Smallbone Deceased

‌Chapter Thirteen —Friday— A Very Puisne Mortgage

But here a grievance seems to lie

All this is mine but till I die

I can’t but think ’twould sound more clever

“To me and to my heirs for ever.”

Lines inserted by Pope in Swift’s

Imitation of the Sixth Satire of Horace

I

Friday was quite a day.

Bohun spent the first hour of it down in the firm’s strong-room. This was the kingdom of Sergeant Cockerill, and like everything about the sergeant, it was neat and well-ordered and artistically efficient.

The deeds and papers which, in a normal solicitor’s office, lie about in insubordinate bundles loosely constrained with red tape, had been strait-jacketed into card and canvas folders; and these, in their turn, stood dressed by the right on shelves of slab slate. Occupying the serrefile rank, two paces to the right and two paces to the rear, stood the Ledger of Wills, the Ledger of Securities and the Ledger of Deeds. It was through this last book that Bohun was searching.

“Was there any particular deeds that you had in mind, sir?” enquired Sergeant Cockerill.

“Well—no. Not really. I know the sort of thing I’m looking for, but I don’t know exactly what it is. I shall probably recognise it when I see it, if you see what I mean.”

“If it’s any help to you,” said Sergeant Cockerill, “you’ll find all the deeds indexed under the name of the client and cross-indexed under the name of the partner who deals with them.”

“Yes, that should help,” said Bohun. “I know it was Abel Horniman.”

Sergeant Cockerill looked up rather sharply at this, but said nothing.

Bohun also paused in his search and for a moment there was silence in the vaulted tomb-like room with its door of eight-inch steel.

“You were very attached to him, weren’t you?” said Bohun.

The sergeant did not pretend not to understand him.

“Yes,” he said. “More than thirty years I knew him. He was a good man to work for. I’d say he was a great man.”

This struck a chord all right. Bohun had to think for a moment, then he remembered that Miss Cornel had used almost exactly the same words.

“I was his batman in 1914,” went on Sergeant Cockerill. “That surprises you. You didn’t know that Mr. Horniman went to France in the Gunners. He was too old for such capers, really: but go he would. Lucky for him, I always thought, he got pneumonia on top of a sharp nip of muscular rheumatism. It was the damp and the cold. Between ’em, they nearly did for him. But I reckon they saved his life, none the less. He had a medical board and got taken out of the army. We were all sorry to see him go. Yes, a great man.”

For all practical purposes the sergeant was now talking to himself.

“He was waiting outside the depot on the day I was demobbed. I hadn’t told him. He’d found out. That was the sort of man he was. He stood me a drink and offered me a job. Well, that was longer ago than I care to think of.” The sergeant turned about abruptly. “I must go and make them their teas. I can’t trust that young Charlie with it. Sixteen years in this mortal vale and he still hasn’t learnt to warm the pot.”

When the sergeant had gone, Bohun did not immediately resume his search of the register. An illusive memory was teasing him. He thought it was something to do with Cockerill. He couldn’t put his finger on it. After a bit he gave up trying.

Using the index it took him surprisingly little time to trace the deeds he wanted. He made a careful note of dates and parties on a piece of paper and then turned to the deed containers on the shelf. They were numbered to correspond with the ledger and he soon had his hand on the right envelope. It was empty except for an old deed receipt. Some minutes later he was upstairs in his room talking to John Cove.

“Do you remember the sale of Longleaf Farm?”

“It is inscribed on the tablets of my heart,” said John. “It was the very first piece of conveyancing that I did in this office.”

“I thought I made out your initials on the deed receipt. Can you tell me about it?”

“What do you want to know?” said John. “The vendor, if my memory serves me, was one Daniel Jedd. The purchaser, a Major Wright. If you’re passionately interested I’ll get out the file. Here you are. It was quite a straightforward title. Indeed, I suspect that’s why Abel gave it to me as a first effort. It started with—yes—three straight conveyances. The first in 1880. Another in 1901 and the third to Ezekiel Jedd in 1920. He settled it by his will and died in 1925. Then there’s a vesting deed—vesting it in his son Amos as life tenant. Amos died in 1935. Another vesting deed, in Daniel Jedd, who, without further ado, barred his entail and sold as absolute owner in 1938. Bob’s your uncle.”

