise. He was helpless to prevent it and he doubled over, vomiting up a stream of yellow bile.

“That’s the way, sir. Better out than in. There’s a good gentleman.” Sergeant Cosgrove was as tender as a mother. “You’ll feel better now.”

“I’ve been sick,” said Mr Sempill.

“Yes, sir.”

“On dry land. They’ll imagine I’m drunk. I’m not drunk.”

“No, sir. Don’t give it a thought, sir.”

“I take it you’re Cosgrove?”

“Yes, sir. Rodney, sir.”

“Sergeant Rodney?”

“No, sir, Sergeant Rodney Cosgrove. Try another little drop. You’ll feel better, sir. See if you can swallow this time, sir. Try and hold it down this time, sir.”

Mr Sempill obeyed meekly. The brandy filled his nose and burned its way down his throat. He managed to raise himself against the friendly lamp post and he wiped his face with the handkerchief he habitually carried, took off his hat and dabbed it inside. “Right,” he said. “Better now. Thank you, Cosgrove.”

“Let me take your bag, sir.”

They walked off together, slowly, a little unsteadily, the mist glowing around the street lamps and forming in tiny cobweb beads on Sergeant Cosgrove’s rubberised overcoat and meeting and joining and trickling down to his ankles and falling away as he walked along.

“Another drop, sir?”

“No thank you.”

A wind came up from the pier head and began to shift the fog away. There was a tired orange sun trying to break through, just above the horizon, like one of those fashionable Impressionist paintings Mr Sempill hated so much. Mr Sempill hoped he was not a philistine. Mr Sempill was sure he was not a boor, but he believed in accuracy and he was convinced it was every bit as important in art as in police work. Just because the sun might sometimes, very rarely shine that way, in a way that meant it was almost unrecognisable as the sun, that did not mean it should be painted that way. Such things were needlessly confusing.

“We could stop for breakfast, sir. I knows of a nice hotel.”

“Thank you, but I don’t think I could face it. If you don’t mind, I’d prefer to get straight to business with Mr Cox in town.”

“As you like, sir.”

They stopped on the station platform for a cup of coffee and took the next train with nothing much to say and Sergeant Cosgrove quietly mourning over his breakfast.

“Do you know Mr Cox?”

“Oh yes, sir.”

“What sort of a man would you say he was?”

“Oh, the middling sort, I’d say, sir.”

“Yes, but what does he do?”

“Do, sir?” The train went slowly round a queasy curve and they found themselves, quite suddenly, in the heart of the town. “He’s the Vice Consul, sir. He does much as I do, sir. He keeps one ear to the ground and both his eyes peeled and represents ’is Majesty amongst the ’eathens.”

They left the station, still with Sergeant Cosgrove carrying the bag, as he led the way to an ordinary-looking building in a street of ordinary-looking buildings. Beside the door leading onto the stairwell there was a board with a column of brass nameplates screwed on, including the name of Mr Cox and his designation as “His Brittanic Majesty’s Vice Consul”. The two hooks where the flagpole was meant to hang, proudly displaying the Union Jack, were standing empty.

“Is he in?” said Mr Sempill.

“They tend to keep bankers’ hours, sir. Never open too early, never shut too late. But Mr Cox is always in, sir. I’ve never known the man to sleep.”

They climbed the gloomy staircase, gas lamps burning faintly on every landing, until they reached the fourth floor, where Mr Sempill felt the worn wooden boards turn to linoleum under his feet.

The outer door stood open, and from inside, a bright oblong of yellow light fell onto the landing through etched glass bearing the Royal Arms of England.

“In we go, sir,” said Sergeant Cosgrove and he opened the door without so much as a knock. “Mr Cox? Mr Cox? Sergeant Cosgrove, here.”

“This way, Sergeant. Back room. I’m making a cup of tea.”

A man in morning dress, a black claw-hammer coat and dove-grey trousers emerged from the back room carrying a tray. “You must be Sempill. Welcome to Antwerp, Chief Constable.” Mr Cox nodded towards the tray he was carrying. “Forgive my not shaking hands. One feels so silly.” Mr Sempill admired his snowy-white spats.

“I’m first to arrive – again – I’m afraid, so I must fend for myself. This way, gentlemen.”

Sergeant Cosgrove opened the door into the private office and stood aside as the Vice Consul carried his tea tray across a thick Persian carpet and laid it on his enormous desk in the bow window looking out over a square.

“I can’t get through the day without tea,” said Mr Cox. “May I offer you some, Chief Constable?”

“Thank you.” Sempill was awkwardly eager to get in with the business of disproving Warner’s alibi, but good manners dictated that everything must wait for tea.

Mr Cox handed him a cup and saucer. “A pleasant crossing, I hope, Chief Constable.”

