Murder by vote, p.19
Murder by Vote, page 19
“Thank you for your cooperation, Mr MacDonald. We will have a word with your storeman, then be on our way.”
“You will find him in the building at the side of the house. I hope you catch the devil who did this, Inspector.”
Charlie exchanged a glance with DI Wallace. Would Fergus MacDonald be so eager for the culprit to be punished if he knew his own son was a suspect? Frankly, by the look of the man, his son’s arrest might be a death blow.
They left to the sound of a hacking cough, the sight of a blood-stained handkerchief, and the memory of a pallid, trembling old man.
New Roads
“Must be hard for a successful man like Fergus MacDonald to be so ill,” Wallace remarked, as they walked around the side of the house to the office. “He was more forthcoming that I expected.”
“Mr Patterson sounds like a paragon of virtue compared to Lennox MacDonald. He is due back today, after two days out of town. He was also away the day the first bomb was delivered.”
“Thanks goodness. One less potential suspect to worry about. I’m eager to get away from here, so we can focus on Lennox MacDonald. The more I hear of him, the less I like it.”
As they rounded the corner, they saw a tall, muscular man coming towards them from the stables at the fast lope of a busy man. He wore a long canvas duster coat, splattered with mud, and sweat-stained leggings, with saddlebags slung over his shoulder. When he came closer, Charlie could see two-day-old stubble, weary eyes, and the wide-legged gait of a man who is used to long hours on a horse.
Nevertheless, Patterson was already stretching his hand out for a handshake as he neared them, his open smile rendering a rugged face attractive. “Good morning, gentlemen, can I help you?”
“I’m Detective Inspector Wallace.”
The man pumped Wallace’s hand with the vigour typical of a country man. “John Patterson, at your service.”
Charlie found himself returning the smile, which was one of those genial smiles that immediately set a man at ease. With a start, he realised that this man was the husband of Grace’s neighbour, Mrs Abigail Patterson, who had been forthright in her attempts to push Grace into the arms of a wealthy gentleman. The prim and proper Mrs Patterson seemed an unlikely match for him.
“We are here about Mrs Creswell,” Wallace said.
The smile faltered and dropped away. “Mrs Creswell?”
“Mr Patterson, I had quite forgotten that you have been out of town. I’m terribly sorry to have to inform you that Mrs Creswell died yesterday.”
Patterson stared at him for a few moments, before his face cleared. “Oh, you must mean old Mrs Creswell. For a moment there, I thought our Mrs Creswell must have had an accident. Violet did say her mother-in-law was very ill. She hasn’t been able to come to work lately because of it. How terribly sad for her.”
“I’m afraid it is Mrs Violet Creswell I am referring to. She was killed in an explosion at Choral Hall yesterday.”
“An explosion? A gas leak?”
“Dynamite.”
“Dynamite? I ... I don’t know what to say. How shocking. Poor Abigail will be devastated. I wonder if she knows. Choral Hall, you say? I think my wife may have been there yesterday morning. An explosion ...”
In Charlie’s experience, people shocked with unexpected news often reacted with a disjointed outpouring of words, as if all their thoughts were jumbled, one on top of the other, until they reached the single thought that mattered the most. He waited, and it came.
“Abigail! My wife ... is she–?”
Wallace laid a hand on his shoulder. “Mrs Patterson is unharmed, although she did witness the incident from the street. Mrs Creswell was the only fatality.”
Patterson jigged on the spot like a horse eager to be let loose. “I must go home straight away. My wife was fond of Mrs Creswell. And to be present at such a terrible scene, without me by her side to comfort her.”
Wallace guided him by the arm towards the office. “She had the support of friends, Mr Patterson. We must beg a few minutes of your time to answer some vital questions. You would want the perpetrator to be caught quickly, I am sure.”
Patterson subsided. “Yes, yes, of course. My apologies, Mrs Creswell’s death has come as a shock. What do you need to know?”
