Constable Rutherford stood patiently at ease in the corridor outside the Inspector’s office. After some time, the tall, blond, incredibly young Inspector James opened the door and beckoned him enter. “Have a seat, Cyril, I just want to go over your report again.”
“Sir.” He obeyed.
He sat, straight backed, feet apart, hands on knees. His immediate thoughts of ‘never trust the bastards when they start off on first name terms’ was not reflected in his facial expressions, his voice or his demeanour, but it had turned on his inbuilt alarm and put him onto amber alert.
The Inspector read the report through again and carefully laid it in the top drawer of his desk. “Very concise, to the point and covering all angles, Cyril, the sort of report I’d expect from someone with twenty five years on the force. Is there anything you missed out?”
“No sir, I covered all relevant points.”
“Nothing about a notebook?”
“Notebook, sir?” he queried, with a nonchalant air.
The Inspector held up the single page which contained the old woman’s funeral wishes. “See the rounded page corners Cyril, The page is taken from a small notebook, the type which includes a small pencil in the spine. We wondered if you’d come across such a notebook.” And he cocked an eye, inquisitively, questioningly.
“No sir, didn’t see a note book,” he replied, his voice confident and even.
“Did you search the house thoroughly?”
“No sir, just a cursory inspection. The note was lying on her bed side cabinet.”
“Alongside the pencil, which, presumably she wrote the note?”
“Ah,” and for the first time, he faltered. ”No sir, I didn’t see a pencil.”
“I’m guessing that she’d be close to death when she wrote he funeral note. I’m guessing she’d be virtually bedridden. I can’t imagine she’d write the note, then haul herself out of bed then get rid of the pencil and notebook, doesn’t add up somehow,” and he paused for effect. “Does it?”
Rutherford recovered his composure and came back in a thrice. “I’d made the assumption that the note had been written some time ago, somewhere else in the house, when she was more agile and she simply left by her bedside. I didn’t see anything sinister, out of place or untoward, sir. Over the years, I’ve come to think of death as unplanned, unorganised, and impromptu. People seem to do strange, out of character things in their final hours. I’m sure Mrs Jenkins was no different, sir.”
The Inspector rubbed his cheek and Rutherford remained calm and still, his face completely at ease, reassured, no doubt, that after being cornered, he’d recovered himself rather well.
“There are other unanswered questions here Rutherford,” the Inspector said, his tone altered.
“Sir?” said the old Bobby, with a hint of innocence.
The Inspector opened his drawer and took out a small piece of paper. “This is a copy of the old woman’s funeral note. Close inspection reveals indentations of what was written on the previous pages. It is possible, even with the naked eye to make out a couple of words.........soldier.......and dead. The original note is with forensics; we are waiting a full translation. I am expecting a call from them with their findings anytime soon.” And he sat back and looked Rutherford squarely in the eye.
If he expected a reaction from the constable, a gasp, a hand to the mouth, a wide eyed stare, then he would be disappointed. But neither was he going to let go of the initiative. “I understand you were here in ’44 when a young soldier went missing.”
“Yes sir,” came the simple response.
“You remember what happened?”
“Just that, sir, the soldier had been in the White Hart, he was last seen walking along West Street. He was never seen again. The Army demanded a full investigation, several searches were carried out but no trace of him was ever found. The case was wound down and consigned to the unsolved file.”
There followed a long pause before the Inspector announced, “He disappeared somewhere between West Street and the end of the village, somewhere around Belvedere Cottage. Mrs Jenkin’s note might hold the answer. The notebook most surely would. A dedicated search team from H.Q. turned the place over yesterday.”
Rutherford looked him squarely in the eye, without a flicker of emotion.
“They found the lead from a small pencil in the ash in the grate.”
Rutherford remained deadpan.
”And what might prove to be the spine of a small notebook, also with Forensics.”
No response.
“They also found what appears to be a spent Swan Vestas matchstick in the grate. Mrs Jenkins had a box of Bryant and May matches in the mantleshelf. Odd that a smoker’s match should be found in the grate, we are having it tested for................”
“Don’t bother sir, it’ll be mine, I had a pipe whilst I was making an entry in my Police note book. I tossed the spent match into the grate,” he said, quite unruffled.
“Is that all you tossed into the grate?”
