Read Online Depths of Deceit by Norman Russell - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Norman Russell
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Knollys mounted the steps from the street, the front door was opened, and a young woman came out on to the top step to greet him.
‘Sergeant Knollys?’ she asked. ‘We were given notice that you were coming. Please come upstairs.’
Knollys recognized the young woman immediately: he had seen her smiling out of the photograph that Gregory Walsh had kept in his wallet. ‘To Greg, with love from Thelma’, it had said on the reverse. He saw the flash of a diamond engagement ring as she placed her left hand on the lintel of the door.
Thelma was not smiling now, but although her eyes were red with weeping, she was clearly in full control of herself. Neatly and carefully dressed, she had drawn back her fair hair from her forehead , and tied it into a bun. As Jack Knollys stepped over the threshold, he saw her glance at the bulky valise that he was carrying. Fresh tears started to her eyes. No doubt she had realized that it contained her fiancé’s clothes and effects.
He followed her up a steep and narrow staircase, its walls papered with dark brown anaglypta. She opened a door on the top landing, and as they entered a long room overlooking the court, Knollys saw an old gentleman rise from his chair to greet him. He was very tall and thin, clad in a dark-grey suit, and with a wide mourning band on his arm. When he spoke, his voice quavered a little, but that, Knollys decided, was the effect of age rather than emotion. Old or not, this gentleman conveyed a strong air of command and control.
‘Detective Sergeant Knollys,’ said the old man. ‘I am Raymond Walsh, Gregory’s father. This young lady is Miss Thelma Thompson, who is staying in the house both at my request, and out of the kindness of her generous heart. Until yesterday, she was my son’s fiancée. Sit down, Mr Knollys.’
Knollys did as he was bid, and Thelma Thompson followed suit. The room was homely and comfortable, and was evidently the main living area of the house. Without more ado, the sergeant unfastened the valise and silently withdrew Gregory Walsh’s clothing, which he handed, item by item, to Thelma. Trousers, jacket, cap; a discreet cloth bag containing his shirt and undergarments – all the violated relics of what had once been a living man. How he hated this particular task! Silver watch and leather guard, signet ring; an official envelope containing one sovereign, two half-crowns, four shillings, and one and sevenpence in copper. One chemical spatula.
Old Mr Walsh, who had sat silently in his chair, watching the solemn production of his dead son’s effects, suddenly spoke.
‘A Sergeant French came here yesterday, to break the news of Gregory’s death. He couldn’t tell us much, but he did say that my son had been murdered. That was true, was it?’
‘It was, sir. Mr Walsh died from a single blow to the back of the head, delivered by an axe or adze— I’m sorry, Miss Thompson. Do you want to leave us alone for a while?’
‘No, no! I want to stay!’ cried Thelma, angrily dashing away her sudden tears. ‘Let me hear what happened to my fiancé.’
‘Very well, miss. Death would have been instantaneous, if that’s any consolation. The weapon has not yet been found.’ Knollys delved once more into the valise. ‘This handkerchief,’ he said, ‘had been used by Mr Gregory Walsh to wipe paint from his hand. I mean artists’ paint, the powdered kind, that you mix with water. Could that action have any connection with his work as an assayer and sampler?’
‘It could well be a part of Gregory’s work,’ said old Mr Walsh. ‘He may have been handling a sample of paint for analysis, and stained his hands. Like many analytical chemists, his fingers got stained with chemicals and burned with acids – occupational hazards, you might say. He was a wonderfully skilful man in his profession, you know. He was only twenty-six. I handed the business over to him last year, and was looking forward to Thelma here becoming his wife. But
‘Sergeant Knollys?’ she asked. ‘We were given notice that you were coming. Please come upstairs.’
Knollys recognized the young woman immediately: he had seen her smiling out of the photograph that Gregory Walsh had kept in his wallet. ‘To Greg, with love from Thelma’, it had said on the reverse. He saw the flash of a diamond engagement ring as she placed her left hand on the lintel of the door.
Thelma was not smiling now, but although her eyes were red with weeping, she was clearly in full control of herself. Neatly and carefully dressed, she had drawn back her fair hair from her forehead , and tied it into a bun. As Jack Knollys stepped over the threshold, he saw her glance at the bulky valise that he was carrying. Fresh tears started to her eyes. No doubt she had realized that it contained her fiancé’s clothes and effects.
He followed her up a steep and narrow staircase, its walls papered with dark brown anaglypta. She opened a door on the top landing, and as they entered a long room overlooking the court, Knollys saw an old gentleman rise from his chair to greet him. He was very tall and thin, clad in a dark-grey suit, and with a wide mourning band on his arm. When he spoke, his voice quavered a little, but that, Knollys decided, was the effect of age rather than emotion. Old or not, this gentleman conveyed a strong air of command and control.
‘Detective Sergeant Knollys,’ said the old man. ‘I am Raymond Walsh, Gregory’s father. This young lady is Miss Thelma Thompson, who is staying in the house both at my request, and out of the kindness of her generous heart. Until yesterday, she was my son’s fiancée. Sit down, Mr Knollys.’
Knollys did as he was bid, and Thelma Thompson followed suit. The room was homely and comfortable, and was evidently the main living area of the house. Without more ado, the sergeant unfastened the valise and silently withdrew Gregory Walsh’s clothing, which he handed, item by item, to Thelma. Trousers, jacket, cap; a discreet cloth bag containing his shirt and undergarments – all the violated relics of what had once been a living man. How he hated this particular task! Silver watch and leather guard, signet ring; an official envelope containing one sovereign, two half-crowns, four shillings, and one and sevenpence in copper. One chemical spatula.
Old Mr Walsh, who had sat silently in his chair, watching the solemn production of his dead son’s effects, suddenly spoke.
‘A Sergeant French came here yesterday, to break the news of Gregory’s death. He couldn’t tell us much, but he did say that my son had been murdered. That was true, was it?’
‘It was, sir. Mr Walsh died from a single blow to the back of the head, delivered by an axe or adze— I’m sorry, Miss Thompson. Do you want to leave us alone for a while?’
‘No, no! I want to stay!’ cried Thelma, angrily dashing away her sudden tears. ‘Let me hear what happened to my fiancé.’
‘Very well, miss. Death would have been instantaneous, if that’s any consolation. The weapon has not yet been found.’ Knollys delved once more into the valise. ‘This handkerchief,’ he said, ‘had been used by Mr Gregory Walsh to wipe paint from his hand. I mean artists’ paint, the powdered kind, that you mix with water. Could that action have any connection with his work as an assayer and sampler?’
‘It could well be a part of Gregory’s work,’ said old Mr Walsh. ‘He may have been handling a sample of paint for analysis, and stained his hands. Like many analytical chemists, his fingers got stained with chemicals and burned with acids – occupational hazards, you might say. He was a wonderfully skilful man in his profession, you know. He was only twenty-six. I handed the business over to him last year, and was looking forward to Thelma here becoming his wife. But
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