Smallbone Deceased

“Yes. Think of Horniman’s position. Think of the temptation. On the one hand, disgrace, the breaking down of a life’s work—probably jail. On the other hand—he could ‘die respectit’, as the Scots say. Once he was dead it wouldn’t matter. It was so easy. Into the box with the body, lose the key, sit tight. Even if it went wrong, what matter. The hangman would have to get the deuce of a move on if he wanted to race the angina. How many people, I wonder, would commit murder if they knew they were going to die anyway. And Smallbone was such an unimportant, such an insignificant creature. How dared he imperil the great Horniman tradition, cast doubts on the Horniman legend, besmear the great Horniman name. No, no. Into the box with him.”

“I see,” said Bohun. “How are you going to prove all this?”

“That’s it,” said Hazlerigg. “We shall have to find out what’s wrong with this trust.”

“Well,” said Bohun, “I expect I could help you if you’re keen on the idea. But surely an accountant or an auditor could do it better than me. It’ll just be routine.”

“I wonder.” Hazlerigg suddenly got up. He strolled across to the window. The first light of dawn was coming up. The roofs opposite showed blacker against the faintest greying of the dark.

“It may not be as simple as all that,” he said. “Anyway, I’d like your help if I may have it.”

“Of course,” said Bohun.

“And then again, we’ve always got to face the possibility that it may not have been Abel Horniman. That is going to open up quite a wide field of speculation.”

“List Two,” said Bohun.

“Ah! You’ve seen the testament according to Colley. I’m afraid his classification may not be as exhaustive as it seems—”

“You mean, someone who came after?…”

“On the contrary—someone who was there, but has now left.”

“Oh, yes. Yes, I suppose that’s possible,” said Bohun slowly. “I hadn’t thought of it. I had no predecessor. My typist, Mrs. Porter, came when I did; I mean, she didn’t replace anyone. The Common Law clerk, Mr. Prince, took the place of another old boy who’d been umpteen years with the firm. But he—the other one, I mean—left months ago. Just after Christmas. I believe they had some trouble over finding a replacement. You don’t get Common Law clerks easily. Then there’s the cashier—we had a cashier, before, a Mr. Clark—he’s well in the running, I suppose. He only left three weeks ago.”

“Colley mentions him in his report,” said Hazlerigg. “But he’s out for another reason. He couldn’t have done it, he was a last war casualty. He only had one hand.”

“And why does that mean he couldn’t have killed Smallbone?” said Bohun quietly.

“I quite forgot,” said Hazlerigg. “You don’t know how he was killed.”

“I don’t,” said Bohun steadily, “and I suggest,” he added, “that if you’re going to trust me you don’t set traps for me.”

Hazlerigg had the grace to blush. “Just second nature,” he said, and added: “No. It would have been quite impossible. Smallbone was strangled with picture wire. Definitely a two-handed job.”

‌Chapter Five —Thursday— Time Is of the Essence

How matter presses on me!

What stubborn things are facts

Hazlitt: Table Talk

I

Hazlerigg found Gissel, the police photographer and finger-print man at work in Bob Horniman’s office.

“I’ve done jobs in junk-shops, in Lost Property offices, in warehouses and in the mistresses’ common-room at a girls’ public school,” said Gissel, “but never before in my life have I see one room with quite so much stuff in it.”

“Then thank your lucky stars that you’re in a Horniman office,” said Hazlerigg, looking round at the rows of black boxes, the neat files and the orderly assemblage of folders. “This is child’s play to what you’d find in the office of an ordinary uninhibited solicitor, really it is.”

“It’s all these books,” said Gissel. “In open shelves, too. Anyone might have touched them or brushed against them. They don’t look as if they’ve ever been read.” He picked one down and blew a cloud of black dust off the top. “Queen’s Bench, 1860. Who in Hades would be interested where the Queen put her bottom in 1860?”

Hazlerigg said thoughtfully: “We shan’t be able to let young Horniman come back here until we’ve finished, and that looks as if it may take a bit of time. I think I’d better use this room myself for working in. You’ve done the desk, I take it?”

First came the senior partner, Mr. Birley. In an interview of limited usefulness the most that could be said was that both sides managed to keep their tempers.

It irritated Mr. Birley to see a stranger behind one of his partners’ desks: it irritated him to have to sit himself in the client’s chair: it irritated him unspeakably to have to answer questions instead of asking them.

After fifteen unhelpful minutes Hazlerigg dismissed him and asked for a word with the second partner.

The tubby Mr. Craine was more obliging.