“And it was the same property all the way through. All the way from 1880 onwards, I mean.”

“To the last blade of grass.”

“Then,” said Bohun, “why weren’t the first three conveyances handed over when it was finally sold out of this office?”

“Yes, I remember. Abel did say something about that. I can’t remember what. The root of title we offered was the 1926 vesting deed.”

“That was all right as far as it went,” said Henry. “But you’d have thought that the earlier deeds would have been handed over too, or else”—he pointed to the draft conveyance—“the usual acknowledgment given for their safe custody.”

“Now that you mention it, that does seem a bit odd. Are you absolutely certain they weren’t handed over?”

“Absolutely. The conveyances of 1880, 1901 and 1920 were never marked out of the deeds register here at all. And look—here’s a copy of the schedule. It starts with the vesting deed of 1926.”

“So it does,” said John, scratching his head. “Why do you suppose Abel wanted to keep the early deeds—he never struck me as the type who would go in for home-made lamp shades.”

“I don’t think he kept them for lamp shades,” said Bohun slowly. “I think—oh, that’s probably for me. Hullo. Yes, Bohun speaking.”

“We’ve traced that bank account,” said Hazlerigg’s voice. “In view of what you told me early this morning I thought you might find it interesting. The quarterly payments were made to the Husbandmen’s League Friendly and Loan Society. Their office is in Lombard Street.”

“Fine,” said Bohun. “I’ll go straight along.”

“I take it that hunch you had is working out then.”

“Very nicely.”

“Keep me posted,” said Hazlerigg, and rang off.

“What’s it all about?” said John.

“My idea, roughly,” said Bohun, “is that Abel Horniman forged a set of title deeds. Well—not forged, really. That’s the wrong word. He effected a little rearrangement. Something after this style. I think he got hold of three solid-looking and obviously genuine conveyances—just for the sake of argument let’s say the three first conveyances of Longleaf Farm, that we’ve just been talking about. Those particular ones were very suitable because they hadn’t got a plan on them—just a description. I think he took the last one—the 1920 conveyance, the one to Ezekiel Jedd, removed the last page, and sewed in a new one that he’d written out himself, in law script—that was the sort of thing he did rather well, wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yes. He wrote a beautiful copperplate. The perfect practical conveyancer.”

“It stuck in my mind that Mr. Birley said something of the sort at the firm’s dinner. Well, I think the page he faked up had a plan on it. Furthermore, and here I’m guessing again, I think it was a plan of Abel’s own farm—Crookham Court Farm. Then all he had to do was to draw up a conveyance purporting to be by Ezekiel Jedd to himself—again with a plan of Crookham Court Farm—perfectly open and above board—take it down to the Stamp Office and have it stamped, and there you are.”

“It sounds like falling off a log,” said John, “but—I may be being stupid—why did he want a second set of title deeds to Crookham Court Farm? He must have acquired a perfectly good set when he bought the place in 1936.”

“Well,” said Henry. “He had to hand over the real deeds to the National Provincial Bank when he mortgaged his farm to them, way back in 1937. Don’t you think a spare set must have been quite useful when he wanted to raise the wind again in 1943?”

“Viewed in that light,” agreed John, “a chap could hardly have too many sets of title deeds. Where are you going?”

“Down to the Husbandmen’s League to make sure. Coming?”

“Might as well,” said John. “I can see that I shan’t be allowed to concentrate on my Final until everything has been cleared up in Chapter Sixteen. How did you get on to this particular swindle?”

“It’s known as the cuff-link trick,” said Bohun. “If we run we shall just get that bus. You pawn one cuff link twice. I started to have it explained to me by an expert last night.”

