Benson investigates

Sebastian Gloom
Chapter Four

Benson didn't go directly to the house of Philip Cranston but instead went back to Sebastian Gloom's museum for a change of clothes. Simply turning up at Cranston’s mansion and demanding to interview his staff and the surviving members of his family was likely to only get him turned away with a flea in his ear, so instead he dressed as an inspector of Scotland Yard along with some high quality forged identification. Ideally he would have liked to turn up with a couple of constables beside him to add weight to his presence, but the fellows he’d used to play those roles in the past were out of town and there was no time to find replacements and train them in how to play the parts. Benson was alone when he approached the house, therefore, and arriving there he paused for a moment to take note of its entrances and exits.
The Cranston house was located on Trafford Avenue, the street that contained the homes of most of Manchester's wealthy and powerful. It had a central building with two wings and a stables fronted by a large garden and an in and out driveway. There was, he believed, an even larger garden to the rear of the house, and the whole thing was surrounded by a steel fence with wicked spikes along the top. The gate giving access from the street could be closed and locked, but was normally left open and Benson was able to simply walk in. He was familiar with this kind of arrangement, and although the house itself had many entrances he doubted that there would be any other exits through the boundary fence. Anyone entering or leaving the house would have to pass within sight of anyone watching from the street. He nodded with satisfaction and approached the house.
The doorbell was rung by means of a chain hanging from the portico, and a few moments later the door was opened by a smartly uniformed doorman. He was taken inside and asked to wait in the drawing room while the doorman went to fetch the master of the house. Benson spent the time examining the paintings of exotic foreign lands that hung on the walls.
George Cranston, Philip's son and heir, accepted his identity as a police detective without question and offered him a drink, which he declined. “What could be so urgent that it couldn’t wait until morning?” He asked. “Most of the staff are just about finishing up for the day.”
“There have been developments,” said Benson. “The crime you reported has turned out to be only a small part of something much larger. I regret that I cannot go into more detail, but it has become imperative that the crime be solved as quickly as possible.”
“Very well. If you will wait here for a few moments, I will have everyone assembled immediately. Will you be wanting to see them one at a time?”
“Yes, and please make sure that no-one enters or leaves the house until I’ve interviewed everyone.”
“There is a small study through that door over there, it has a table and a chair. I can have someone take another chair in if you wish.”
“That will do very well. Thank you.”
A few minutes later he was sitting in one of the chairs, looking across the table at James Todman, the head butler. He was still in full uniform and sat with military rigidity, a look of stoic, imperturbable calm on his inscrutable face. He gave every impression that his expression wouldn’t change even in the event of a volcanic eruption taking place directly beneath him. That was okay. Benson wasn't here to shake information out of anyone, although that was what he wanted them to think. He'd decided upon a better way to get what he wanted.
“I'm sorry to disturb you so late in the evening,” he said. “I just need to ask you some questions.”
“Of course,” replied the butler. “We are happy to help the police in any way we can.”
“I appreciate your Cooperation. Can you tell me where you were and what you were doing when the crime took place?”
“I was in my room asleep. I didn't know that a crime had been committed until I awoke and went about my duties.”
“Where is your room?”
“In the south wing. All the servants quarters are located there.”
“And the crime was committed in the main building, some distance away.”
“In Mister Cranston’s study, yes.”
“Who first discovered that a crime had taken place?”
“Apart from William Littlejohn, Mister Cranston’s manservant? That would have been Agnes, one of the maids. The whole house heard her screaming, Sir.”
“Littlejohn was the man who died, I understand.”
“Yes, Sir.”
“What was he doing in the study at that time of night?”
“As I told the other detectives, I can only speculate, sir.”
“Then speculate.”
“Very well. As I told the other detectives, he performs a number of services for Mister Cranston when he is not required to directly attend him. He keeps the books, he polishes the silver, he cleans and tidies...”
“Those duties are performed by the maids surely.”
“The maids are not permitted in the study. Mister Littlejohn was the only man the Master trusted in that room. Agnes spotted Mister Littlejohn's body from the next room. The intruders had left the door open.”
“There is a great deal of sensitive material in that room, then.”
“So I believe, sir. I have no direct knowledge, though.”
“How did the thieves know that the decoy bottle was in that room?”
“Excuse me, sir. The decoy bottle?”
“Yes. How did they know it would be in that room?”
“I don't know anything about a bottle, Sir. Decoy or otherwise.”
“We have reason to believe that the intruders were after a particular item. A bottle. What I want to know is why they thought it would be in that room.”
“Maybe they just assumed it would be there, sir.”
