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Over a career lasting more than fifty years, Rupert Croft-Cooke was amazingly prolific. He authored nearly thirty volumes of autobiography, including The World is Young (1937) on his experiences in South America, as well as collections of verse, memoirs of his extensive travels and biographies of Lord Alfred Douglas—Oscar Wilde’s Bosie—and of the entertainers Charles ‘Tom Thumb’ Stratton and Colonel ‘Buffalo Bill’ Cody. Croft-Cooke also wrote widely on subjects that interested him, including his beloved darts and the circus, as well as the importance of freedom of the press and the problems caused by ‘petty’ regulation. After his conviction and subsequent imprisonment, he argued for greater tolerance of homosexuality and in support of improvements to the penal system. His writing was highly regarded by critics up to the early 1950s, but after his conviction, reviews tended to be more negative and even favourable ones were marred by obscurely worded but plainly homophobic allusions.
As well as his extensive writing under his own name, Croft-Cooke also wrote detective stories using the pseudonym of Leo Bruce. His first mystery novel, Case for Three Detectives, was published in 1936. While the titular detectives parody Lord Peter Wimsey, Hercule Poirot and G. K. Chesterton’s Father Brown, the case is solved by a cockney policeman, Sergeant William Beef, who would go on to appear in seven other novels. In the early 1950s, Croft-Cooke abandoned Beef and created another amateur sleuth, Dr Carolus Deene, a history teacher who would appear in more than twenty novels. As Bruce and under his own name, Croft-Cooke wrote many short stories including a round-robin novella with Beverley Nichols and Monica Dickens, author of the Follyfoot series of children’s novels. His last book was published in 1977 and Rupert Croft-Cooke died in 1979.
One of four uncollected stories to feature Sergeant Beef, The Inverness Cape was first published in The Sketch on 16 July 1952. The text in this collection is taken from the original manuscript of the story in the author’s papers, where it was located by Curtis Evans, author of Masters of the ‘Humdrum’ Mystery and The Spectrum of English Murder.
DARK WATERS
Freeman Wills Crofts
For years Weller, the solicitor, had handled Marbeck’s affairs, and when he received the old man’s letter saying that he wanted to realise some securities, it struck him like a sentence of death.
For the securities were gone. In order to recoup some unlucky operations on the Stock Exchange, he had sold the lot. Marbeck was no business man, and as his dividends continued to be paid with unfailing regularity he had suspected nothing.
For Weller discovery would mean the end of everything. He would not escape prison. His business in the nearby town, his charming house on the Thames, his position and his friends—all would be gone. He could look forward to nothing but poverty and misery.
But there was an alternative. He scarcely dared to put it into words, but if Marbeck were dead he could undoubtedly produce papers which would convince the executors that he had sold at the old man’s request and paid him the money.
He saw very clearly how the deed could be done, and with complete safety. The Thames! What was the river for, if not to meet the problems of those who lived on its banks? A little care, an unpleasant five minutes, and then—
Weller’s house was on the north bank. He was not married, but his sister kept house for him, helped by a woman who came morning and evening to clean and cook. He would have to choose a time when his sister was away from home, as he must have the home to himself in the late evening.
On Wednesday nights for years past he and three friends had met at each other’s houses for a rubber of bridge. There was a dentist, an architect and Marbeck, who was a retired professor of music. The first two lived near Weller on the north bank, but—and this was where the river came in—Marbeck’s house was on the south bank almost immediately opposite. There was no bridge close by, and all four had light skiffs which in suitable weather they used as ferries, preferring to scull directly across rather than to get out cars and drive some miles round.
This was Thursday and on the coming Wednesday the meeting was to be at Weller’s. Till then he could easily put Marbeck off with assurances that the sale of the stock was in hand. Wednesday indeed would suit from every point of view, for his sister was going to some friends in Torquay for that entire week.
Two small preliminaries required attention. At a London chemist’s Weller bought some of those ‘safe’ sleeping tablets obtainable without a medical prescription. The shop was large and full of customers and he was satisfied that the purchase had attracted no attention.