“Sir? What are you implying?”
“There’s a great deal of unanswered questions in this case, Rutherford, a case that has lain dormant for twenty five years and suddenly brought back to life. Did the woman kill the soldier? If so, how did she dispose of his body? Did she make a deathbed confession? Did she then change her mind and destroy it? Or did someone else destroy it? If so, why?”
“I can’t answer any of those questions, sir. First time I ever saw Mrs Jenkins was when I entered her bedroom and discovered her body. There was a good deal of speculation about the disappearance of the missing soldier in 1944. It was rumoured that he’d stolen and sold some Army equipment and was about to be arrested, though the Army denied it. Others said he’d had an affair with a married woman and an enraged husband was looking for him. He reputedly had connections with southern Ireland and the same day he vanished, a bicycle was stolen from a farm outhouse just outside the village. Cooperation between the Army and the Civilian Police was quite poor. Numerous searches of the village, farms, ponds, woodland sometimes using sniffer dogs, yielded nothing. Some senior police officers thought we were being sent on wild goose chases as the Army wanted to defend its reputation, or prevent it looking inefficient. The suggestion that a strapping, trained soldier was murdered by a seven stone woman, who then disposed of his body is little more than clutching at straws, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, sir.”
The Inspector gritted his teeth and the air was brittle with anticipation. The wall clock ticked solemnly and punctured the silence with a doleful monotony. The inspector rose from his seat and paced the floor, his face contorted into scowl, as if all his attempts to extract an admission of guilt from the old copper had been thwarted. He glanced occasionally at the telephone, willing it to ring, wishing Forensics would confirm his suspicions. The old policemen retained his position, straight backed, head held high, seemingly unruffled by the prospect of a brief telephone call which could end his career, snatch his pension.
The telephone rang just once before the Inspector turned and snatched the receiver. “Inspector James,” he snapped impatiently as Rutherford stared straight ahead. “I see, yes, I see. Thank you. Let me have a full, written report please, goodbye.”
He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “Forensics are unable to confirm that any of the indentations on the note can be construed as a confession. Therefore case is closed, Rutherford. Dismiss .” And he turned to the window.
Rutherford rose and allowed himself a ghost of a grin.
“Sir.” He obeyed.
He sat, straight backed, feet apart, hands on knees. His immediate thoughts of ‘never trust the bastards when they start off on first name terms’ was not reflected in his facial expressions, his voice or his demeanour, but it had turned on his inbuilt alarm and put him onto amber alert.
The Inspector read the report through again and carefully laid it in the top drawer of his desk. “Very concise, to the point and covering all angles, Cyril, the sort of report I’d expect from someone with twenty five years on the force. Is there anything you missed out?”
“No sir, I covered all relevant points.”
“Nothing about a notebook?”
“Notebook, sir?” he queried, with a nonchalant air.
The Inspector held up the single page which contained the old woman’s funeral wishes. “See the rounded page corners Cyril, The page is taken from a small notebook, the type which includes a small pencil in the spine. We wondered if you’d come across such a notebook.” And he cocked an eye, inquisitively, questioningly.
“No sir, didn’t see a note book,” he replied, his voice confident and even.
“Did you search the house thoroughly?”
“No sir, just a cursory inspection. The note was lying on her bed side cabinet.”
“Alongside the pencil, which, presumably she wrote the note?”
“Ah,” and for the first time, he faltered. ”No sir, I didn’t see a pencil.”
“I’m guessing that she’d be close to death when she wrote he funeral note. I’m guessing she’d be virtually bedridden. I can’t imagine she’d write the note, then haul herself out of bed then get rid of the pencil and notebook, doesn’t add up somehow,” and he paused for effect. “Does it?”
Rutherford recovered his composure and came back in a thrice. “I’d made the assumption that the note had been written some time ago, somewhere else in the house, when she was more agile and she simply left by her bedside. I didn’t see anything sinister, out of place or untoward, sir. Over the years, I’ve come to think of death as unplanned, unorganised, and impromptu. People seem to do strange, out of character things in their final hours. I’m sure Mrs Jenkins was no different, sir.”
The Inspector rubbed his cheek and Rutherford remained calm and still, his face completely at ease, reassured, no doubt, that after being cornered, he’d recovered himself rather well.
