From Murder To A Cathedral Read online

  MOTHER OF THREE STRANGLED

  Returning to his Lewisham home last night after a long drive from a business appointment in Leicester, Mr. Geoffrey Entwhistle found his wife’s body in the front bedroom.

  She had been strangled.

  The police are anxious to interview a tall, dark-haired man wearing a light grey suit, who was seen near Number 23, Billitter Street, about eleven fifteen last night. It is believed that Mrs. Entwhistle was murdered between eleven and one o’clock. The killer did not disturb her three sleeping children - Clive, aged 11, Jennifer, 7, and Carol, 4.

  Mr. Entwhistle was with the police at Divisional Headquarters between four and seven o’clock, helping with inquiries. Mrs. Entwhistle’s mother is looking after the children.

  Slowly, Greenwood lowered the newspaper.

  He was no longer thinking of Margaret but of his chances of escaping detection. It was ironic that he owed to her the fact that they had always been extremely careful. Almost the only really dangerous move he had made had been that last night at Billitter Street, where he had gone without warning because Margaret had refused to come to him.

  If he’d only kept his hands off her, he wouldn’t be in this predicament.

  How many people had seen them together?

  Percy Golightly, in charge of a case which already greatly attracted him, was in one of his sunniest moods. He sat at his desk at Scotland Yard with copies of the evening newspapers in front of him. There were excellent pictures of the dead woman and, in one, of her husband and children.

  The door opened and a youthful-looking man with a hooked nose came in, carrying a wire tray with photographs. He put this tray on the end of Golightly’s desk.

  “Two hundred prints, as per your request,” he stated.

  Golightly picked up the top print, of Greenwood’s favourite photograph of a most attractive woman; even he found it hard to believe that she was dead.

  “That’s good,” he said. “Enough for all the Divisions and to spare. Thanks.” He nodded dismissal to the man from Photographs and picked up a pencil. He wrote on the back of the photograph, “Accurate likeness of Margaret Entwhistle, murdered by strangulation at 23, Billitter Street, Lewisham, between eleven and one o’clock in the morning, 15/16 of June. Ml Division requests notification if this woman has been seen in the company of any man other than her husband at any time during the past three months (or longer). In emergency also report to Information Room New Scotland Yard or to Chief Superintendent Golightly.”

  He read this through again, then sent for a sergeant to arrange for it to be duplicated, stuck on the back of the photographs, and distributed. Gideon knew damned well that he would handle the inquiry from this office. Good old Gee-Gee!

  Golightly stood up and crossed to a table that held a plastic bag containing dust and lint from the woman’s clothing. Pinned to a board were plastic envelopes, containing a number of things: a specimen of her lipstick, her face powder, fingernail scraping, hair - everything that might also be found on her murderer.

  Of course, each would almost certainly be found on her husband.

  Golightly stood up, whistled softly, went out and upstairs to the laboratory, where white-smocked men stood at a long bench dotted with Bunsen burners and pipettes, test tubes and white crucibles, tripods and forceps. There were two microscopes and all the impedimenta of a reasonably up-to-date chemical laboratory.

  “Got something for you,” Golightly said to the elderly Superintendent-in-charge.

  “Never known the time when you hadn’t,” the Superintendent said. “This the Entwhistle job?”

  “Yes.”

  “It was the husband, wasn’t it?” suggested the laboratory man.

  “Who knows?” Golightly asked cryptically.

  As this was happening at Scotland Yard, Geoffrey Entwhistle was sitting alone in his house at Billitter Street, Lewisham. His mind was in chaos, grieving and raging at the same time, as well as a little frightened, for he knew that he was under suspicion.

  His wife’s murderer was at Shalimar’s office, discussing a shipment of Tibetan agate. The thief of St. Ludd’s was still at Cannon Row Police Station. Gideon was with the Commissioner, discussing Superintendent Alec Hobbs of the C.I.D. At the same time, Superintendent Hugh Rollo was standing in a cellar beneath a house in Fulham, marvelling at a collection of nude photographs which really had to be seen to be believed.