“We are investigating all businesses that use dynamite, blasting caps and black powder. I trust you keep a sharp eye on your inventory?”
“Of course. I’ll get our storeman onto it immediately.”
The office was quiet. The only sign of life was a man with his feet on a desk, reading the Otago Daily Times. He removed his boots from the furniture at the sight of Mr Patterson, but showed no signs of panic at being caught out. Patterson was clearly no tyrant as a boss.
“Have you heard about the bomb, John? Shocking business.” The man caught sight of the policemen and straightened his back. “Excuse me, sirs, didn’t see you there.”
Patterson slung his saddlebags over a chair and stretched his muscles. “Bert, these men are from the police. They are checking whether any of our explosives are missing. Dynamite cartridges, blast caps, fuse, black powder – anything explosive.”
“There’s been nothing signed out in the last ten days, Mr Patterson. Most of the current work is finishing work – laying gravel on the finished sub-surface and such like – so there has been no need for dynamite.”
“Would you please check the inventory anyway, Bert.”
The other man got up and disappeared out of the office.
“Won’t it take a while to count the stock?” Wallace asked.
“No. We have a tight system for managing stores. Boxes locked away and opened one at a time, and so on. You were interested in black powder as well as the dynamite cartridges, is that right?”
“Have you not read about an earlier incident, involving an explosive device made from black powder?”
Patterson dropped into a chair behind a tidy desk, gesturing them to take a seat too. “I have been busy of late, trying to get the inland roading projects finished before winter sets in. I rarely have time to read the newspaper. My wife is a saint to put up with all my absences.”
“Also a minor incident last Saturday involving firecrackers, which caused a horse to bolt, injuring a lady,” Charlie added.
Patterson jerked slightly. “Firecrackers?”
“You have heard of the incident, Mr Patterson?”
“No. It’s nothing, a trivial coincidence.”
“I need to hear it, all the same,” Wallace said.
“We had been talking about firecrackers last week. Honestly, it is nothing. My wife and her brother tease each other about the pranks they got up to as children. Apparently, Lennox stole a bit of black powder and gave the cook a fright. An exploding chicken. Silly really, but it must have been quite amusing to the children.” He caught the look on their faces. “A dead and plucked chicken, not a live one, and only enough powder to make a small bang. Their mother was furious, of course. I gather their father thought it a grand joke.”
“Was Mr Lennox MacDonald a bit of a wild lad, do you think, Mr Patterson?”
“I wouldn’t care to speculate on my wife’s brother. Many young lads enjoy the odd prank, as I’m sure you know.”
“Lennox was here for the Directors’ meeting, we understand,” Charlie said.
“Yes. That was all about the business. The chicken incident was recalled at the family luncheon after the meeting. Lennox had rather a lot to drink, I’m sorry to say. He made some rather tasteless jokes about firecrackers being the very thing to teach self-righteous troublemakers a lesson.”
“Did he mention any particular troublemakers?”
“Oh no, I don’t think so. Merely foolish bluster, if you ask me. We try not to encourage him, especially when he has been drinking.” Patterson paused. “Now I come to think on it, he was rather scathing of temperance activists. His unpleasant jibes were in poor taste, given the fact my wife and I are strong advocates of temperance.”
“Lennox MacDonald arrived late, I gather,” Charlie said.
“No more than usual.” Patterson was showing signs of agitation, or perhaps he was not a man who could sit still for long.
“Could Lennox have accessed the explosives storehouse?”
“The only people who have access to the explosives storehouse are myself, as overall manager of operations, the three works’ foremen, and the storeman.”
“Is there a spare key?”
“Locked away in the safe in the back office. The explosives store is in an isolated spot, away from the house, naturally. We are meticulous in keeping our records, as required. I am sure you will find that everything is in order.”
Bert arrived back red-faced and quivering. “We’re short, Mr Patterson.”
Patterson rose from his chair so fast it toppled backwards. “We cannot be, Bert. None of the foremen have been here. Check again.”