“There are other unanswered questions here Rutherford,” the Inspector said, his tone altered.
“Sir?” said the old Bobby, with a hint of innocence.
The Inspector opened his drawer and took out a small piece of paper. “This is a copy of the old woman’s funeral note. Close inspection reveals indentations of what was written on the previous pages. It is possible, even with the naked eye to make out a couple of words.........soldier.......and dead. The original note is with forensics; we are waiting a full translation. I am expecting a call from them with their findings anytime soon.” And he sat back and looked Rutherford squarely in the eye.
If he expected a reaction from the constable, a gasp, a hand to the mouth, a wide eyed stare, then he would be disappointed. But neither was he going to let go of the initiative. “I understand you were here in ’44 when a young soldier went missing.”
“Yes sir,” came the simple response.
“You remember what happened?”
“Just that, sir, the soldier had been in the White Hart, he was last seen walking along West Street. He was never seen again. The Army demanded a full investigation, several searches were carried out but no trace of him was ever found. The case was wound down and consigned to the unsolved file.”
There followed a long pause before the Inspector announced, “He disappeared somewhere between West Street and the end of the village, somewhere around Belvedere Cottage. Mrs Jenkin’s note might hold the answer. The notebook most surely would. A dedicated search team from H.Q. turned the place over yesterday.”
Rutherford looked him squarely in the eye, without a flicker of emotion.
“They found the lead from a small pencil in the ash in the grate.”
Rutherford remained deadpan.
”And what might prove to be the spine of a small notebook, also with Forensics.”
No response.
“They also found what appears to be a spent Swan Vestas matchstick in the grate. Mrs Jenkins had a box of Bryant and May matches in the mantleshelf. Odd that a smoker’s match should be found in the grate, we are having it tested for................”
“Don’t bother sir, it’ll be mine, I had a pipe whilst I was making an entry in my Police note book. I tossed the spent match into the grate,” he said, quite unruffled.
“Is that all you tossed into the grate?”
“Sir? What are you implying?”
“There’s a great deal of unanswered questions in this case, Rutherford, a case that has lain dormant for twenty five years and suddenly brought back to life. Did the woman kill the soldier? If so, how did she dispose of his body? Did she make a deathbed confession? Did she then change her mind and destroy it? Or did someone else destroy it? If so, why?”
“I can’t answer any of those questions, sir. First time I ever saw Mrs Jenkins was when I entered her bedroom and discovered her body. There was a good deal of speculation about the disappearance of the missing soldier in 1944. It was rumoured that he’d stolen and sold some Army equipment and was about to be arrested, though the Army denied it. Others said he’d had an affair with a married woman and an enraged husband was looking for him. He reputedly had connections with southern Ireland and the same day he vanished, a bicycle was stolen from a farm outhouse just outside the village. Cooperation between the Army and the Civilian Police was quite poor. Numerous searches of the village, farms, ponds, woodland sometimes using sniffer dogs, yielded nothing. Some senior police officers thought we were being sent on wild goose chases as the Army wanted to defend its reputation, or prevent it looking inefficient. The suggestion that a strapping, trained soldier was murdered by a seven stone woman, who then disposed of his body is little more than clutching at straws, if you’ll forgive my bluntness, sir.”
The Inspector gritted his teeth and the air was brittle with anticipation. The wall clock ticked solemnly and punctured the silence with a doleful monotony. The inspector rose from his seat and paced the floor, his face contorted into scowl, as if all his attempts to extract an admission of guilt from the old copper had been thwarted. He glanced occasionally at the telephone, willing it to ring, wishing Forensics would confirm his suspicions. The old policemen retained his position, straight backed, head held high, seemingly unruffled by the prospect of a brief telephone call which could end his career, snatch his pension.
The telephone rang just once before the Inspector turned and snatched the receiver. “Inspector James,” he snapped impatiently as Rutherford stared straight ahead. “I see, yes, I see. Thank you. Let me have a full, written report please, goodbye.”
He took a deep breath and ran his fingers through his hair. “Forensics are unable to confirm that any of the indentations on the note can be construed as a confession. Therefore case is closed, Rutherford. Dismiss .” And he turned to the window.
Rutherford rose and allowed himself a ghost of a grin.