“I think that unlikely, mister Todman. The bottle was the only thing they took, even though there were many other valuable items there. They would not have come until they knew precisely where it would be. If Mister Cranston had not had the foresight to prepare a duplicate, it would even now be in their possession. No, someone told them it would be there. I think it was Mister Littlejohn. I think the thieves killed him to keep him from talking, to tie up loose ends.” If that was the case, then Benson would learn nothing here. He was gambling that the manservant's death was unplanned, a consequence of his being in that room unexpectedly. If that was the case, then his stating that he believed that Littlejohn was the traitor would hopefully lull the real traitor into a false sense of security.
“Mister Cranston trusted Mister Littlejohn implicitly. I cannot believe that he would betray him.”
“Further investigation will reveal the truth. I understand two other members of staff were injured. How did that happen?”
Benson continued to interview the butler for several more minutes so as not to arouse his suspicions, then thanked him and asked him to send in the next member of staff. He didn't tell them all that the bottle that had been stolen had been a decoy, that would have given the game away instantly. He casually dropped the made up fact into the conversation with about half of them, therefore, relying of gossip and speculation after he'd left to spread it to the others. When he'd finished with all of the dozen or so staff members he spoke to the slaves, and then to all five of the surviving family members, but he didn't mention the fictional decoy bottle to any of them. Any one of them could have known that the bottle that had been stolen had been the genuine one, he would have been giving himself away as an imposter. Also, it was likely that the older, more senior family members had had access to the bottle and could have simply taken it themselves without need for an arranged burglary. The two younger family members, Harry and Emily aged fifteen and seventeen respectively were, he assumed, not likely to be involved in this kind of intrigue. He was gambling that it was a member of staff that had been the traitor, if indeed there had been a traitor. It was still possible that the burglars had come by their information some other way.
He interviewed George Cranston last of all, and had to use all his self control to avoid cutting it short. George was the one man he was certain had not arranged the burglary, but he pretended to think that it had been an insurance scam, putting on a great show of scepticism when George insisted that the bottle had not been insured, had not even been valued. “It was because of the death of the manservant that we called the police. We would not have bothered you over the theft of such a trivial item.”
Eventually, Benson thanked him and the two men stood. “I may have further questions as the investigation continues,” he said.
“Of course. We will continue to cooperate in any way we can.”
“I appreciate it. Thank you, and I apologise once again for inconveniencing you at this time of night.”
Benson left the house and walked off down the avenue, knowing curtains would be twitching behind him as they watched him leave. As soon as he reached the corner and passed out of sight, though, he ducked into the garden of one of the street's other houses and waited. He suspected that he might have to wait for a couple of hours. The traitor wouldn’t be able to slip away unseen while everyone was still gossiping excitedly about his visit, but eventually things would settle down again and he or she would make their move.
It was well past midnight before his patience was rewarded. The servants door opened and a small figure crept out into the night. A woman. Benson crouched down while she passed him by and recognised her as Doris Kettle, the cook’s assistant. Barely more than a girl, she had been working for the Cranstons for only a few months. Benson decided that she was either the daughter, sister or sweetheart of one of the villains and had taken the job precisely so that she could learn the location of the Solomon Bottle. He waited for her to pass by, then emerged and followed silently behind her.
He could be wrong about her, of course, he mused. It was possible that she had some legitimate reason for setting out a this time of night. It could be that she always went home after spending the day in the Cranston house and that her departure had been delayed by his visit. It might be that the real traitor was even now leaving the house, going in the opposite direction. Well, that was just the chance they took in this line of business, he told himself. If the real police had been carrying out an operation like this they would have had several constables watching the house, but he had no-one other than himself. He had no choice but to take a chance.
The woman walked for two or three miles, her feet tip tapping their way along the stone pavements lining the streets as she left the wealthy residential districts behind and entered a far less reputable area whose streets were darker and whose houses were smaller and packed more closely together. Benson was encouraged to see her looking behind herself from time to time, as if she were scared of discovery. Or perhaps she was just scared of falling foul of muggers and footpads, a not unreasonable fear when walking the streets of a big city after dark. Now and again a dark figure lurking in the shadows did stir at her passing and Benson prepared to go to her defence, but the figure always lost interest after getting a better look at her, perhaps thinking she had nothing worth stealing and wasn't good looking enough to be worth ravishing.
After walking for an hour she came to a building and knocked urgently on the door, once again looking around to see if anyone was watching. A long minute passed during which nothing happened and she knocked again. This time the door opened and she hurried through without waiting to be invited. As soon as the door had closed again Benson hurried out of cover and ran across the street, finding a spot under the front window where he could listen without being seen.