On Wednesday evening he dissolved two tablets in a little whisky, then destroying the remainder. It was the custom for the four men to have drinks when breaking up at the end of the game, and as usual Weller set out the decanter, siphon and four glasses. Into one of the glasses he poured the prepared whisky. While standing at the side table he could see the liquid, but it would be invisible to his seated guests.
The other preliminary Weller dealt with shortly before his friends were due. Going to his boathouse, he made sure that his boat was ready for instant use, with rowlocks and oars in place and water gate open.
In due course the men arrived and settled down to their game. Weller threw himself desperately into the play, partly as the best way of passing the time, partly lest he should make some error which might later give rise to comment.
The evening, the longest he had ever spent, came to an end at last. He and his partner had lost, but without, he felt sure, any suggestion of carelessness on his part. They settled up their few shillings’ debt and then he turned to the glasses. Marbeck was the senior and Weller poured the whisky for him first.
After interminable delays the whisky was drunk, second helpings being offered and, as usual, refused. Further delay followed as the guests made their way to the hall and put on their coats in the most leisurely manner. But finally they left and strolled off together down the drive. Weller stood watching them, then slowly closed the door.
Now he could drop the pretence of composure. In the hall cloakroom he put on a cap and dark waterproof. Hurrying to a side door, he let himself out and made his way noiselessly towards the Thames.
It was not completely dark. More by sound than sight he located Marbeck. The old man was on his, Weller’s, boat slip, a tiny pier adjoining, but outside, his boathouse. Marbeck had moored his skiff, as usual, at the slip. Weller heard him getting in and unchaining his sculls. His movements were slow and fumbling, the result, no doubt, of the dope. But at last he cast off and floated out, a shadow of deeper jet on the dark waters.
Weller now worked frantically. In less than a minute his boat was following the other. He tried to steady the thumping of his heart, reminding himself that everything was going perfectly. He overtook Marbeck in mid-stream just as he had intended. ‘Marbeck!’ he called softly.
‘Yes, Yes? Who is it?’
‘Weller. A small matter I forgot. Ease up a moment.’
The other held water and the boats drew together. Weller unshipped his sculls, laying them parallel to the gunwale at either side. Then, as the skiffs touched, he gripped the gunwale of Marbeck’s, pushed it downwards, and then raised it with all his strength. The skiff rolled violently and then righted itself. Marbeck was overboard.
The victim’s single cry would not invalidate Weller’s plan; in fact it would help it. But further cries might give him away, he swung his skiff round to where Marbeck was struggling, and leaning over the gunwale, seized the figure and pushed it under.
His waterproof caught somewhere, impeding him, and he jerked it roughly free. He was counting on the dope making the old man stupid. It appeared to have done so, for his feeble struggling soon ceased.
One more point and Weller had finished. A glance showed him that Marbeck’s boat was as he wanted it: one oar caught in the rowlock, the other overboard. What had occurred would be obvious to everyone. Some slight indisposition or carelessness and Marbeck had lost an oar. He had made a sudden effort to recapture it before it floated away. The light skiff was unsteady in the water and its sudden roll had taken the old man unawares.
Weller now moved at top speed, though still silently. He rowed to his boathouse, replaced the boat, and hurried to the house. There he had a wash and brush up. He thought another whisky permissible while he waited for the next development.
Half an hour later it came, just as he had intended it should. Mrs Marbeck rang up to ask if her husband had left.
‘Yes, Mrs Marbeck,’ Weller hastened to reply. ‘He left at his usual time, nearly an hour ago.’
‘Well, he hasn’t arrived here and I’m rather anxious.’
‘I’ll come across at once,’ Weller declared and rang off.
This call was really part of his scheme. The wet oars, the drippings in his boat, the damp sleeves of his waterproof: all such awkward items would be explained by the speed with which he had hastened across.
Everything continued to go exactly to plan. He made his report to Mrs Marbeck, they rang up several houses at which the old man might have called. Then at Weller’s suggestion they telephoned the police.
Inspector French was at the house within minutes. He listened to statements and said he would start an immediate inquiry. Then came a period of waiting.
