The Complete Works of Arthur Morrison (Illustrated). Arthur Morrison

that is much more common nowadays than is generally supposed. I remembered Geldard’s engineering experience, and I heard something of the odd manners of Mr. Puller; my theory of a traffic in untaxed spirits became strengthened. But why a nursery? Was this a mere accident of the design? There were commonly irrigation pipes about nurseries, and an extra one might easily be made to carry whisky. With this in mind I visited the nursery with the result you know of. The stand-pipe I tested (which was where I expected—handy to the vehicle-entrance) could produce simple New River water or raw whisky at command of one of two stop-cocks. My duty was plain. As you know, I am a citizen first and an investigator after, and I find the advantage of it in my frequent intercourse with the police and other authorities. As soon as I could get away I telegraphed to Somerset House. But then I grew perplexed on a point of conduct. I was commissioned by Mrs. Geldard. It scarcely seemed the loyal thing to put my client’s husband in gaol because of what I had learnt in course of work on her behalf. I decided to give him, and nobody else, a sporting chance. If I could possibly get at him in the time at my disposal, by himself, so that no accomplice should get the benefit of my warning, I would give him a plain hint to run; then he could take his chance. I returned to the place and began to work round the grounds, examining the place as I went; but at the very first outhouse I put my head into I was surprised in the rear by Mrs. Geldard coming in hot haste to stop me and rescue her husband. She most unmistakably gave me the sack, and so now the police may catch Geldard or not, as their luck may be.”

      They did catch him. In the next day’s papers a report of a great capture of illicit distillers occupied a prominent place. The prisoners were James Fuller, Henry Matthew Trennatt, Sarah Blatten, a deaf woman, Samuel Geldard and his wife Rebecca Geldard. The two women were found on the premises in violent altercation when the officers arrived, a few minutes after Hewitt and I had left the police station on our way home. It was considered by far the greatest haul for the revenue authorities since the seizure of the famous ship’s boiler on a waggon in the East-End stuffed full of tobacco, after that same ship’s boiler had made about a dozen voyages to the continent and back “for repair.” Geldard was found dressed as a workman, carrying out extensive alterations and repairs to the still. And a light van was found in a shed belonging to the nursery loaded with seventeen rolls of linoleum, each enclosing a cylinder containing two gallons of spirits, and packed at each end with narrow linoleum rolls. It will be remembered that seventeen was the number of crosses at the foot of Emma Trennatt’s note.

      The subsequent raids on a number of obscure public-houses in different parts of London, in consequence of information gathered on the occasion of the Geldard capture, resulted in the seizure of a large quantity of secreted spirit for which no permit could be shown. It demonstrated also the extent of Geldard’s connection, and indicated plainly what was done with the spirit when he had carted it away from Crouch End. Some of the public-houses in question must have acquired a notoriety among the neighbours for frequent purchases of linoleum.

      The Case of the Dead Skipper

       Table of Contents

      I.

      It is a good few years ago now that a suicide was investigated by a coroner’s jury, before whom Martin Hewitt gave certain simple and direct evidence touching the manner of the death, and testifying to the fact of its being a matter of self-destruction. The public got certain suggestive information from the bare newspaper report, but they never learnt the full story of the tragedy that led up to the suicide that was so summarily disposed of.

      The time I speak of was in Hewitt’s early professional days, not long after he had left Messrs. Crellan’s office, and a long time before I myself met him. At that time fewer of the police knew him and were aware of his abilities, and fewer still appreciated them at their true value. Inquiries in connection with a case had taken him early one morning to the district which is now called “London over the border,” and which comprises West Ham and the parts there adjoining. At this time, however, the district was much unlike its present self, for none of the grimy streets that now characterise it had been built, and even in its nearest parts open laud claimed more space than buildings.

      Hewitt’s business lay with the divisional surgeon of police, who had, he found, been called away from his breakfast to a patient. Hewitt followed him in the direction of the patient’s house, and met him returning. They walked together, and presently, as they came in sight of a row of houses, a girl, having the appearance of a maid-of-all-work, came running from the side door of the end house—a house rather larger and more pretentious than the others in the row. Almost immediately a policeman appeared from the front door, and, seeing the girl running, shouted to Hewitt and his companion to stop her. This Hewitt did by a firm though gentle grasp of the arms, and, turning her about, marched her back again. “Come, come,” he said, “you’ll gain nothing by running away, whatever it is.” But the girl shuddered and sobbed, and cried incoherently, “No, no—don’t; I’m afraid. I don’t like it, sir. It’s awful. I can’t stop there.”

      She was a strongly-built, sullen-looking girl, with prominent eyebrows and a rather brutal expression of face, consequently her extreme nervous agitation, her distorted face and her tears were the more noticeable.

      “What is all this?” the surgeon asked as they reached the front door of the house. “Girl in trouble?”

      The policeman touched his helmet. “It’s murder, sir, this time,” he said, “that’s what it is. I’ve sent for the inspector, and I’ve sent for you too, sir; and of course I couldn’t allow anyone to leave the house till I’d handed it over to the inspector. Come,” he added to the girl, as he saw her indoors, “don’t let’s have any more o’ that. It looks bad, I can tell you.”

      “Where’s the body?” asked the surgeon.

      “First-floor front, sir—bed-sittin’-room. Ship’s captain, I’m told. Throat cut awful.”

      “Come,” said the surgeon, as he prepared to mount the stairs. “You’d better come up too, Mr. Hewitt. You may spot something that will help if it’s a difficult case.”

      Together they entered the room, and indeed the sight was of a sort that any maidservant might be excused for running away from. Between the central table and the fireplace the body lay fully clothed, and the whole room was in a great state of confusion, drawers lying about with the contents spilt, boxes open, and papers scattered about. On a table was a bottle and a glass.

      “Robbery, evidently,” the surgeon said as he bent to his task. “See, the pockets are all emptied and partly protruding at the top. The watch and chain has been torn off, leaving the swivel in the button-hole.”

      “Yes,” Hewitt answered, “that is so.” He had taken a rapid glance about the room, and was now examining the stove, a register, with close attention. He shut the trap above it and pushed to the room door. Then very carefully, by the aid of the feather end of a quill pen which lay on the table, he shifted the charred remains of a piece or two of paper from the top of the cold cinders into the fire shovel. He carried them to the sideboard, nearer the light from the window, and examined them minutely, making a few notes in his pocket-book, and then, removing the glass shade from an ornament on the mantelpiece, placed it over them.

      “There’s something that may be of some use to the police,” he remarked, “or may not, as the case may be. At any rate there it is, safe from draughts, if they want it. There’s nothing distinguishable on one piece, but I think the other has been a cheque.”

      The surgeon had concluded his first rapid examination and rose to his feet. “A very deep cut,” he said, “and done from behind, I think, as he was sitting in his chair. Death at once, without a doubt, and has been dead seven or eight hours I should say. Bed not slept in, you see. Couldn’t have done it himself, that’s certain.”

      “The