Trouble Brewing by Dolores Gordon-Smith Page A

You’ve seen plenty of those in the war. France. Think of France. But this wasn’t France and it wasn’t a battlefield. It was a terraced house on Gower Street, and from outside came all the humdrum noises of everyday life. The room had a high ceiling, bare boards and a fake Adam fireplace. Soot streaked the sill of the open sash window. All these were irrelevant details to avoid gazing at the thing on the floor.
You’ve seen this before
his mind insisted and in sudden anger at his own hesitation, he forced himself to take a steady look. Beside him, Bill made a noise as if he were choking.
    An odd shape sticking out of the ribs caught his eye and, walking across to the body, he crouched down beside it. ‘I say, Bill, look at this. It’s a knife. Silver at a guess, but it’s too badly tarnished to be sure.’ He peered at it closely. ‘We’d better not try and move it. It looks too well glued in to me.’ He glanced round. ‘Bill? Are you all right?’
    â€˜I will be in a minute,’ said Bill, tightly. ‘Yes, I can see the knife. Let’s get it – him – taken away, shall we?’
    â€˜Wait a minute.’ Jack looked closely at the dead man’s hand. ‘He’s wearing a ring. Third finger, right hand. It’s a bit obscured by . . . well, it’s a bit obscured, but it looks like gold to me with . . . yes, I’d say that was a diamond.’ He rocked back on his heels. ‘Now why should someone take the bloke’s clothes, yet leave a valuable ring?’ He glanced up at the mantelpiece where a little heap of possessions lay. ‘Or, for that matter, all his bits and pieces?’
    â€˜God knows,’ said Bill. ‘I can’t think straight with that thing there.’ He called to the men outside.
    After the body had been removed, Jack walked slowly round the room, coming to a halt by the mantelpiece. Stacked in a neat pile were a silver card case, a leather wallet and a gold cigarette case. Sitting on top of them lay a pair of gold-rimmed glasses and a fob watch, its chain curled neatly round in a circle. Everything was thickly coated with dust.
    â€˜Don’t touch those,’ called Bill. ‘I want to get them checked for fingerprints first.’
    â€˜Give me some credit, old thing.’ He walked to the window, avoiding the tracks on the floor.
    â€˜This is the usual futile lock. A babe in arms could get in here.’ He stooped down and peered along the dirty floorboards. ‘Come and have a squint at these footprints. What d’you think?’
    Bill joined him. ‘They’re a bit smudged. I suppose that’s only to be expected with the window open like that. Hmm. One man, size nine shoe at a guess, with smooth soles.’
    â€˜Not bare feet,’ volunteered Jack.
    â€˜No.’ Bill inched forward slightly. ‘There’s more tracks by the fireplace. Different shoes. There’s a small depression in the heel as if he had a patch there.’
    â€˜Yes.’ Jack straightened up. ‘Look along the top of the mantelpiece. The dust has been disturbed and settled again but there’s a shape underneath.’
    â€˜It’s a sort of curved rectangle,’ said Bill. ‘I know! It’s a hip flask.’
    â€˜Bingo,’ said Jack. ‘Well done. I bet you’re right.’ Stooping down, he pointed his finger at the marks in front of the hearth. ‘Smooth-soles and patches stood by the fireplace. What sort of lock is on the front door?’
    â€˜It’s a Yale, sir,’ contributed one of the policemen. ‘We had to break it to get in.’
    â€˜Thanks,’ said Jack briefly. ‘That must have made it easier for him . . . How about this for an idea? Smooth-soles breaks in through the window but he opens the door to patches. The implication is that patches is the victim because he entered by the more conventional route, but that’s