II

The Husbandmen’s League occupied a floor in the building that housed Mr. Bohun Senior. There was nothing markedly agricultural about them apart from their name and their seal, a design showing two blades of corn (thrift) crossed in front of a sickle (hard work). They were, in fact, a collection of long-headed believers in private enterprise who lent their money at three and a half per cent to farmers. Hazlerigg had already been on the telephone to them and Bohun and Cove were shown straight into the office of the general manager. Mr. Manifold was a baldish West Countryman, constructed basically on the lines of a barrage balloon. The worries of the morning had emptied a pocket or two of the gas out of his fabric.

“I hope,” he began, “that there’s nothing wrong. We heard, of course, of Mr. Horniman’s death. Very sad.” He assumed a mournful expression momentarily. “We had anticipated that probate would be exhibited in the normal way, and the executor would have continued the quarterly payments. The next one falls due on the first of June.”

Bohun decided that brutality would probably get him through quickest in the end.

“I don’t doubt,” he said, “that the interest payments will be kept up, for the time being anyway. But I am afraid I must break it to you that the security for the loan is illusory.”

“Illusory?” Mr. Manifold deflated sharply, then recovered and went rather red, exactly as if he had received a badly-needed replenishment of helium. “Perhaps you would be good enough to explain how the security of two hundred acres of freehold farming land can be illusory?”

“Have you got the deeds here?”

“I have asked for all the papers to be brought up,” said Mr. Manifold stiffly, “and here is Mr. Fremlinghouse—our legal adviser.”

Mr. Fremlinghouse, who was very tall, had a light moustache, and wore horn-rimmed glasses, advanced and laid a packet of deeds in front of Mr. Manifold. Mr. Manifold untied the red tape and shuffled them over to Bohun.

Bohun only needed to look at the first one to be certain. He pushed it across to John Cove. “February 15th, 1880. Indenture of Conveyance. Henry Balderstone and Others to John Pratt. Longleaf Farm in the County of Kent.”

“The name was changed later, as I remember it,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse.

“It certainly was,” agreed Bohun grimly.

Passing over the next deed he opened the conveyance of 1920. It was engrossed bookwise, on clean-looking parchment, in the usual beautiful characterless law copperplate. Bohun looked carefully at the final page. John Cove and Mr. Fremlinghouse looked over his shoulder.

“You can see the join quite easily,” he said. “The last page inside the back sheet. It’s been sewn in behind the fold, and the hinge has been covered by that transparent adhesive stuff—map-makers’ tape, I believe it’s called.”

“Gracious goodness,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse. “Now so it has. I don’t think I examined it particularly—not from that point of view at least. It’s quite a common practice to repair deeds with that transparent tape. What is your idea—that the last page is an insertion—a substitution?”

“That’s it,” said Bohun.

“Now I do like that,” said John. He had his finger on the clause describing the property. “Neat but not gaudy: ‘formerly known as Longleaf Farm, but now and for some years past known as Stancomb Farm in the County of Kent’.”

Mr. Fremlinghouse was examining the three deeds with a professional interest that almost bordered on enthusiasm.

“No plan in the first two deeds, I see,” he observed.

“No. Just a schedule of tithe numbers with their acreages and the usual interminable descriptions: ‘All those several fields or closes of arable and pasture land and land covered by water, together with the messuages hereditaments buildings etc. etc.’ I wonder they troubled to write it all out. I’m certain no one ever bothers to read it.”

“I imagine,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse, “that it’s a relic of the days when you got paid for your conveyancing by the yard. I see your man has simply carried on from the last page of the genuine conveyance—quite so—and inserted the words: ‘As the same is delineated on the plan annexed hereto.’ Then he supplied his own plan. Wait a minute, though. What about a comparison of the schedules?”

“The total acreage was about the same,” said Bohun. “The old deeds gave tithe numbers. He changed them to Ordnance Survey numbers to correspond with his own farm.”

“Beautiful. Beautiful,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse.