Mrs Marbeck urged Weller to go home, but his sickening anxiety prevented him. Fortunately his presence was not suspicious since politeness also required him to stay. At length, two hours later, the inspector returned. To Mrs Marbeck he broke his news with genuine kindness. Her husband’s body had been found lower down the river. He had evidently fallen overboard while making the crossing. Then he turned to Weller.
‘I’d like, sir, to go over to your house to get some further details about Mr Marbeck’s start. If you’ll take me over in your boat, I’ll send the car round.’
‘Right,’ Weller answered. He put on his waterproof and said he was ready.
But the inspector was looking at him very strangely. Weller’s heart missed a beat. All had been going perfectly; what could now be wrong? ‘I said I was ready,’ he repeated shortly.
Inspector French bent forward. ‘Excuse me, sir. I see you’ve lost a button from your coat.’
Weller glanced down. This was what he had felt. No doubt it had jammed under the oar. ‘My own fault, inspector,’ he said with truth. ‘It was loose and I omitted to have it resewn.’
French took something from his pocket. ‘It’s not lost, sir. I think this is it. Yes: colour, shape, size and even thread are the same. And do you know where I found it? Gripped in Mr Marbeck’s fingers: I could hardly get it out.’
FREEMAN WILLS CROFTS
Born in Dublin in 1879, Freeman Wills Crofts would go on to become one of Britain’s best loved writers of detective fiction. After leaving school, Crofts joined the Belfast and North Counties Railway, rising to Chief Assistant Engineer. In 1912 he married and, in his early 30s, wrote a novel during a long period of convalescence. In homage to Charles Dickens, this first attempt was entitled A Mystery of Two Cities but by the time it was published in June 1920, by Collins, it had been retitled The Cask after a rewrite that saw the final section of the novel, largely comprising a trial, excised altogether.
Fired by this success, Crofts wrote a second novel, The Ponson Case. And then a third … For his fifth novel, Inspector French’s Greatest Case, he created Joseph French, the Scotland Yard detective who would go on to appear in a total of thirty novels, countless radio plays and three stage plays. As Crofts described him, ‘Soapy Joe [is] an ordinary man, carrying out his work, in an ordinary way … He makes mistakes but goes ahead in spite of them.’
More books followed and Crofts was soon recognised as one of the best practitioners in the genre. The railway engineer and part-time organist and choirmaster retired in 1929 to take up writing full time, and in 1930 Crofts was invited by Anthony Berkeley to become a founding member of the Detection Club, based in London. Partly because of this, Crofts and his wife Mary moved to Blackheath, a pretty village in Surrey where their first home was a house, Wildern, which has since been re-named after its most famous owner. Over the next twenty years Crofts would produce many books including The Hog’s Back Mystery (1933), Crime at Guildford (1935) and The Affair at Little Wokeham (1943), all of which are set in Surrey.
An active member of the Detection Club, Crofts also contributed to several of their collaborative ventures, including the 1931 novel The Floating Admiral, which he wrote together with Agatha Christie and other members of the Detection Club. During the Second World War, Crofts produced dozens of radio plays for the BBC, many of which he later turned into short stories for the Inspector French collection Murderers Make Mistakes (1947). Throughout the war and in the years immediately afterwards, Crofts continued to write but his output gradually declined and he died in 1957 after a stubborn battle with cancer.
Croft’s obituarist in The Times praised the writer for his ‘logically contrived’ plots and his close attention to detail, especially in the construction and breaking down of superficially cast-iron alibis. Crofts’ novels often feature railway travel and the alibis of his criminals often turn on the complexities of pre-internet timetabling. His shorter fiction is similarly precise with the majority turning on what he would style ‘the usual tiny oversight’ or an inconsistency in a suspect’s statement so that they offer the reader an opportunity to outwit the criminal before French.
Sixty years after his death, the work of Freeman Wills Crofts is having something of a resurgence. Several of his novels are once again in print and a celebratory collection is in preparation bringing together previously uncollected short stories and some of his unpublished stage and radio plays.
‘Dark Waters’ was first published in the London Evening Standard on 21 September 1953.
LINCKES’ GREAT CASE
Georgette Heyer
I
The chief paused and glanced sharply across the table to where Roger Linckes sat facing him, listening to his discourse.
