‘Poor man.’
‘Yes, we all have our pride,’ said Tom. ‘I understand now why he didn’t want to be seen the other day.’
But Tom’s understanding of Wilfred Glass never went any further than that. The following weekend, he went off for one of his walks in search of rock specimens and did not return. When it got dark and he was still missing, Anita phoned the police. They promised to radio their patrols and they sent a young constable to take down the details, but little could be done in the way of a search before morning. Anita suggested that they should concentrate the search around the old mine works near Sancreed.
Tom’s body was found at the foot of the shaft. His neck was broken. His bag of rock specimens lay beside him. It contained two pieces of malachite.
The verdict at the inquest was misadventure. Everyone was very kind to Anita. Someone came from the bank to talk about the pension she would get. The cottage became hers on Tom’s death. There was no more mortgage to pay, because it had been covered by an insurance policy. She decided she could afford to remain at the cottage.
Several weeks later she met Mr Glass in the cakeshop in St Just. She bought some bread and turned from the counter and there he was, facing her. He didn’t seem at all surprised. He touched his hat and said, ‘How are you now, Mrs Sullivan? What a terrible thing to have happened. I was so deeply shocked when I heard.’
‘Yes,’ said Anita, ‘but I’m beginning to get over it now.’
‘I know what it’s like...’ My mother... But of course she wasn’t young like your husband. Are you still at the cottage?’
‘Yes, in spite of everything, I think I shall stay.’
‘I thought you would,’ said Mr Glass, adding quickly, ‘You were the one who fell in love with it. How are you managing there?’
‘Quite well, thank you.’
‘Everything in working order? No trouble with the electricity? It has been temperamental in the past.’
‘None that I’ve noticed.’
‘Oh.’ Mr Glass looked thoughtful for a moment. ‘I’m living in St Buryan now. Not the same at all. I passed the cottage on my way. I walked, actually.’
‘Perhaps I can give you a lift,’ said Anita because it seemed the decent thing to say.
‘How kind! I’ll tell you what: I’ll buy some saffron buns. It will be such a treat to see what you’ve done with the cottage.’
She was really rather pleased. He was a sweet man. It was Tom who had kept saying he was strange.
On the drive back, she asked him whether he possessed a pair of field glasses. ‘Tom thought he spotted you one afternoon at Sancreed, near the old tin-mine,’ she explained.
‘He must have been mistaken, my dear,’ said Mr Glass. ‘What would I be doing with a pair of field glasses?’
She heard him give a sigh of happiness as he stepped into the cottage. She went into the kitchen to make some coffee and put the buns on a plate. She called out, ‘Black or white, Mr Glass?’
He answered, ‘White, if you please, Mrs Sullivan.’
She said from the kitchen, ‘You can call me Anita.’
Mr Glass smiled to himself. She was quite the prettiest of all the young wives who had come with their husbands to look at the cottage. In a month or two he would marry her and the place would be his again. He stood by the fireplace and passed his fingers fondly over the brickwork. Woman and home. It had all worked out according to plan, a plan as easy as falling off a log. Or pushing a man down a mineshaft.
The Locked Room
Sometimes when the shop was quiet Braid would look up at the ceiling and give a thought to the locked room overhead. He was mildly curious, no more. If the police had not taken an interest he would never have done anything about it.
The inspector appeared one Wednesday soon after eleven, stepping in from Leadenhall Street with enough confidence about him to show he was no tourist. Neither was he in business; it is one of the City’s most solemn conventions that between ten and four nobody is seen on the streets in a coat. This was a brown imitation leather coat, categorically not City at any hour. Gaunt and pale, a band of black hair trained across his head to combat baldness, he stood back from the counter, not interested in buying cigarettes, waiting rather, one hand in a pocket of the coat, the other fingering his woollen tie, while the last genuine customer named his brand and took his change.
When the door was shut he came a step closer and told Braid, ‘I won’t take up much of your time. Detective Inspector Gent, CID.’ The hand that had been in the pocket now exhibited a card. ‘Routine enquiry. You are Frank Russell Braid, the proprietor of this shop?’
Braid nodded, and moistened his lips. He was perturbed at hearing his name articulated in full like that, as if he were in court. He had never been in trouble with the police. Never done a thing he was ashamed of. Twenty-seven years he had served the public loyally over this counter. He had not received a single complaint he could recollect, nor made one. From the small turnover he achieved he had always paid whatever taxes the government imposed. Some of his customers — bankers, brokers and accountants — made fortunes and talked openly of tax dodges. That was not Frank Braid’s way. He believed in fate. If it was decreed that he should one day be rich, it would happen. Meanwhile he would continue to retail cigarettes and tobacco honestly and without regret.
‘I believe you also own the rooms upstairs, sir?’
‘Yes.’
‘There is a tenant, I understand.’
So Messiter had been up to something. Braid clicked his tongue, thankful that the suspicion was not directed his way, yet irritated at being taken in. From the beginning, Messiter had made a good impression. The year of his tenancy had seemed to confirm it. An educated man, decently dressed, interesting to talk to and completely reliable with the rent. This was a kick in the teeth.
‘His name, sir?’
‘Messiter.’ With deliberation Braid added, ‘Norman Henry Messiter.’
‘How long has Mr Messiter been a lodger here?’
‘Lodger isn’t the word. He uses the rooms as a business address. He lives in Putney. He started paying rent in September last year. That would be thirteen months, wouldn’t it?’
It was obvious from the inspector’s face that this was familiar information. ‘Is he upstairs this morning, sir?’
‘No. I don’t see a lot of Mr Messiter. He calls on Tuesdays and Fridays to collect the mail.’
‘Business correspondence?’
‘I expect so. I don’t examine it.’
‘But you know what line Mr Messiter is in?’
It might have been drugs from the way the inspector put the question.
‘He deals in postage stamps.’
‘It’s a stamp shop upstairs?’
‘No. It’s all done by correspondence. This is simply the address he uses when he writes to other dealers.’
‘Odd,’ the inspector commented. ‘I mean, going to the expense of renting rooms when he could just as easily carry on the business from home.’
Braid would not be drawn. He would answer legitimate questions, but he was not going to volunteer opinions. He busied himself tearing open a carton of cigarettes.
‘So it’s purely for business?’ the inspector resumed. ‘Nothing happens up there?’
That started Braid’s mind racing. Nothing happens...? What did they suspect? Orgies? Blue films?
‘It’s an unfurnished flat,’ he said. ‘Kitchen, bathroom and living room. It isn’t used.’
At that the inspector rubbed his hands. ‘Good. In that case you can show me over the place without intruding on anyone’s privacy.’
It meant closing for a while, but most of his morning regulars had been in by then.