“Really, Fremlinghouse,” said Mr. Manifold. “Isn’t this exactly what we pay you to protect us from.”

“No conveyancer can protect you from deliberate fraud,” said the solicitor. “On the face of it, these deeds confer a proper title to Stancomb Farm on one Ezekiel Jedd. They’re properly stamped and appear to be properly executed. Then we have another excellent deed conveying the same property from Ezekiel Jedd to Mr. Horniman. What more could anyone ask for?”

Another thought struck Mr. Manifold. “What about our valuer?” he said. “If Stancomb Farm doesn’t exist, what did he value? Or is his report a forgery, too?”

“I see you haven’t grasped the full inwardness of the idea,” said Bohun. “When your valuer went down to Kent to inspect the farm he would naturally get in touch with the owner—arrange an appointment and so on.”

“Of course.”

“Well, the owner of this Stancomb Farm—which we now know to be a figment of his own fertile imagination—was Abel Horniman. I’ve no doubt Abel met him with a car, took charge of him, and showed him round his own farm. That’s why it was a plan of his own farm—Crookham Court Farm—and not a purely imaginary one, that he put on the forged set of deeds. Everything then tied up very neatly.”

A gleam of hope appeared in Mr. Manifold’s eye. He pointed to the last deed.

“If that’s really a plan of Crookham Court Farm,” he said, “can’t we claim that our mortgage covers that farm—whatever it says in the deed?”

“I suppose you might,” said Bohun. “Only it won’t do you much good. It’s already very heavily mortgaged to the National Provincial Bank.”

“Why didn’t you find that out?” said Mr. Manifold. He felt that it was intolerable that he should be able to blame nobody. “Didn’t you search at the Land Registry? I take it you made the usual searches.” This was a minutia of the law which he happened to understand, and he got it off his chest with some pride.

“Certainly I searched,” said Mr. Fremlinghouse. “And I found Abel Horniman’s mortgage of Crookham Court Farm duly recorded. Why should I worry about that? He was mortgaging Stancomb Farm to you. Of course, it really was Crookham Court Farm, too, but I wasn’t to know that.”

Mr. Manifold said something like “Tchah”, and started to tear up a large clean sheet of blotting-paper.

“Look here,” said Bohun. “It may not be as bad as it seems. I think there’s every chance that the money will be repaid in full.”

The telephone bell rang. Mr. Manifold ignored it for as long as he could, and finally picked up the receiver with a very bad grace.

“What?” he said. “Who? Oh! Wait a minute.” He covered the mouthpiece and turned to Henry. “It’s Scotland Yard,” he said. “Chief Inspector Hazlerigg wants you to go round there at once.”

“Tell him I’ll be right along,” said Bohun.

As he and John Cove left they saw Mr. Manifold and Mr. Fremlinghouse looking at each other with a wild surmise.

III

“I’m sorry to drag you down here like this,” said Hazlerigg, “but things are moving quite fast and I wanted to hear your story.”

Bohun told it to him.

“It seems easy,” said Hazlerigg. “Ten thousand pounds for one sheet of writing. However, most great frauds look easy.”

“I don’t think,” said Bohun, “that anyone except an expert conveyancer who also happened to be right on the spot, like Abel, could have pulled it off. Take one thing—supposing the valuer had been a local man, who knew the property. That would have blown it sky-high. I expect you’ll find that Abel knew the Husbandmen employed a London valuer. He may even have known him personally. That would have made it easier still.”

“One thing puzzles me,” said Hazlerigg. “According to you he laid the foundations of this fraud as long ago as 1938. Did he know about the angina then?”

“Probably not,” said Bohun. “He knew he was running short of cash, though. One of the real beauties of this method was that it was reversible. So long as he kept up the interest payments he was pretty safe. Then, if things looked up and he could repay the money all he had to do was discharge the mortgage. Then he would get the deeds back. He could burn them if he liked. The Husbandmen got their money. Everybody happy. No questions asked. Really, just like the office boy who steals from the petty cash and hopes to make it up next week on the pools.”