‘It is a big job,’ Masters said abruptly. ‘So much is at stake. It’s not like some stage robbery, where Lady So-and-So’s pearls are stolen. It’s—well, the whole country—perhaps all Europe—is implicated. Maybe I’m wrong to set you on to it. You’re very young; you’ve had very little experience.’
The younger man flushed slightly under his tan.
‘I know, sir.’
Masters looked him over thoughtfully, from his grave young eyes to his brogued shoes. He smiled a little.
‘Anyhow, right or wrong, I’m going to let you see what you can do. I must admit I haven’t much hope. Where Tiffrus and Pollern have failed, a comparative tyro isn’t likely to succeed. But you did exceedingly well over that Panton affair, and it’s just possible you might hit on a solution to this mystery.’ He drummed on the table, frowning. ‘I’ve known it happen before. I suppose the big detectives get stale, or something approaching it. Let’s hope you’ll bring fresh ideas into the business. How much do you know about it?’
Linckes crossed his legs, clasping his hands about one knee.
‘Precious little, sir. You’ve seen to that, haven’t you? Nothing known to the papers, I mean. All I know is that there’s a leak in the Cabinet. Knowledge of our doings is being sold to Russia and to Germany. You say it has been going on for some time. The Soviets got wind of our new submarines. Hardly anyone in England knew about ’em, and yet Russia discovered the secret! Someone must have duplicated the plans and sold them—probably he’s done it many times before—and that someone must be one of those in the small circle of people who knew all the details of the new subs. In fact, he must have been a pretty big man. It only remains for us to find out which one.’
‘Very easy,’ Masters grunted. ‘It might have been a secretary.’
‘It might,’ conceded Linckes.
‘You don’t think so?’
‘I don’t know. It doesn’t seem likely. Who was in that circle?’
‘The Government knew all about the submarines,’ Masters answered. ‘But the actual plans at the time of the betrayal had been seen only by Caryu, the Secretary for War, Winthrop, the Under-Secretary, and Johnson for the Admiralty, and the inventor, of course, Sir Duncan Tassel. That rather dishes your theory, doesn’t it? Naturally, Tassel is above suspicion; so is Caryu; so are the other two.’
‘Are you sure that no one else knew of the plans?’
‘No, I’m not sure. I’m convinced that someone else did know—must have known. Winthrop swears no one could have known, but he can’t supply a counter-theory. He’s more or less running the investigation, you know.’
‘What does he say?’
‘He’s terribly worried, of course. We thought at first that his secretary was the man, but we can’t find the slightest grounds for suspicion against him, and Winthrop’s had him in his employ for years. It’s the greatest mystery I’ve struck yet. We’ve been working to discover the betrayer for months, and we’re no nearer a solution now than we were when we began. And still it goes on. Take the affair of the negotiations with Carmania. They leaked into Russia, we know. Or take the case of the submarines. Those plans weren’t stolen, they were just copied. The only person, seemingly, who could have done it, was Winthrop. He alone knows the secret of Caryu’s safe. The plans were with Caryu for three days. All the rest of the time they were with Tassel, and they never left him for a moment. The thing must have been done during those three days that they were in Caryu’s safe, because before that date they were incomplete, and dates show that they can’t have been copied after they were returned to Fothermere. Now, having whittled the date down to three days, how much nearer the solution are we? Of course, everything points to Winthrop.’
‘Or Caryu,’ said Linckes quietly.
‘My good youth, are you seriously accusing Mr Caryu? Even supposing that he is the man we’re after—which he isn’t—would he have copied the plans while they were in his house? He’s not a fool, you know.’
‘Where was he during those three days?’
‘At home. Winthrop went round to his house, and together they examined the plans. That was on the first day, and Winthrop left the house soon after nine in the evening. Shortly after he had gone Caryu put the plans into his safe. He had them with him next day at the War Office, and put them into the safe when he came home. Not even his secretary knew of their existence. They were returned to Tassel on the following afternoon.’
Linckes’ forehead wrinkled in perplexity.
‘When did Johnson see them?’
‘Before. He worked with Tassel, you see.’
