in to help him, and I can assure you that between us we’ll apprehend the murderer – or murderers – of Mr Abraham Barnes. It’s only a matter of time.’
It was quiet in Carshalton High Street, where the homely but attractive buildings seemed to be dozing in the strong August sun. The road was dry and dusty, reminding Box that he was getting very thirsty. His interviews concluded, he c at the front gate of Wellington House, before setting out on foot for the town centre.
He had suggested to Perrivale that the murder of Abraham Barnes was part of a crime that had its origins in London. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea if he watched Mrs Barnes and the manager Harper closely. Neither of them would have batted an eyelid about committing murder if it had suited them.
Nestling in the shadow of a fine church with a square tower Box found The Coach and Horses, a very comfortable and restful public house. He walked into the public bar, and asked the man behind the bar for a glass of India Pale Ale. Slipping on to a barstool, he extracted his cigar case from an inside pocket. Soon, he was puffing away at a thin cheroot.
The ale proved to be very cool and refreshing. Box recalled the countless occasions when he and his sergeant, Jack Knollys, had downed similar glasses in his favourite public house, the King Lud in Ludgate Circus. He wished that Jack was with him now: he’d got into the habit of testing out his sometimes wild theories on his thoughtful sergeant.
Suddenly, a cheerily powerful voice broke in upon his thoughts.
‘Is that the great Inspector Box? Well, what brings you down here to Carshalton this fine morning? Bring your drink round here, into the snug, and talk to me.’
The voice came from a little room leading off the public bar. Box knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Fiske, chief reporter of The Graphic ,an old ally of his, with whom it was possible to strike discreet little bargains beneficial to them both. What on earth was Billy Fiske doing in Carshalton?
Box picked up his glass, and walked into the snug. Yes, there he was, sitting at a corner table, upon which he had placed a couple of books, his spring-bound notebook, and a copy of the previous day’s Graphic. A pint glass of dark mild ale stood at his elbow, together with a plate containing the remains of a cold beef pie. As always, Fiske was flamboyantly dressed. For his visit to Carshalton he had chosen a capacious light blue overcoat, which he wore open to reveal his sage-green suit. A high-crowned hat lay on the table beside his notebook.
‘Sit down there, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, pointing to a chair opposite him at the table, ‘and tell me to what we owe this honour? It’s not like you to stray so far afield.’
‘You cheeky man!’ Box laughed, and accepted the indicated chair. ‘If Fiske of The Graphic’ s in Carshalton today, then he must have been trailing Box of the Yard. What are you up to, Billy?’
‘Me? I’m just looking up a bit of local history for an article I’m writing.’ He picked up a slim book from the table, and turned overa few pages. ‘Did you know that, in ancient times, Carshalton stood on one of the lesser-known Roman roads? Apparently it was a staging-post for the legions on their way south. Or north. I can’t quite make out which.’
‘No, Billy, I didn’t know that. But I do know that you’ve followed me down here for nefarious purposes of your own. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’
The famous reporter threw Box a shrewd glance, swallowed a mouthful of mild, and carefully wiped his jet-black moustache with a handkerchief. He picked up another book from the table, and waved it vaguely in Box’s direction.
‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that there was a big Roman fort buried under the ground just south of Cripplegate? Did you know that there’s a first-century Roman bath within a stone’s-throw of St Paul’s? Did you know that there’s a Roman Mithraeum in Clerkenwell?
It was quiet in Carshalton High Street, where the homely but attractive buildings seemed to be dozing in the strong August sun. The road was dry and dusty, reminding Box that he was getting very thirsty. His interviews concluded, he c at the front gate of Wellington House, before setting out on foot for the town centre.
He had suggested to Perrivale that the murder of Abraham Barnes was part of a crime that had its origins in London. Nevertheless, it would be a good idea if he watched Mrs Barnes and the manager Harper closely. Neither of them would have batted an eyelid about committing murder if it had suited them.
Nestling in the shadow of a fine church with a square tower Box found The Coach and Horses, a very comfortable and restful public house. He walked into the public bar, and asked the man behind the bar for a glass of India Pale Ale. Slipping on to a barstool, he extracted his cigar case from an inside pocket. Soon, he was puffing away at a thin cheroot.
The ale proved to be very cool and refreshing. Box recalled the countless occasions when he and his sergeant, Jack Knollys, had downed similar glasses in his favourite public house, the King Lud in Ludgate Circus. He wished that Jack was with him now: he’d got into the habit of testing out his sometimes wild theories on his thoughtful sergeant.
Suddenly, a cheerily powerful voice broke in upon his thoughts.
‘Is that the great Inspector Box? Well, what brings you down here to Carshalton this fine morning? Bring your drink round here, into the snug, and talk to me.’
The voice came from a little room leading off the public bar. Box knew that voice. It belonged to Billy Fiske, chief reporter of The Graphic ,an old ally of his, with whom it was possible to strike discreet little bargains beneficial to them both. What on earth was Billy Fiske doing in Carshalton?
Box picked up his glass, and walked into the snug. Yes, there he was, sitting at a corner table, upon which he had placed a couple of books, his spring-bound notebook, and a copy of the previous day’s Graphic. A pint glass of dark mild ale stood at his elbow, together with a plate containing the remains of a cold beef pie. As always, Fiske was flamboyantly dressed. For his visit to Carshalton he had chosen a capacious light blue overcoat, which he wore open to reveal his sage-green suit. A high-crowned hat lay on the table beside his notebook.
‘Sit down there, Mr Box,’ said Fiske, pointing to a chair opposite him at the table, ‘and tell me to what we owe this honour? It’s not like you to stray so far afield.’
‘You cheeky man!’ Box laughed, and accepted the indicated chair. ‘If Fiske of The Graphic’ s in Carshalton today, then he must have been trailing Box of the Yard. What are you up to, Billy?’
‘Me? I’m just looking up a bit of local history for an article I’m writing.’ He picked up a slim book from the table, and turned overa few pages. ‘Did you know that, in ancient times, Carshalton stood on one of the lesser-known Roman roads? Apparently it was a staging-post for the legions on their way south. Or north. I can’t quite make out which.’
‘No, Billy, I didn’t know that. But I do know that you’ve followed me down here for nefarious purposes of your own. Are you going to tell me what you’re up to?’
The famous reporter threw Box a shrewd glance, swallowed a mouthful of mild, and carefully wiped his jet-black moustache with a handkerchief. He picked up another book from the table, and waved it vaguely in Box’s direction.
‘Did you know,’ he said, ‘that there was a big Roman fort buried under the ground just south of Cripplegate? Did you know that there’s a first-century Roman bath within a stone’s-throw of St Paul’s? Did you know that there’s a Roman Mithraeum in Clerkenwell?
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