The occupants weren’t in the front room, but the inside door linking it to the rest of the house was open and the faint sound of raised voices could be heard. He couldn't make out the words, but it was clear that an argument of some kind was taking place. Benson's imagination filled in the details. The woman would be telling them that they'd stolen the wrong bottle and the occupants would be reacting with anger, saying that the people who'd hired them had said nothing about a second bottle. The voices rose to a higher pitch. Had they figured out that she'd been tricked and were berating her for being so gullible and stupid? If so the front door would be opening soon as they checked to see if she'd been followed...
Benson ran away from the window and hid behind a horse trough, just in time as the door opened and a grim, fierce looking face looked out into the night. He looked this way and that, but saw nothing but a cat running across the street and a scattering of cherry blossom petals being blown by the wind along the gutter. He looked some more, staring intently at every possible hiding place, and at one point he stared straight at Benson. The investigator froze, knowing that part of him was visible but hoping that his dark coat would look like just one more shadow.
There was silence broken only by the sound of the wind through tree branches and, somewhere, the hooting of an owl, and the man finally seemed satisfied, going back in through the door and closing it. Benson ran back to the window to resume listening, but the voices were quieter now, as if the dispute had been settled, and he retired to his hiding place again, just in time as the door opened for the third time. Doris Kettle emerged and hurried off down the street back the way she had come. Returning to the Cranston house before she was missed.
The villains would be in a quandary now, he knew. Either the bottle they'd stolen had indeed been a decoy, in which they could expect to be hearing angrily from whoever had hired them, or they'd just escaped a ploy by the police to make the woman lead them here. If they still had the bottle on them they'd be examining it carefully, looking for any sign that it was a fake. If they'd already passed it on to Exercitus Dei they'd be fearing that the church would come back to them in fury, demanding either their money back or that they procure the correct bottle. What would they Do? Benson didn't really care. All he’d wanted was for the traitor to lead him to the thieves, and his little ploy had succeeded splendidly. Now he had so find out where the bottle was presently located.
The argument he’d overheard had told him that there were two, possibly three people in the house. The brief glimpse he’d had of the man at the door had revealed a man he could take easily in a straight fight. If the other two were of a similar stature, and if he could take them on one at a time, then he could take the three of them without any trouble. The danger was that one of the others might be a more formidable warrior, or that he might end up having to fight the three of them at once. He might take the chance if the situation were desperate enough, but a prudent man shortened the odds as much as possible before taking action. He decided to send for reinforcements.
He'd passed a vagrant while following the woman, a pitiful looking wretch who'd looked as though his last decent meal had been some days ago, and he walked back to find him, hoping that the criminals wouldn't leave the house while he was gone. Finding the vagrant, he prodded him awake with the toe of his boot. A straggly bearded head with sunken, hopeless eyes emerged from the filthy blanket covering him and stared fearfully up at the tall stranger. “I ain’t done nothing!” He protested.
Benson dug into a pocket and drew out a silver coin. “The price of a hot meal if you do a little job for me,” he said. “I need you to find a man and tell him to come here at once. His name is Andrew MacNally and he lives at 205 Cotton Street. Tell him Benson needs him, I'll be down that way waiting for him. He'll give you another coin like this one when you deliver the message.”
He had to repeat the names and the address three times before he was sure the vagrant had them, and then he watched while the wretched man toddled off down the street towards the cotton district. Once he was sure the man was actually going to try to carry out his mission he returned to the villain’s house and resumed his watch. He was relieved to see that there was still a light in one of the windows, and a shadow passed across the curtains as a man walked past it. Go to sleep, he mentally urged him. Plenty of time in the morning to do whatever you decide to do. In the meantime go to bed. It'll be much easier to take you down if we surprise you in your sleep.
The rest of the night crept past with glacial slowness, and it wasn't until the glow of dawn was starting to appear in the eastern horizon that MacNally finally turned up. The big man, a former cohort of Benson from the 63rd (West Suffolk) regiment of foot, came strolling down the street as if his wandering feet had just happened to carry him this way. When he spied Benson he turned and crossed the street, not caring who saw him, and Benson, seeing that hiding was no longer an option, rose and went to meet him half way.
“Benson!” said MacNally, not in a whisper but not too loudly either. The voice of a man who didn't have a covert bone in his body, who wasn't up to anything, who just happened to be out in the street and spotted a friend. Anyone who heard him wouldn’t think he had come prepared for violence, wouldn't think he was trying to take someone by surprise. He had the rare ability to go completely overlooked by making no attempt to stay unnoticed.
Benson didn't have that talent and so he said nothing until he was close enough so speak low enough to not be overheard. “Thank you for coming,” he said. “I need some help with two or three bad guys. You up for it?”
“You came when I called, that time in Dublin. Now It’s my turn. Just point me at them.”
