After fifteen unhelpful minutes Hazlerigg dismissed him and asked for a word with the second partner.
The tubby Mr. Craine was more obliging.
“Ichabod Stokes,” he said, “was a Presbyterian fishmonger. He was one of Abel’s oldest clients.” Seeing a slight look of surprise on the inspector’s face, he added: “I don’t say that he was the sort of client we should have taken on nowadays, but when Abel was starting, way back before the turn of the century, well, he was like every other young solicitor—to him a client was a client. And I don’t think either of them regretted their association. Ichabod, you know, was one of those men who really understand money. He started with one fish-shop in Commercial Road, and when he died he owned almost a quarter of the East Coast fishing fleet.”
“When was that?” Hazlerigg was making an occasional note in his amateur shorthand: notes which would later be expanded into the journal of the case.
“Ichabod died—now let me see—at Munich time, Autumn, 1938. He left a will appointing Abel Horniman and Marcus Smallbone executors and trustees. Why Smallbone? God knows. He and Smallbone had a common passion for collecting pottery, and had met at one or two sales, and struck up some sort of acquaintanceship. And I believe they used to write long letters to each other about ceramics and what-have-you, though between you and me,” said Mr. Craine, with that cheerful vulgarity which is often a characteristic of tubby extroverts, “I don’t think Stokes really knew the difference between the Portland Vase and a pisspot—or that was the impression I got when I had to put his collection on the market after his death. However, that’s by the way. The whole estate, as I said, was left to his trustees on trust for a dozen charities. There was no disputing the will—they were very sound and sensible charities; mostly to do with fish. The Herring-fleet Homes and the Destitute Drifters and so on. He nominated them himself, got us to make certain that they were charities, and had ’em listed, by name, in his will—and if every testator took those simple precautions,” concluded Mr. Craine with feeling—for he, like others of his profession, had suffered from the decision in re Diplock—“the lawyer’s lot would be a very much happier and a very much easier one.”
“So now,” said Hazlerigg, “all you have to do is to divide the income among these charities?”
“In theory, that is so. In fact, there’s more to it than that. Of course, when Ichabod died his estate consisted of a lot of different things. There was real property—he bought a number of farms cheap at the time of the 1931 slump—and there were the assets and the goodwill of his various businesses, which had to be valued and paid out. However, you can take it that by now everything has been realised and invested in securities. In round figures, Ichabod added up to nearly a million pounds. When the death duties had been paid we salvaged just over half a million—and we worked like Trojans to keep that much.” Mr. Craine spoke with genuine feeling. This was one aspect of his work which genuinely appealed to him. Sometimes, indeed, he went so far as to visualise himself as an archangel, a rotund St. Michael, armed with the sword of Dymond and defended by the shield of Green, protecting the helpless from the assault of the massed powers of Darkness, those arch-fiends, the Commissioners of Inland Revenue.
“Half a million,” said Hazlerigg. “And all invested. It will just be a matter of checking the stocks and shares, I take it.”
“There again,” said Mr. Craine, “in theory, yes. In fact, no. I don’t know how much you understand about these things, but a lot depends in any particular trust on the investment clause. It’s much easier, in a way, if you are limited to trustee securities. That’s dull, but fairly straightforward. In this case, we had wider powers. Not absolutely discretionary, but almost so. That meant that we had to keep the fund in the best possible state of investment compatible with security—stop me if I’m confusing you.”
“You are being very clear,” said Hazlerigg. “Please go on.”
“Well, that was Abel’s job—and, if I may say so, he earned his professional retainer a dozen times over. He knew the stock market as well as any broker, and he bought and sold to meet the demands of the day. That’s why it isn’t possible, without looking through all the recent files and folders, to say exactly what the trust fund ought to consist of. I can tell you what it does consist of. I’m having Sergeant Cockerill make a list of the securities at this moment. But most of the accounts which would have told me what it ought to have been—the history of the various investments, as it were—they were in that box.”
“I see,” said Hazlerigg. “Does that mean that you’ll never know—?”
“Oh, no. We’ll find out,” said Mr. Craine. “It’ll just take a little time, that’s all.”
“I see. Let me know what the answer is, please, as soon as you get it.” Hazlerigg thought for a minute and then said: “If Abel Horniman had been embezzling funds, do you think he would have taken them from this trust, or some other one?”
He was watching Mr. Craine as he said this, and found more interest in his reactions than in the actual words of his reply.
One thing was quite evident. Mr. Craine was neither surprised nor shocked at the suggestion. On the contrary, he was plainly very interested in it.
“Yes,” he said at last. “Yes. If he had embezzled money I think this was the trust he would have gone to.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Tell me first.” Mr. Craine looked the chief inspector shrewdly in the eye. “Have you any reason for your question—any grounds for your supposition?”
“None at all,” said Hazlerigg. “The case was purely hypothetical.”
“On those grounds, then,” said Mr. Craine, “I’ll answer it. As a hypothesis only. The Stokes Trust would have been a suitable vehicle for fraud for several reasons. First, because the only other trustee was a layman. Secondly, because the funds were all here, and under our effective control. They had to be. As I explained, Abel was constantly buying and selling; so no question would be asked. Thirdly, the beneficiaries were all charities. The secretary of a charity is, on the whole, so glad to see his annual cheque that he doesn’t usually question its amount very closely. If he was told that all the investments in the trust were showing lower yields, or that some income was being put back for administrative reasons, he would probably accept the explanation without further question—far more readily, anyway, than a private beneficiary whose own pocket was being touched.”
“Yes,” said Hazlerigg. “I see. Thank you. You’ve been very frank. You’ll tell me at once if anything is wrong with the trust fund. In the meantime, perhaps you would ask Mr. Bohun to step along.”
II
Meanwhile, Detective-Sergeant Plumptree had made his way out to Belsize Park and was interrogating Mrs. Tasker.
Sergeant Plumptree was a pink-and-white young man, with the well-scoured look of one who has but recently emerged from his mother’s wash-tub. His methods were unorthodox and some of the results which he achieved surprised even himself.
“Young man,” said Mrs. Tasker, “pour yourself out a second cup of tea, do, and be guided by me. Never take in lodgers. Go to the poorhouse, go to prison, commit arson, larceny and what you like, but never take in lodgers.”
“What—” began Sergeant Plumptree.
“Take this Mr. Smallbone. A quiet man. An inoffensive man. A good payer. Never should I have thought that by his deeds he would have brought anxiety to my bosom and police into my house—the sugar’s behind the clock. Five years ago he came here to lodge. Put down six months’ rent on the table, the one we’re sitting at at this moment, and said to me, ‘Mrs. Tasker, I’m a rolling stone. I gather no moss. But somewhere I must have to lay my head.’ ‘The first floor front pair’s vacant,’ I said, ‘and use of the ring at the back for cooking.’ That’s all that passed between us, if I go to my Maker tonight.”