Within minutes she reached the drab stone building that served as both constabulary office and jail. She leaned her bicycle against the wall by the front entrance and went inside.
She was greeted by the smell of carbolic soap and bicarbonate of soda, neither of which was entirely successful at masking the stench of urine and sweat that seemed ingrained into the tiled walls and wooden benches. There was a broad, high desk in the lobby, behind which stood an aged policeman with an impressive set of whiskers. He regarded Hecate over his half-moon spectacles.
“Can I be of assistance, miss?” he asked.
“I am here to see Inspector Winter,” Hecate told him, removing her gloves.
“He is expecting you?”
“I do not have an appointment, no, but I have information of great value. I believe he will wish to hear it.”
“Is that so?” The sergeant picked up a pencil and licked the end of it, opening a broad ledger and selecting a fresh page. “If you would be so good as to tell me what this information is in relation to, I will make a note of it, and see that it reaches the inspector.”
“Oh … I’m afraid that will not do at all.”
“Will it not?” he questioned, pencil remaining poised, gray bushy eyebrows raised.
Hecate tried to imagine putting her theory into words that could be entered into a ledger without sounding like the wild imaginings of a silly young woman. She knew she had to speak to the man himself.
“I am here in my capacity as assistant librarian at the cathedral,” she said.
The police officer received this information blankly.
“I understand that Joe Colwall is here in the cells. I should be grateful for the opportunity to speak with him.”
The sergeant frowned. “Members of the public are not permitted in the cells. Unless, of course, they have been arrested.” He allowed himself a small smile at his own joke.
Hecate would not give up.
“The matter in question is in regard to the…” She hesitated, choosing her words carefully. “… desecration of the crypt,” she said, hoping to imbue the subject with sufficient drama to raise its importance.
Still the sergeant remained unmoved.
Hecate glanced over her shoulder. Even though there was no one else in the reception area, she leaned forward, lowering her voice to a whisper, as if to suggest what she had to say was highly sensitive information.
“It has also to do with the death of Sir Richard Thurston, God rest his soul, who was a close friend of my father, Edward Cavendish.”
She could not tell, and might never know, which of these names was the key that unlocked his resolve, but he straightened up, regarded her closely for a long moment, and then set down his pencil. He walked around the end of his desk and held open the door leading to the inner sanctum of the building.
“If you would step this way, Miss Cavendish,” he said.
Hecate needed no second bidding. She quickly crossed the threshold and allowed herself to be guided down a narrow corridor to a small room at the rear, where she was left to wait. There was an empty desk, a table lamp, two hard chairs, and a map of Herefordshire on the wall. The single window was too high to facilitate a view out, and the thick bars across it only allowed a modicum of light to find its way in. She decided this might once have been a cell, and the thought made her shiver. A few minutes later, the door opened and Inspector Winter appeared, wearing his familiar brown bowler and heavy tweed jacket.
“Miss Cavendish, this is an unexpected pleasure.”
“I appreciate your finding the time to see me.”
“Sergeant Highcliffe informs me you wish to speak of Sir Richard’s murder, and also that you wish to speak to one of the prisoners we are currently holding here. Can this be correct?”
“Quite correct. I have a theory regarding the terrible murders that have taken place in the city and to confirm it, I should like to interview Mr. Colwall. Briefly. If I may.”
The inspector took in this information, his face as inscrutable as that of his officer, so that Hecate began to wonder if they were trained to remain impassive, whatever the provocation. At last he gestured toward the chairs.
“Won’t you sit, please?” he asked. When she did so, he took the seat opposite and leaned forward on the desk, his hands clasped lightly in front of him. “Well now, what is it that you have to tell me that could not be relayed through my highly capable and trustworthy sergeant?”
“I believe that Joe Colwall is connected to the death of Sir Richard Thurston.”
“You think him a double murderer?”
“I did not say that he killed him, only that Sir Richard’s murder and Joe Colwall’s violence are linked. And both are connected to the desecration of the tombs in the crypt.”
The inspector let out a low whistle. “I see now why you feared confusing my sergeant.”
“I am not here to convince you of outlandish theories.”
“I am pleased to hear it.”
“I would prefer that you come to an understanding of the way things are through your own logical and, I’m certain, highly efficient means.”
“So efficient that you felt compelled to assist me?”
“I wish only to present you with evidence that might otherwise escape your notice. I do not believe, as I understand you do, that Joe Colwall is insane. I believe him to be working under the control of another, let’s put it that way. Would you be so good as to take me to him?”
“Members of the public are not permitted in the cells…”
“… unless they have been arrested. Yes, Sergeant Highcliffe has already shared that witticism with me.”
“The point is, Miss Cavendish, the cells are no place for the innocent. Those incarcerated have a tendency to show the very worst side of themselves. I cannot fathom what you hope to achieve by viewing a criminal confined.”