‘Um! And where did Sir Charles Winthrop go when he left Caryu’s house that night?’
‘He went straight down to his place in the country—Millbank. Took Max Lawson with him. He was there for the rest of the week, with a small house-party. That wipes him off the list.’
‘What sort of a man is Winthrop?’ Linckes asked. ‘All I know is that he’s fairly young, very clever, and good-looking, rich, and an orphan.’
‘He’s an awfully decent chap. Everybody likes him. Son of old Mortimer Winthrop, the railwayman. Mortimer separated from his wife when Charles was a kid. You know Charles’ history. She went abroad with the other child, I believe, and Mortimer kept Charles. Did awfully well in the Secret Service during the war, and rose like a rocket. He’ll be a big man before long, if this awful business is cleared up. Of course, he feels pretty badly about it. Means he’ll perhaps have to resign his post.’
‘Yes, I suppose so. What about Tassel?’
‘Tassel? My dear Linckes, if you’re going to shadow him I shall begin to regret I ever put you on to the case. Why, you might just as well suspect Caryu!’
‘Ah!’ said Linckes, and saw the chief’s lips twitch.
The telephone-bell rang sharply before Masters had time to speak again. He unhooked the receiver.
‘Hallo! What? Sir Charles? Yes, put him through to me at once, will you?’ He nodded at Linckes. ‘I thought Winthrop would ring up. I told him about you. Our White Hope. Yes? Hallo! Is that Sir Charles? Good morning! Yes, he’s here now. Yes, I’ve told him all I know. No. I don’t think so. Well, he hasn’t had much chance to yet. What? Yes, certainly! Now? All right, Sir Charles, I’ll send him along. What! Oh, I see! Yes, all right. Goodbye!’
He put the receiver back.
‘Sir Charles wants you to go along to his house now, Linckes—16, Arlington Street. Get along there as quickly as you can, will you? I want you to put every ounce of your brain into this. It’s a big chance for you, you know.’
Linckes rose, and drew a deep breath.
II
Half an hour later he stood in the library of No. 16, Arlington Street, taking in his surroundings with appreciative eyes. He was examining a fine old chest by the window when Winthrop came in.
Linckes turned. He beheld a tall, slim man of perhaps thirty-five years old, with an open, handsome face, in which sparkled a pair of dark eyes, singularly expressive, and fringed by long black lashes. Winthrop held Linckes’ card in his hand, and he came forward, smiling. The smile dispersed the slight sternness about his mouth, and left it boyish and charming. Very simply he told Linckes all that he knew, while the young detective listened intently, occasionally putting a question.
‘And that’s all,’ Winthrop ended ruefully. ‘’Tisn’t much to go on, is it?’
‘No; very little. You don’t suspect anyone yourself?’
‘I don’t. I admit it looked like the work of an outsider, but I just don’t see how it can be. Masters first suspected Ruthven, my secretary; but that’s impossible. I can account for all his movements, and I know that he didn’t go near Caryu’s place during the three days that the plans were there, for the simple reason that he was with me at Millbank.’
‘There might be an accomplice.’
Winthrop screwed up his nose, perplexed.
‘Well, of course there might be. But, considering that Ruthven himself doesn’t know the key to the safe, I don’t see how that helps. Besides, Caryu has a most elaborate alarm thing in his safe-room. Only he and I know the workings to it. Either of us could enter the room without disturbing it, provided we did not try to get in at the window, or any funny trick like that, but no one else could. Whoever did it must have watched the place for months; might even have been in the household. Probably was, because there were no signs of burglary. We had no idea anything had been tampered with until we had ample proof that Russia had learnt the secret of those new subs. I tell you, it’s absolutely incomprehensible!’
Linckes pulled out his cigarette-case, frowning. He started to tap a cigarette on it absent-mindedly.
‘The servants have been accounted for, I suppose?’
Winthrop’s white teeth gleamed in an infectious laugh.
‘Oh lor’, yes! They’re all being watched and interrogated, and Heaven knows what besides. We don’t think they have anything to do with it. It’s too big a thing.’
‘I may act as I think fit?’ Linckes asked.