“They’re all the same,” said Hazlerigg. “However, that part of the business is reasonably clear now. Thanks to your efforts,” he added generously. “Here’s what must have happened. Smallbone got to hear of Stancomb Farm, and something—we shall never know what—led him to suspect its non-existence. On February 17th—that was Friday—he went down to make sure. We ought to have paid more attention to that remark he made to his landlady: ‘If I find what I’m looking for, that’ll be the beginning of great things.’ The nasty little man already saw a cause célèbre, dirty washing galore, himself perhaps in the witness box. Well, he found what he was looking for—or he didn’t find it, which amounted to the same thing. He came back that same night to his rooms and the next day—”

“Yes,” said Bohun. “How did he spend the next fortnight?”

“He spent the next week attending a sale of china and pottery at Lyme Regis. That’s one of the items of information that’s just come in. Ordinary routine. There’s no doubt about it, perfect identification. He wasn’t hiding or anything. He registered in his own name.”

“And in the intervals between bidding for might-be Ming and dubious Chelsea, he was thinking about how to wring the most enjoyment out of the Horniman scandal?”

“Yes. I think he wrote at least two letters and I think he wrote them to Bob Horniman. He may have known by then that Abel was pretty far gone. Perhaps he didn’t want the shock to kill him before he could get him into the dock. That was the sort of way his mind would work. The first letter would set out the facts he had discovered, and ask what the firm intended to do about it. Were they going to pay the money back? (He knew damn well they couldn’t.) And even if they did, he was afraid it was his duty to go to the police—criminal proceedings, Larceny Act, etc. etc. Bob thinks this over and writes back making an appointment for the morning of Saturday 27th. Told him he could explain everything.”

“Then,” said Bohun, “I suppose he got busy manufacturing his cheese-cutter and clearing out one of the larger deed boxes. By the way, how did Smallbone spend the following week? At a sale of glass at Hemel Hempstead?”

“We don’t know yet,” said Hazlerigg. “We shall,” he added with calm conviction.

“I don’t doubt it,” said Bohun, who was beginning to have a healthy respect for the results of routine. “What happened next?”

“Smallbone acknowledged Bob Horniman’s answer and confirmed the appointment. Hoped what Bob had to tell him would be satisfactory. That was the letter we found, of course. It was written to Bob’s private address. That’s why it didn’t go through the office filing system.”

“Written to Bob?”

“Yes. It took a committee of typists to point out to me the difference between a letter starting ‘Dear Horniman’, and ‘Dear Mr. Horniman’.”

“And Bob had it in his pocket and dropped it at the office?”

“Something like that. This is only the rough outline. We’ll fill in the details later. On Saturday morning, Marcus Smallbone comes up to Lincoln’s Inn at twelve-fifteen, as arranged. Bob is alone by that time. He tries argument. Quite futile. So it has to be the other thing. Into the box with the body. Chuck away the key. Sit tight.”

“It would need a bit of nerve that last bit. Sitting tight, I mean.”

“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “You ought to read his citation,” he added inconsequently. “Did you know he got a D.S.C.? It was quite a good one. He got it on Arctic convoy.”

Bohun thought about this for a bit and then said: “Have you got any direct proof?”

“You don’t often get direct proof of murder,” said Hazlerigg mildly. “We’re beginning to get quite a lot of indirect proof. It’s starting to add up. That’s all I can say. The time of that second murder for instance. Three or four people haven’t got a firm alibi for the half-hour that matters. But Bob Horniman, so far as I know, is the only person who’s troubled to offer us a false one.”

“You’re sure of that?”

“Morally certain. I’m prepared to put every single waitress in the restaurant he says he went to that night into the box to swear they’ve never set eyes on him. We’ve done a lot of hard work on that bit.”

“Anything else?”

“One other thing to date. According to his story he and Miss Mildmay were in the office that Saturday morning together until after twelve o’clock. Say they were mistaken. Say they left at five to twelve. We wouldn’t quarrel over ten or fifteen minutes. But how do you explain the fact that a client rang your firm up three times at eleven o’clock and got no answer?”