“Yes. Thank you. Very pleasant.”

“Yes? Good show. I’ve never enjoyed the Channel, I’m afraid. Always sick as a dog. The great thing is to try to forget that one has the return journey to look forward to.”

Mr Sempill sniggered thinly. “Indeed,” he said. “How true.”

They sipped tea for a moment and then, putting down his saucer, Mr Cox said: “Now then, I understand from Sergeant Cosgrove that we are caught up in a murder inquiry.”

Mr Sempill took out his wallet and produced the photograph he had ordered from Maidstone jail. He leaned forward in his chair and slid it across the desk.

“That’s the very chap,” said Mr Cox. “No doubt about it. I’ve definitely met that scoundrel before.” He rose from the desk, crossed the room to a large filing cabinet and returned with a ledger. He found a space next to the tea tray and began to leaf through the pages. “The man in that picture,” he said, “came to this office October 17.”

“The 17th? Are you absolutely sure, sir? It’s just that we have him in Broughty Ferry very close to that date.”

“No doubt about it. He represented himself to me as,” Mr Cox consulted the ledger, “as Charles S. Ware, born at Guelph, Ontario, Canada, and previously of 16 Palmer Street, Royal City. He stated he was destitute and anxious to get back to Canada. Claimed he had tried to get a passage by one of the regular lines leaving Antwerp for the United States or Canada but had been unsuccessful. I’m afraid I was completely taken in. I believed he was a British subject in distress and we issued him a pass to London at the expense of the British Poor Fund.”

“You mustn’t blame yourself, sir. He’s an extremely plausible villain. We’ve had exactly the same story from what you might call your ‘colleagues’ in the Canadian High Commission back in London. He walked in there, bold as brass, and swindled them out of nearly £2 for a ticket to Liverpool and some money for his pocket – a loan, mind you, all to be repaid upon his honour – and all on the strength of being a Mason back home in Canada.”

“Really?” said Mr Cox. “How extraordinary. And I take it you are not, yourself, a member of the Craft, Chief Constable? Well, that’s all I can tell you, I’m afraid, unless perhaps Sergeant Cosgrove has something more to say.”

The sergeant opened his notebook and he began to address the court. “I have the honour to report,” Mr Cox rolled his eyes and drank some more tea, “that inquiries have been made in Rotterdam regarding the porter John Starfield mentioned in the prisoner’s statement. He no longer works at the Hotel Victoria. It seems there was some difficulty over money. He borrowed several small sums from colleagues and then there was the matter of a minor theft and he has moved on, possibly to Antwerp.

“Inquiries were also made with Mrs Schmidt at 2 Stationsplien, where Starfield lodged until about a month ago. Money problems again. Couldn’t pay the rent. But it seems there is absolutely no doubt that the prisoner Warner was with him for a week at the end of September. They shared a room with a curtain down the middle and Starfield seems to have acted like a brother towards him. Paid for breakfasts for himself and Warner. He sold Warner’s razor and strop for him,” Sergeant Cosgrove went back to his notebook, “to a Mr Vreds, the hall porter of the Victoria, for the price of a ticket to Antwerp.

“Mrs Schmidt believes the man went to live with her on September 24. She won’t make a formal statement, but she’s told me he stayed for seven days and once afterwards he wrote to Mr Stanfield from Antwerp.”

Mr Cox settled his teacup in its saucer with barely a rattle. “Seems quite an irregular type.”

“That’s the least you could say about him, sir. But I wonder if I could trouble you to take a look at this.” Mr Sempill unfolded the two pages of sketch maps which Warner had drawn out. “He claims this indicates the location of various hotels and drinking dens where he is known.”

Mr Cox glanced at the papers. “Yes, this is perfectly correct so far as I can see. A more or less accurate depiction.”

“Then that’s where I must continue my inquiries.”

“Do you speak the language at all, Chief Constable? French is usually acceptable, but they prefer Dutch – or something like it – in these parts.”

“No. But I’m sure, if I speak slowly, I can make my meaning known.”

“Yes. I’m sure,” said Mr Cox. He fiddled with his saucer. “That almost always works for me and, indeed, for most of the Diplomatic Corps, but in the event that it should not, I’m sure you’ll find Sergeant Cosgrove a great help.”

“You speak French?” Mr Sempill was astonished.

“Yes, sir. And a bit of Dutch. Some German. My Italian isn’t what it might be.”

“So you’re in good hands,” said Mr Cox. “And now, gentlemen, if there’s nothing else I can do for you . . .” He stood up from behind the desk and, this time, graciously offered his long, slim hand for shaking. “And, Cosgrove, old man,” he pointed to the flagpole standing propped in the corner by the door, “if you wouldn’t mind hanging that up on your way out, I’d be obliged.”