  “Only time I’ve ever seen anything like this is in the frescoes at Pompeii,” he confided to a sergeant. “The Romans certainly knew how they wanted their lights o’ love. My, my. I think I’ll bring Gee-Gee along to see this.”

  His companion, a detective-sergeant of rare temerity, laughed. “If I know Gee-Gee, it won’t be the bods he’ll want to see, but the photographer who took them.”

  “Could be. I don’t underestimate our commander.” Rollo grinned. “He has an artistic eye. First things first, though. Are any of our three dead nudes here? Strictly in the line of duty, Sergeant - take a closer look.”

  They both laughed, though neither was amused, and began to compare three photographs, each of a murdered girl, with the photographs on the wall. It was a tedious and time-taking business, and during it their jokes were both crude and lewd, yet covered a deadly seriousness.

  In his study in an old oak-beamed house near St. Ludd’s, the Very Reverend Dean Howcroft was saying into the telephone: “Yes, I’m quite sure we can rely on his discretion. I was most favourably impressed. . . No, he hasn’t telephoned me yet, but I have a feeling I know whom he will assign to the task. . . The moment I have any news I will tell you.”

  5: RECOMMENDATIONS

  Sir Reginald Scott-Marie had been the Commissioner of the Metropolitan Police for several years. Those of his officers who knew him well both liked and respected him. For one thing, he did not pretend to be a detective; he was an administrator. For another, he took advice even in recommending senior appointments, which were made officially by the Home Office. He was aloof to a point of arrogance, but even those who found him cold and distant admitted his scrupulous fairness. Gradually he had become accepted as the true representative of the police, and under his guidance a great number of improvements had been made in working conditions, pay, and general facilities. Members of the Metropolitan Force now felt that they had a square deal, and Gideon, instrumental in persuading Scott-Marie of the need for the improvements, knew that the efficiency of the force was the greater because of the Commissioner.

  He reached the door of the Commissioner’s office as Scott-Marie, tall, lean, austere-looking, himself turned a corner from the other direction. He nodded and gave a faint smile.

  “Good morning, George.”

  “Good morning, sir.”

  “Come in.” They were as tall as each other, but Gideon was broader than his chief. This was a large office, with a conference room opening out on one side, the secretary’s on the other. A telephone bell rang in her room as Scott-Marie motioned to one of two chairs ranged in front of his desk. So only one other was expected.

  Hobbs?

  One of three telephones on Scott-Marie’s desk rang.

  “Yes,” he said into it. “I see - thank you.” He rang off. “Hobbs has been delayed for ten minutes.”

  “Not your morning for punctuality,” Gideon remarked.

  “Perhaps that’s a good thing, for once. How did Dean Howcroft impress you?”

  “Favourably,” answered Gideon promptly.

  “Good. You had the same effect on him.”

  Gideon’s eyebrows rose. “Has he been in touch with you again?”

  “No,” said Scott-Marie. Now his smile was, for him, positively broad. “I don’t often catch you out in bad staff work.”

  “Where have I slipped up?” asked Gideon, wary but not embarrassed.

  “My wife’s brother-in-law is the Bishop,” Scott-Marie said, simply.

  “Good God! I had no idea, sir.” Gideon smiled a little ruefully. “I simply had no ide
a.” As he stared into the Commissioner’s amused eyes thoughts were flashing through his mind, and he went on almost without a pause. “If the story’s reached the Bishop as quickly as this, the investigation means a lot to them and the problem isn’t as simple as the Dean made out.”

  “Did he make you believe it was simple?”

  Gideon said slowly, “I suppose he didn’t. He implied that the trouble itself was comparatively trifling, but the task of finding out what was behind it was too complex for the church authorities.” Gideon paused, fingering his chin, more perplexed than he liked to admit. “I didn’t press him for details - in fact I discouraged him from saying too much.”

  “He does rather go on and on, doesn’t he?” said Scott-Marie. “The trouble is twofold. Minor thefts of the kind which are quite common; and damage which amounts to serious vandalism if it is part of an overall activity. The anxiety is that either or both could become much more serious. One of the more intractable factors is that the offences seem to be done by someone with a knowledge of what is most sacred to the churches - they damage things which have ritual significance as well as value, though not, so far, the buildings themselves.”

