The Stratford Murder by Mike Hollow (best thriller novels of all time .TXT) 📗

hand. He pointed to the bottom of the page, where Jago saw an entry recording that two rings had been pawned for a total of one pound fifteen shillings. It was dated the previous day.

‘Is that the one?’ he said.

‘Yes, that’s it,’ said Horncastle.

Jago slid his finger across to the columns showing the name and address of the pawner. He turned the book slightly so that Cradock could read what it said: Mr Hosea Evans, 46 Stephen’s Road, West Ham, E15.

‘Thank you,’ said Jago. ‘That’s most helpful. Is there anything else you can add to what you’ve told us?’

The pawnbroker pursed his lips thoughtfully, then shook his head again. ‘No, I don’t think so.’

‘Did he say how he’d come by the rings?’

‘Yes. I don’t like to be too nosy – people can get a bit embarrassed. But like I said, I know my responsibilities, and if a bloke comes in to pawn an engagement ring it’s a bit unusual, so I asked him.’

‘And what did he say?’

‘He said they were his grandmother’s, and she’d left them to him when she died.’

‘Well,’ said Jago, ‘that was very thoughtful of her, wasn’t it?’

When they got back to the car Jago didn’t start the engine straight away. Instead he sat holding the steering wheel in silence, deep in thought. Cradock began to fidget in the front passenger seat.

‘Do you think that Horncastle fellow was telling the truth about the engagement ring, sir?’ he said. ‘About it being a fake, I mean. Supposing it’s real?’

‘It doesn’t matter for the next twelve months, because Evans can bring the ticket in and redeem it any time he likes for his fifteen shillings plus a few bob interest. The real question is whether it actually belongs to Evans or not.’

‘So that business about his grandmother – do you reckon he just made that up?’

‘Well, it would certainly be a convenient coincidence for her to have the same taste in rings as Joan.’

‘Does that mean we need to go back and see Evans again?’

‘Indeed it does.’

‘Any chance of a bite to eat on the way, sir?’

Jago sighed. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

Jago had never had children, but in this moment he felt like the father of a four-year-old. It was the way young Cradock sometimes came out with these streams of questions, fired randomly at him in the assumption that he’d know all the answers. Still, he supposed, better that than a detective constable who asked no questions. Not for the first time, he resolved inwardly to rein in his natural reactions and do his best to develop the boy. He abandoned his attempt to think.

‘Now, I have a question for you, Peter,’ he said, with what he hoped was not too theatrical a note of patience in his voice. ‘Apart from this little business of the rings, there’s the mystery of Charlie Lewis’s missing money, Joan’s missing husband and the unknown father of Joan’s child. In all these cases, the person most likely to know the answer is dead – or in Richard’s case, possibly dead but certainly out of contact. Now, who’s the only person we haven’t spoken to yet out of those we know had dealings with Joan before her death?’

Cradock thought for a while, his face showing the intense concentration he was applying to the task. Suddenly his frown eased.

‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘That medium lady, Madame Zara. You mean you think she can get in touch with some of those dead people and turn up some evidence for us?’

Jago already regretted his attempt to cultivate Cradock’s mind.

‘I most certainly do not. What do you take me for? That sort of stuff’s for gullible fools – but those mediums are experts in reading people.’

‘Reading people?’

‘Yes, it’s one of their techniques. They ask you questions that could apply to anyone, then they use whatever you say to convince you that they know something about you. I’m just wondering whether she worked that trick on Joan when they had the seance that Beryl told us about – the one that Audrey took her to. I don’t like these people, but I’ll take evidence from anyone if it’ll help us find out who murdered Joan Lewis.’

CHAPTER THIRTY

‘Can you see number 77 yet?’ Jago asked over the noise of the engine.

‘Not yet, sir,’ Cradock replied. ‘Must be down the far end, I reckon.’

Jago drove to the end of Eleanor Road and parked the Riley at the kerbside, facing the green expanse of West Ham Park.

‘Nice place to live,’ he said, turning the engine off. ‘All those trees, grass, fresh air. Pity about the anti-aircraft gun, but I don’t suppose the estate agents mention that. Let’s see if Madame Zara’s at home. If she’s that gifted, she should be expecting us.’

They walked the short distance back towards number 77, a neat little terraced house with a green front door. A smart maroon-and-black saloon car was parked outside it. Jago’s knock at the door was answered by a man in his sixties with extravagant whiskers and an equally extravagant waistcoat under his grey jacket. As Jago took in the man’s appearance the word ‘flamboyant’ came to mind.

‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Jago, showing his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’re looking for a lady called Madame Zara.’

‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Come in, gentlemen.’ He ushered them into the living room.

‘And you are?’ asked Jago.

‘Ballantyne’s the name, Greville Ballantyne. What’s it about?’

‘We’re investigating the death of a young lady called Joan Lewis. We’ve been told she attended a seance conducted by Madame Zara with her mother-in-law, Mrs Audrey Lewis, in connection with the whereabouts of the deceased’s husband, Richard.’

‘I see. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch her.’

He left the room, and Jago took in the surroundings. What he saw reminded him of a museum, or perhaps a film set. It was tastefully decorated, but in a particularly turn-of-the-century style. A couple of framed music hall