“Thanks Andy. There’s two or three of them, in the house with the green door. They killed a man the other day, put two more in hospital. They stole something. I need to know where it is. I need them to talk.”
“By the time I'm finished with ‘em they'll be singing like Lottie Collins. We going in now?”
“If you’re ready.”
“I'm always ready!”
“Okay, let's go.”
They approached the house, keeping a careful watch on the windows to make sure they weren’t seen, and Benson kicked the door open with a single powerful blow from his right foot. They stormed in, wanting to catch the occupants before they could recover from the shock. They found the first man in the back room. It was the man Benson had seen at the door. He had been half asleep in a tattered, threadbare armchair in front of a roaring wood fire, a half drunk bottle of beer in his hand. He had had time to rise from the chair before the two men reached him and he threw the bottle at them, but MacNally dodged it and felled the man with a single blow from his fist. The man stumbled back and fell unconscious to the floor.
They heard running footsteps on the stairs and turned just in time to see a second man with a pistol in his hand. Benson drew his own gun, a six shot revolver, but didn't want to shoot him unless he really had to. He fired one shot at an empty stretch of wall, just to make the man pause and take cover, then ran forward. The villain fired a shot that went past his head but then Benson was on him, bringing his gun down hard on the man's hand, making his give a cry of pain and drop his weapon.
“I've got him,” he told MacNally. “Check upstairs.” The Irishman nodded and took the stairs three at a time, his gun in his hand. As the sound of him treading the floorboards came down to them Benson ordered the villain to get to his feet. He took him into the room where they’d found the first man and told him to sit in one of the table chairs. By the time MacNally returned, Benson had tied both men to chairs and was about to join his friend on the hunt.
“No-one else in the house,” he said. “Looks like you could’ve taken them both by yourself after all.”
“Never hurts to be careful.” He went into the kitchen and returned with a pan of water that he threw into the first villain’s face. He returned to consciousness with a cough and a splutter, then struggled in the chair in a vain attempt to free himself. “What's this all about?” the second man demanded. “We ain't done nothing!”
“I am Inspector Tebbit of Scotland Yard,” said Benson, showing him his forged identification, “And this is Constable Jugg.” MacNally raised an eyebrow at this but said nothing. “Yesterday night you burgled the home of George Cranston. You murdered a man, injured two others and stole property...”
“It wasn't us that killed him...”
“Shut up, you fool!” hissed the second. “They've got nothing on us!”
“We have the confession of Doris Kettle. We picked her up as she was returning to the Cranston house and she told us everything. You chummies are going to Forest Bank for housebreaking, theft, assault and murder...”
“It was Gideon who killed the butler!” blurted out the first villain. “Nobody was supposed to get hurt! We was just supposed to creep in, grab some nick knack and creep out again! The butler wasn’t supposed to be there!”
“Where is this Gideon character?” demanded Benson.
“I dunno! We never saw him before. He hired us for this job, paid us and left. I don't know where he is now! If I did I’d tell you!”
Benson turned to the second villain, who confirmed the story. “What can you tell me about this Gideon?” he asked.
The first villain started to speak, but the second interrupted before he could say anything. “Evil looking b*****d! Scar over his face. Shaggy hair like a great black dog. Spoke with a southern accent like he came from Portsmouth or something. Wore a blue coat like those sailors wear. Could be he used to be a sailor, I thought.”
Benson frowned sceptically. The first villain had been about to give an accurate description, he thought, but the second had made up a lot of complete fiction. He looked back to the first villain, but his face had a closed look, as if he now thought better of betraying their third man. For a moment Benson considered separating the two villains and beating the truth out of the first, but they had no way of confirming anything he said. He was pretty sure that the name, Gideon, was the truth, though. He'd just have to be satisfied with that.
“Did he say anything else? Any useful information you can give us might help you avoid the hangman’s noose.”
“Nothing, I swear it!”
“Where is the item that was taken from the house?”
“Gideon took it! Once the job was done he paid us, took the bottle and left. That was the last we saw of him. It was him who killed the butler! Whacked him over the head with that great cosh of his. Was ‘im did for the other two as well. Never saw a man wield a cosh like he did, and he was grinning when he did it, like he was enjoying it! Scared me he did, and I don’t scare easy.”
Benson gestured for MacNally to follow him out. “I don't think they have anything else useful to tell us. Best we just leave then there. We can call the police, tell them there’s a couple of villains here to pick up.”
“That bottle they mentioned. That's what you're after?”
“Yes. We were hired to find and recover it. Looks like we hit a dead end, though.” He drew a heavy sigh. “I hate having to report failure. Still, who knows. Maybe Gloom's had better luck.”


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