  “Hmm,” grunted Gideon.

  “Have you decided who is to tackle it?”

  Gideon hesitated. Then: “I think so,” he said.

  “Who?”

  “Lemaitre.”

  He could not recall ever seeing Scott-Marie show so much surprise as he did at that answer. He stared at Gideon for a long time, making Gideon wonder whether he would try to dissuade him, even wonder whether his own judgment had been warped by a desire to give Lemaitre’s morale a good boost. He did not move in his chair nor shift his gaze.

  At last Scott-Marie said, “He’s the last man I would have thought of, but I think I see why you’re considering him. He will be extremely anxious to succeed, he’s a very straightforward fellow with a simple pattern of ethics, he will be shocked by the sacrilege involved but not be impressed by piety, ritual, or humbug.” Scott-Marie paused in the midst of this quite brilliant assessment of Gideon’s thinking, some of it quite impromptu, and then went on bluntly: “Can we trust his discretion?”

  “I’ve never had any worry about his discretion,” Gideon said. “He might be too impetuous, but I think he’ll restrain himself over this.” Gideon allowed himself a small, experimental grin. “I’ll be next door to him all the time, I don’t think that will do any harm.”

  Scott-Marie shrugged. “There you go, taking on more responsibility than you really should accept. However - I would certainly like to feel you had this investigation under your eye. You said you thought you’d decided. Why haven’t you fully made up your mind?”

  “Only considered Lemaitre for ten minutes,” Gideon pointed out. “I’ve decided now, sir.”

  Scott-Marie said, “Very well. Keep me in close touch, won’t you?” He paused only long enough for Gideon to say, “I will,” before going on without a change of tone. “Now to the Deputy Commander’s post. Have you had any second thoughts about Hobbs?”

  “No.”

  “None at all?”

  “Nothing new,” answered Gideon quietly. “He’s now had a full year at N.E. It’s been a tough year, and very few men with his background would have got through it the way he has. You still get the odd senior officer who sneers about Public School and party influence, and with a man like Hobbs you always will. I feared it might prevent him from getting on top of his job. I don’t think so now. I think he’ll make a real success of it.”

  Slowly, thoughtfully, Scott-Marie said, “I hope so, George. I most certainly hope so. I’m going to recommend him, of course, and I’ve no doubt the appointment will be confirmed. But I’m more troubled than I was before.”

  “Why, sir?”

  Scott-Marie didn’t answer at once, and in the pause, movements in the other room suggested that Hobbs had come in. When a buzzer sounded Scott-Marie pressed a button to tell his secretary to wait. For the first time since he had entered the room that day, Gideon saw the other man withdraw, sensed a cloak of reserve, almost of aloofness, fall upon him, affecting even the brightness of his eyes. The thing which most impressed Gideon was the freedom with which he had talked up to this moment; the change was really a reversion to normal.

  “I want you to give me a serious undertaking,” he said very precisely. “If at any time in the next six months you have reason to wonder if the appointment is a success, tell me so. Don’t keep it to yourself. I know you take a patriarchal interest in your staff. Don’t, please, allow that to influence you about Hobbs. I think he will either be exceptionally good or an unmistakable failure.”

  Gideon, wondering at the nature of this confidence yet not sharing the doubt, had the sense to say, “I’ll keep you informed all along the line, sir.”

  “Good. Then we’ll have him in.” In spite of the words, his forefinger hovered over the bell push and there was an almost unfathomable expression in his eyes. “George, I have often wanted to say this to you. I have come to recognize and understand you as a dedicated man. I have known soldiers and sailors, airmen and even politicians with a similar feeling of dedication, but I didn’t expect to find it in a policeman. I came to this appointment as an administrator, seeing the Force as another kind of army. In a way, it is. I have come to see it as an instrument in the age-old struggle between good and evil. You have made me regard it so. Try to make Hobbs see it in the same way. He is a very fine detective and an astute man. Intellectually and academically, he is in a class by himself at the Yard. I am not really convinced yet that he has that sense of dedication.”

  Scott-Marie stopped.

  Slowly, almost painfully, Gideon said, “I see what you mean.”