“H’m! What’s your explanation?”

“I don’t have to explain it. Bob Horniman has to do that. But let’s suppose he got rid of Miss Mildmay almost at once—said there was no work for her—asked her to keep her mouth shut about it, though, afterwards. And supposing he was busy himself. He had to get rid of a lot of books and papers.”

“Yes,” said Bohun. He had just remembered something. He had remembered the way Anne Mildmay had looked at Bob Horniman, after the office party, on his first evening with the firm. That was ten days ago. It seemed a lot longer. It seemed…

Quite suddenly he got to his feet.

“If you don’t want me for anything else at the moment,” he said, “I’ll be off.”

“Can I get you a taxi?”

“No, thank you,” said Bohun. “I’ll walk.”

“Quite sure?”

“Thank you. I’ll be all right.”

“Well, I’ll ring you up if anything transpires. And you might keep in touch with me.”

“All right,” said Bohun. He went out quickly.

Hazlerigg watched him go and there was a thoughtful look in his grey eyes.

Bohun walked all the way home.

It had come to him quite suddenly: the monstrous idea that Bob Horniman really was a murderer and that he really was going to pay for it: was going to have his arms strapped to his side and a hood put over his head: was going to be made to stand on a chalked “T” on a trap; was going to have his neck snapped by the dead-fall of his own descending weight. Up to that moment he had been intrigued by the machinery of detection and had not cared to look beyond it.

Now he felt quite sick.

It was not that he knew Bob very well. He could hardly be described as a friend. But they had been at school together. And Bob had done well in the war, and had always shown himself very friendly to Bohun; and he was Bohun’s sort of person.

“If only he had stopped after the first one,” said Bohun. “That could have been forgiven. Not by the law perhaps—the law took an absurdly narrow-minded view of the sanctity of creatures like Marcus Smallbone—but by his friends. None of them would have moved a step in his detection. But to kill the pathetically stupid and harmless Miss Chittering. From motives of self-preservation—”

“I wouldn’t step under that bus, sir,” said the policeman at the Aldwych corner. “Not whilst it’s actually moving. Fatal accidents, very upsetting to the schedule.”

“I’m sorry, constable. I wasn’t looking.” Bohun proceeded more circumspectly, past the Law Courts and up Bell Yard. Another thought had occurred to him. What would his position have been as a partner, if Bob had completed the recently proposed deal? Suppose Bob had transferred his share in the partnership to him and removed himself quietly to a farm in Cornwall before anything had come to light. The demand from the Husbandmen for their June instalment of interest would, he imagined, have been the match which would finally have set off the powder keg. Suppose Bob had already extricated himself by that time?

“The man’s a crook,” said Bohun firmly. “Sympathy’s wasted on him. He’s also a particularly cold-blooded murderer.” A further instalment of awful thoughts. Was there not one person who, if their theories were correct, held Bob in the hollow of her hand? Anne Mildmay. They didn’t want to get back to the office on Monday morning and find that Anne had gone the same way as Miss Chittering.

Bohun, now back in his room, thought for a moment of ringing up Hazlerigg. Then he decided that this was a thing which he could settle for himself, with a little co-operation. There was at least one trustworthy ally to hand. He sought out Miss Cornel.

There was not much time for finesse.

“You’re pretty good friends with Anne Mildmay, aren’t you?” he said.

Miss Cornel looked faintly surprised, but confined herself to saying: “Yes.”

“Good. Could you possibly have her to stay with you this weekend?”

“Friday night to Sunday night?”

“That should cover it.”

“I could ask her,” said Miss Cornel. “No, wait a minute. It’s my Saturday morning on duty.”

“We’re not opening tomorrow morning,” said Henry. “I heard Mr. Craine saying so.”

“The firm’s going downhill,” said Miss Cornel. “I suppose it’s no use asking what this is all about?”

