Two plainclothes men were waiting for me outside.
I was just so astonished I could not say a word. They said they wished to question me about the shooting of Edward Fowler, and before I knew what was what, before I could even telephone Mother, they were taking me away in a police car.
Everyone says the police aren’t what they were. This time, they really have made a big mistake! But I have got a solicitor coming to sort things out for me, and at least I was able to send a message to Mother telling her that I was fine and not to keep lunch waiting for me.
I didn’t tell them a thing — I mean, I can still keep my wits about me. I keep on saying I never heard of any Edward Fowler, and that’s all I say.
Of course, the little pistol and those revolting photographs are going to be rather difficult to explain.
But I’m innocent — absolutely innocent! You can’t tell me otherwise.
Vincent McConnor
Just Like Inspector Maigret
Meet a new armchair detective — George Drayton, 73 years old, retired book publisher, devotee of mystery stories — as he becomes involved in his “first case.” Old George Drayton’s “armchair” is his favorite morning-bench or afternoon-bench in the private park of Knightswood Square; and in following George’s park-bench private-eyeing you will get an intimate glimpse of an old (and old-fashioned) Square in the heart of London — in a story charmingly and lovingly told...
The green park in the heart of London, to the passing eye, had not changed in half a century. But to George Drayton, born 73 years ago in a vast bedroom overlooking Knightswood Square, it had been altered in every possible way. Nothing was as it used to be.
He was the second person to enter the Square, fog or shine, every morning. Purdy, the gardener, was always the first, and Mrs. Heatherington the third. Actually she was fourth because her ancient Pekinese, Kwong Kwok, darted through the gate ahead of his mistress. That was how it had been for more than 30 years. Except that the gardener was never there on Sundays or bank holidays. On those days George Drayton was the first.
Every resident of the long rows of identical mansions surrounding Knightswood Square possessed a key which unlocked all the gates in the shoulder-high iron fence. A discreet sign near each gate warned that this was a private park.
George Drayton sniffed the morning air as he stepped out under the white-pillared portico and let the massive front door close itself behind him. He stood for a moment on the broad top step, eyes darting across the sunny Square in search of Purdy. A blue veil of smoke curled at the far northern corner. The gardener would be burning yesterday’s accumulation of twigs and dead flowers. He daily raked every path and walk, picked up each fallen leaf and broken branch. Before dusk they were always neatly piled for burning the following morning.
The sun had climbed above the chimneys on the opposite side of the Square, dropping a curtain of haze across the elegant Regency façades so that all he could see was a blur of white columns against shadowed brick. It was going to be a pleasant August day. He would sit on his morning-bench under the protecting branches of the oak tree. There were several favorite benches he occupied, depending upon time of year and weather, but never the same bench, morning and afternoon.
George started down the shallow marble steps to the sidewalk and was careful not to drop his books or leather cushion. He carried three books into the park every morning. Today there was a new novel from his own publishing house and two detective novels.
“Morning, sir.” Fitch, the caretaker, squinted up the basement steps where he was polishing the brass hand-rail. “Another fine day, sir.”
“Splendid.” He kept walking or Fitch would come charging up the steps for a chat that could delay him at least ten minutes. On those unfortunate mornings when it was impossible to escape, Mrs. Heatherington and Kwong Kwok always reached the Square ahead of him.
He hesitated at the curb and peered up and down for any moving vehicles. There was only the milkman pulling his small cart at the far end of the street. George walked more briskly as he crossed to the narrow pavement; which edged Knightswood Square. Reaching the curb he slowed his steps again and headed for the nearest gate. He rested the cushion and books on the gate post as he felt in his pocket for the key. There was always a moment of panic when he was unable to find it among the jumble of loose objects. Blast! He would have to go all the way back to his flat. Fitch couldn’t help him. None of the caretakers were permitted to have keys. Then his fingers touched cold metal and a sigh of relief escaped from his lips.
George unlocked the gate and stepped into the Square. He had made it ahead of the Pekinese.
Before closing the gate he removed his key from the lock and dropped it back into his pocket. Then, in a final burst of speed, he headed for the shaded morning-bench under the oak tree. He placed his leather cushion on the bench and sat on it, arranging the books beside him.
As he filled his first pipe for the day he let his eyes wander over the familiar mansions around the Square. George knew who lived behind every window. He also knew who slept late, who was ill, dying, or convalescent, and which wife had left which husband. His charwoman, Mrs. Higby, kept him informed. Twice a day she reported all the latest news of Knightswood Square. At the moment she complained that nothing much was happening. There had been little worth talking about since last year’s murder. That sort of thing didn’t happen often enough to please Mrs. Higby.
She came to him for several hours, every day but Sunday, and also did daily work in two other mansions on the Square. Late morning, while he sat in the park, Mrs. Higby would straighten the flat and cook his lunch. He always made his own tea but she would return, after finishing her other jobs, and prepare his supper before catching a bus home to Putney.
Each day as she served his lunch and supper she reported, with relish, the news of the day. He looked forward to Mrs. Higby’s gossip because, otherwise, he would never know what was going on behind his neighbors’ windows. It had been exasperating, last winter, when she was kept to her bed with the flu. He had hired a woman through an agency but she had known nothing about the other residents of the Square. It was as though his morning and evening papers had not been delivered for three weeks.
Purdy wheeled an empty barrow past, without a word, touching an earthy finger to his leather cap. He never paused for conversation until late in the afternoon.
George watched as the gardener settled down to work, digging at the roots of a rosebush. Then he turned to look across to the south side of the Square, but there was no sign of Mrs. Heatherington and her Pekinese.
He checked his watch. 9:36. Six minutes late! Very likely packing for her holiday. She was taking an afternoon train from Victoria Station to Brighton where her daughter-in-law would be waiting to drive her across to Hove. The old lady spent two weeks every August with her son and his family in their pleasant Georgian house overlooking the distant seashore. Mrs. Higby had described the place to him, in detail, many times; she had heard all about it from her friend, Mrs. Price, who came in twice a week to char for Mrs. Heatherington.
A blur of movement caught his eye at the opposite side of the park and he turned his head to see someone on a bicycle. As his eyes adjusted to the distance he saw that it was Willie Hoskins who, once a month, washed every window facing the Square. Each flat had its regular day for the window cleaner.
Willie braked his bicycle in front of Number 26, hoisted it across the pavement, and propped it against the railing of the basement areaway.
Then he lifted a bucket from the handlebar and carried it up the steps to the front door. George could see the flash of color as the sun caught in Willie’s red hair, noticed the yellow rubber gloves tucked under the wide leather belt that circled his waist, the faded blue shirt and trousers as the boy went into the house. Boy? He was a married man of 23 with a wife who, according to Mrs. Higby, regularly had him up before a local magistrate on charges of drunkenness, nonsupport, and knocking her about.