  He not only saw what the Commissioner meant; he could see why he had doubts about Hobbs. There was another factor which, in other circumstances, might have made him feel self-conscious, but it did not now. He would not have been aware of any sense of dedication in himself. If he had such a sense, it was as natural as breathing, and he didn’t think it could be acquired.

  If Hobbs hadn’t got it, he would probably never have it.

  Scott-Marie said, “All right, George,” and pressed the bell push.

  Chief Superintendent Alec Hobbs was almost too short for a policeman, barely above the regulation five feet eight inches. There was something curiously controlled about him - the way he dressed, the way he spoke and looked, the way he moved. His clothes, impeccably tailored, were a shade too formal, and every suit he wore appeared to be an exact replica of the last. His dark hair, greying slightly at the temples, was always exactly the same; he had it trimmed every ten days. He had been educated at Repton and King’s College, Cambridge, and had spent a year at one of the major American universities - Gideon could never remember which. There had at one time been a certain amount of prejudice against him as being Old School Tie, but as Gideon knew, this intense jealousy had mostly vanished.

  He had a private income but no one knew how much. He lived expensively but without ostentation in a flat overlooking the river at Chelsea with his invalid wife, to whom he was devoted and with whom he spent all of his spare time. She was - or she had been - a very beautiful woman, but in recent months her looks had faded, as if her illness were eating them away.

  This was the man whom Gideon, a product of a London elementary and secondary school education, had recommended as his deputy; and almost certainly the man who would one day step into Gideon’s shoes.

  That morning he moved toward the Commissioner’s office, guessing, without being absolutely sure, of the reason for his summons. Gideon shifted in his seat without rising; Scott-Marie motioned to the one empty chair. Hobbs knew instinctively that they had been discussing him: well, why not? Scott-Marie’s expression gave nothing away and Gideon looked a little preoccupied. Hobbs believed he understood Gideon more, in fact, than he understood Scott-Marie, who was first and last a soldier as Hobbs understood soldiers.

 
“I hope you weren’t delayed by anything serious,” Scott-Marie said. Reproof was implicit in his words.

  “Traffic, sir,” Hobbs said, half truthfully. He had never been able to talk freely about his wife and could not bring himself to say that it was a specialist who had been delayed on a visit to her, not he himself.

  Scott-Marie made no comment, but continued smoothly. “I would like to recommend your appointment as Deputy Commander of the Criminal Investigation Department, Hobbs. Can I do so with the certainty of your acceptance should the post be offered?”

  Outwardly, Hobbs was unmoved. Inwardly, he exulted. “Yes, sir, you can. Thank you.”

  “You have Gideon to thank as much if not more than I,” Scott-Marie declared.

  He glanced at Gideon, who felt a sudden sense of need to put Hobbs at his ease. Scott-Marie, having let himself go so much this morning, was instinctively stiffening again, and the familiar cold exterior was already very faintly hostile. If the conversation could not be lightened, it could at least be changed.

  He said adroitly, “Have you heard about the trouble at St. Ludd’s?”

  “An old lag has been arrested, hasn’t he?” There was very little that missed Hobbs.

  “Yes, but there’s more to it than that. The Dean—”

  “Howcroft?”

  “Yes. Do you know him?”

  “Yes. Socially.”

  “He’s worried about what he calls minor offences in a lot of churches and cathedrals,” Gideon said. “He wants us to probe, without making it obvious what we’re doing.”

  “Using the thief as the ostensible reason for the St. Ludd’s investigation,” Hobbs divined. “It must be serious, or he wouldn’t come to us.” He broke off, obviously waiting for some further comment. Scott-Marie was simply watching them, taking all this in but being no help at all. Gideon pondered before saying almost sententiously, “Who would you put in charge of that, Alec?”

  He hoped the “Alec” would lighten the atmosphere, yet was uneasy because, if Hobbs was socially a friend of the Dean, he might have some reservations about Lemaitre. These bloody politics! Gideon had no time for them at all and almost resented Scott-Marie’s decision to consult him. Hobbs, frowning very slightly, still determined not to show any feeling, was thinking fast. At last he shifted his position slightly, and said, “Lemaitre, I think, if you can spare him from his desk.”