“I did, twice. We’re short two packets of black powder, fuses, and half a dozen cartridges of dynamite and detonators. None of it signed out.”
Patterson gripped the edge of his desk with enough force to turn his fingers white. He drew in a deep breath and let it out slowly. “Do me a favour, Bert. Check again,” he said, in the same politely calm tone one might use to ask for the salt to be passed.
Charlie and Wallace exchanged a glance. Patterson was the type of man you’d want around you in a crisis. Fergus was a lucky man to have such a son-in-law, especially with a son like Lennox. Bert headed off without a word.
“Who had access to the spare key in the safe, Mr Patterson?” Wallace asked, in an equally calm voice.
“Only myself, my wife and Mrs Creswell. My father-in-law too, but in practice he is rarely in the office. Sadly, his health is not good. He has not been involved in the day to day running of the business for some time.”
“And the storeman and works’ foremen?” Charlie asked.
“They don’t have access to the safe. We run a large operation, and as such we hold substantial sums of cash.”
“Mrs Creswell is the typist, is she not, yet she has a key?”
“She is – was – much more than that. She does all manner of office work, such as sending out invoices and notifying me of expenses to be paid. She has a splendid head for figures, like my wife. Our bookkeeper left a few months ago. Useless man, I was happy to see him go. My wife stepped into the breach. Supposed to be a temporary arrangement of course, but between her and Mrs Creswell, the work was done in no time. I tried to convince my wife it was not appropriate for a lady to work, but, to own the truth, I think she enjoyed it. It didn’t take much of her time and she already knew everything about the business.”
“How so?”
Patterson’s gaze drifted up and sideways and his expression softened, recalling happy memories. “She was born to it, Inspector. I don’t mind admitting I was astounded that Abigail MacDonald ever looked twice at me. I worshipped her – what man wouldn’t – but she could have had any man she desired. It is no false modesty to confess that it was a large step for me from works’ foreman to manager of the entire operation after our marriage. She was beside me every step of the way. My wife is a true MacDonald, devoted to this company, in a way Lennox could never be.”
Patterson’s modesty and devotion to his wife made Charlie like the man all the more. The contrast between him and his brother-in-law could not have been starker. “Lennox is still a director and shareholder in the company, despite that, isn’t he, Mr Patterson?”
“Yes, of course. There is no ill will on either side, I assure you. Lennox is happy to pursue his other interests and we are proud to run this company. I consider myself the most fortunate of men, Inspector, in work, love and home life. No man could ask for more.”
“Fortunate, indeed,” Charlie agreed. “May I ask where Mrs Creswell worked?”
“There is a smaller room along the corridor.” Patterson pointed at the inner door. “We cannot have the ladies working in here, with gentlemen and workmen about. The safe is in that room too.”
Charlie could see Bert striding their way. “I’ll go and have a look for myself, while you talk to the storeman. You ought to tell him about Mrs Creswell, Mr Patterson. From his attitude earlier, I suspect he does not know that she was the bombing victim.” His concern was part compassion, part desire to have time in the back office away from Patterson’s scrutiny.
Mr Patterson’s instinct was all for compassion. He hurried to meet Bert at the door, as Charlie slipped out the back.
The rear room was filled with two small desks and a large Chubb safe. It took Charlie less than a minute to find the key to the safe hidden in Mrs Patterson’s desk and only a little longer to find a second key in Mrs Creswell’s domain. The safe contained a stack of banknotes, important documents and keys, presumably to the explosives store. Charlie locked the safe again and returned the key to its hiding place.
He turned his attention to Mrs Creswell’s desk, the top of which held only a stationery tray, a fine porcelain teacup and saucer, and a large case. He removed the cover to reveal a shiny new typewriting machine. It looked hopelessly inefficient to his eye, but the machines were spreading like wildfire, so he supposed they must be quick once one got the hang of it. He hoped he would never have to master the beast – all those little keys were not made for hands like his.