“I’d much rather you didn’t,” said Henry. “Just for forty-eight hours.”

Miss Cornel looked at him shrewdly.

“I see,” she said. “It’s like that, is it? All right, I’ll do what I can. Maybe she’ll have plans of her own, though.”

“Try and persuade her,” said Bohun. “Yes, Charlie. What is it?”

“Mr. Craine wants you, sir, right away.”

“All right.”

He found Mr. Craine reading a letter. The little man was as near worried as Bohun had ever seen him.

“We may need you yourself almost more than your money,” he said.

“What’s happened, sir?”

“Birley’s quit,” said Mr. Craine. “Here you are. It’s all in this letter. Lock, stock and barrel. He’s not even claiming his share in the equity.”

“What happens now?” said Bohun.

He felt a little dazed. He had a feeling that the next time he opened his eyes the Duchy of Lancaster would have taken over the firm.

“His share reverts, I imagine, to the other partners,” said Mr. Craine slowly. “You’ll be getting more for your money, that’s all.”

“I see,” said Henry. “Well, I ought to be in a position to let you have an answer one way or the other by Monday.”

It occurred to him that quite a lot of problems were due for solution over that weekend.

IV

The oddest event of an eventful day was yet to come.

Bohun left the office at six o’clock, went home and did absent-minded justice to one of Mrs. Magoli’s collations before setting out on his evening stroll. It was a night of low cloud, with rain behind the clouds, and he buttoned his mackintosh round his neck determined to keep his mind rigorously away from anything to do with Horniman and Birley and Craine.

It was outside the Temple Concert Hall that he saw a name. It was a poster announcing a performance that evening by the Equity Choir of Bach’s St. Matthew Passion. The leading soloists were well-known singers. And there it was, in smaller letters: “Second Tenor, Eustace Cockerill.”

“There couldn’t be two people with a name like that,” thought Bohun.

He pushed the door softly and went inside.

The small concert hall was packed, and as no one appeared to pay any attention to him he placed himself quietly behind a pillar and disposed himself to listen.

Part One of the performance was more than half over. The chorale, “Here would I stand,” drew to a close, and Bohun locating himself by means of the Tenor and Bass Recitatives that followed, knew that he had come in at exactly the right moment. The second choir were on their feet and he saw Cockerill get up quietly to join them.

There was an unmistakable touch of confidence in the way he held himself and after the first two notes of the “O Grief”, Bohun’s impression was confirmed. The man had a more than ordinarily fine voice. It was not one of the great tenor voices of the world. It lacked perhaps the tight consonantal finish which die-stamps the work of the professional; but full compensation was offered; the tone and the good temper and the clear sincerity of the singing. “Oh grief, how throbs His heavy laden breast. His spirit faints, how pale His weary face.” It was as if the singer was hearing the words for the first time. The mutter of the choir: “My Saviour, why must all this ill befall Thee?” The tenor voice spoke again: “He to the Judgment Hall is brought. There is no help, no comfort near.”

The words set off a train of pictures, like an uncut cinema film, starting with an old and evil judge mouthing over the words of the death sentence and finishing in a small concrete shed in a high-walled yard at dawn.

When he brought his thoughts back, Cockerill was on his feet again for his second solo. “I would beside my Lord be watching.” This is a difficult passage for any amateur, but the singer rode through it with a sort of innocent triumph, taking the long runs with perfect judgment, until it fell away into its final chorale.

“And so our sin will fall asleep. Will fall asleep. Our sin will fall asleep.”

Taking a quick look round him as the last notes died, Bohun saw that he was not alone in his appreciation. The audience having paid the tribute of silence and stillness to a moving performance, broke into the momentary shuffle which is the complement of this sort of attention.

Bohun saw something else, too.

Three rows ahead of him was a head on a thickset neck, topping a pair of blacksmith’s shoulders.

It was a figure that he had every reason to recognise.

It occurred to him to wonder what had brought Inspector Hazlerigg out at night to the Temple Concert Hall.