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‘You’re welcome,’ she said. ‘Don’t you stop up too late over your books, young man. You’ve got to get your sleep. Supper will be shepherd’s pie, and will be served in about an hour.’
He gave her another smile, and sat back to think.
What was the evidence against Blackwell? He should divide it between the arguable and the unarguable. There was no time to waste on the latter.
Unarguably, Hinton had been shot sometime between nine and midnight five weeks ago. It had been with his own gun, and at his lodgings just off the Pentonville Road. The gun had no fingerprints on it.
Roman Blackwell was a student of life and especially of its quirks. Unarguable was the fact that he had lent Hinton a very large sum of money and that Hinton had not repaid it, and indeed had not even paid interest on it.
Blackwell could not account for where he had been at the time of Hinton’s death. His claim was that he had been hired, in his capacity as private enquiry agent, to follow a man suspected of extortion, but since he had taken some trouble to wear a disguise, no one could swear to having seen him.
Daniel finished his tea and carried his tray back to the kitchen, then went upstairs to reread all he had on the Blackwell case. He stopped for dinner, and resumed again.
At midnight, he was still reading, without finding anything useful. Finally, he put the last piece of paper back on the table. He hated letting Blackwell down, the more so because Blackwell had trusted him, even though Daniel had never before tried a case for anything bigger than petty theft. He was aware that Blackwell might know perfectly well how Daniel felt about being trusted, and used those emotions to make him take the case. He didn’t believe Blackwell would manipulate him like that, but it had occurred to him. Blackwell was a master at reading people, and using them if he wanted to. His history was full of such incidents.
But there was no pretence in Blackwell’s fear. His hanging, if it happened – and it would, if Daniel could not save him – would be very real indeed. Daniel felt ice cold at the thought of it, even in this warm room with its fireplace, bookcases, and polished wooden desk. One gaslight burned softly, shedding a yellow light. It was an old house. Generations of people had been comfortable here. The pictures on the wall were old, but pleasant. One day he must get around to bringing some of his own, something he really liked – beautiful, not just pretty. Bare trees in winter, perhaps? A ragged sky, wind-driven clouds – something that held his mind and stirred it, not merely was agreeable to the eye.
Think! No time to sleep.
He imagined Blackwell taking the gun and loading it. He went through the motions of it in his mind, opening the breach, picking up the shell, carefully placing it, then closing the chamber, and then wiping it clean to take off the marks of his fingers. You couldn’t load a gun with gloves on: too clumsy. Perhaps you’d use a cotton cloth; better still, a leather chamois.
He froze. Had the killer remembered to wipe the cartridge case too? His fingermarks would be on that!
Ottershaw! The fingerprint expert who had examined the gun. Nice man. Clever. Surely, he had thought of that? Or had he even been given the shell casing? At the scene, the police had collected the evidence tied to the crime. Had they even thought of looking for the casing?
Daniel stood up. It was after midnight, but time was too short to wait until tomorrow. He put on his coat and went to the door. He must leave quietly, and not disturb the whole household, certainly not Mrs Portiscale. She would come down to enquire.
It took him nearly half an hour to get to Ottershaw’s house, even though there was very little traffic on the road. And then he had to ring the bell three times before the door finally opened to show Ottershaw himself, in a dressing robe, blinking in the hall light, his hair standing in all directions.
‘I’m sorry, Dr Ottershaw,’ Daniel said, stepping inside and apologising again. ‘I do know what time it is – but I have an idea, and Roman Blackwell’s life might rest on it.’
‘Really?’ Ottershaw looked at him doubtfully. He was a tall, thin man, almost as tall as Daniel, and was wearing pyjamas and one slipper.
Daniel realised how foolish he would look if Ottershaw had thought of testing the shell casing. He was an expert, so probably he would have. Daniel had woken him at one o’clock in the morning for nothing.
‘Well, what is it?’ Ottershaw asked.
‘I was thinking about loading a gun,’ Daniel said, closing the front door behind him.
Ottershaw’s eyebrows shot up. ‘My dear boy, please . . .’
‘No.’ Daniel blushed at his clumsiness. ‘I mean, what would you touch?’
‘The butt, probably the trigger guard, probably the barrel. But there were no prints on any of them.’
‘And the shell casing?’
‘Ah! They only brought me the shell casing afterwards. Different young constable. I see what you mean.’ His face was suddenly filled with enthusiasm. ‘Quite possibly, the casing – in fact, for certain. If he did not wear gloves to handle the gun itself, then he would not to handle the shell. Awkward things, gloves, for fine work. I cannot even write my name legibly with gloves on.’ He looked rueful. ‘Or without, for that matter,’ he added, backing into the hall and towards the stairs. ‘Let me get dressed, and we will have a look. I work in my cellar, you know. I had it converted into my laboratory. Wonderful places, cellars. Nobody bothers you. Would offer you a cup of tea, but we must get to work, dear boy. Wouldn’t actually know how to make one, and I’m not wakening the butler. Lives on the top floor, and sleeps like the dead. Just give me a few minutes.’
Actually, it took him ten minutes and he found Daniel still standing in the hall when he returned.
‘Oh dear. Should have asked you to wait in the sitting room,’ he said. ‘But the f
ire is out anyway. Not really comfortable. Now come with me, and we’ll see what we can find.’
He led the way to a cellar door, switched on an electric light, and led the way down the fairly steep steps.
Daniel followed, and was immediately in a different world. There were glass jars, tubes, and retorts everywhere. All kinds of instruments were laid out in cases. Bottles with carefully labelled substances made it for the moment look like a sweet shop. There were various pieces of equipment, most of which Daniel could not name. And in a wide space by itself, at the far end, a wood-burning, round-bellied stove. It still retained some heat and, although below ground, the room was neither chilly nor damp.