A partially complete letter sat in the roller at the top, requesting a list of supplies from a shipping agent. He read it quickly, noting the neat, evenly spaced letters. It was certainly an improvement in terms of legibility over most of the handwriting he had to decipher.
Charlie switched his attention to the filing drawers arranged beside the safe, flicking through a few files at random. In the short time he had, he got the sense of a business managed with an impressive degree of order and efficiency. The accounts were enumerated in a neat, clear hand in precise columns, totalled with care at the bottom of each page. The roading construction business was generating a robust income, if rather up and down over time, but also high expenses. Thus, the business was successful and growing, but not especially profitable.
The door to the front office opened, leaving him enough time to shut the filing draw and return to the desk, before the footsteps reached the end of the corridor.
“Was there something you wanted to see...?” Patterson was struggling to recall the name of this silent second policeman, but Charlie didn’t enlighten him.
“I only wanted to see where Mrs Creswell worked, sir. She was acquainted with a friend, so I feel touched by her passing. A fine woman, by all accounts.”
“She was. We shall miss her. My wife most of all.” Patterson reached out to touch the handle of the teacup, twisting it slightly on its saucer so it faced the empty chair of Mrs Creswell’s desk.
“Extraordinary devices, these typewriting machines. This one appears to be near new.”
“What? Oh, yes, only the best for our Mrs Creswell. She can type so fast, I swear her fingers are a blur. I don’t know how she does it. I tried it once – hopeless.” Patterson held up a scarred, calloused hand with fingers as thick as sausages.
“Have you kept the old typewriting machine by any chance? I have an acquaintance interested in purchasing one, but he cannot afford a new one.”
“I’m not sure what we did with the old one. My wife probably gave it to one of her charities. No, wait, I think she said Lennox took it for the brewery.”
“Does her brother come by the office often?”
“No and we don’t encourage it.”
“And why is that, Mr Patterson?”
“I ... I hardly like to say.”
Wallace entered the room behind him. The three men filled the small space with their bulk. “You are obligated to speak, Mr Patterson, or you may be charged with obstruction of justice.”
Patterson backed into a corner. “We had noticed sums of money missing from the safe on several occasions. Always when Lennox had visited. The only other people with access to the safe are beyond reproach. Mrs Creswell, myself, my wife and Old Mac.”
“Mr Lennox is an independently wealthy man, is he not? I understand his father purchased the brewery on his behalf when he ceased his work at MacDonald Roading. He also receives a share of the profits from the construction business.”
“We return most of the earnings into the business. One needs to invest to grow. But yes, my brother-in-law certainly has a healthy income. He also has expensive tastes.”
“Expensive tastes?”
“The usual for a man of his inclinations. Fine liquor, fancy women, gambling. Only rumours, you must understand. We do not socialise in the same circles.”
“The black sheep of the family?”
Mr Patterson did not reply, but his shrug was answer enough.
“Why have you not tackled him about the theft of money?”
“To be honest, we cannot be absolutely sure it was him. All the invoices and receipts are in order, but the outgoings on wages are difficult to keep track of, as the workers on site are constantly coming and going. Itinerant labour is a real problem, especially if there is any hint of a new gold discovery or some new business venture offering better wages and less arduous work. And, naturally, the work itself is up and down. More workers are needed when tunnelling is required or hard rock is encountered, often at short notice.”
“So, how do you arrange it, Mr Patterson?”
“We keep plenty of cash in the safe, topping it up as necessary when the payroll is due. I take the pay out to each site personally, with enough extra to cover the comings and goings of any extra workers. The site managers are responsible for keeping a tally of numbers and hours. Wait a moment and I’ll show you.”
Patterson returned with the saddlebags, taking out a battered logbook and opening it to show Charlie. “See here? The site foreman fills in the number of men and hours. I check it against work sheets and calculate the pay. We both sign to show the cash has been delivered.”
