Читать книгу The Adventures of Thadeus Burke Vol 1 - Terry Minahan - Страница 4

It was just two weeks after Burke & Co had commenced operations that James Pooley had been introduced to the Lloyd’s Underwriting Room. He was authorized to transact business as a ‘substitute’ to Thadeus. Working brokers, not themselves underwriting members, were allowed in the Room on a substitute’s ticket, which James had begun to flourish proudly at the waiters who guarded to entrance to the Underwriting Room. His name appeared on the broker’s list held by the Caller, who stood at the rostrum and called the names of brokers who were required to meet somebody, usually a colleague.

The ‘call’ consisted of the company name followed by the name of the individual required to respond to the call. Thadeus’ was ‘Burke–Burke’, which came out of the Caller’s voice box rather akin to an attack of indigestion. James’ call had a similar start followed by a ‘Pooley’ that appeared to include at least a dozen ‘o’s.

These exaggerations were necessary in order that the music, as it were, of the Caller’s voice attracted the attention of the required broker above the general hubbub of the Room.

For the most part James had accompanied Thadeus, watching his technique and being introduced to the underwriters that underwrote the Burke & Co account. Occasionally he was let loose with a simple endorsement for an underwriter with whom he was acquainted. On one such occasion he was strolling through the Room when a chap on one of the marine boxes, with which James was not familiar, shouted his name out.

‘Jim Pooley!’ the voice exclaimed.

‘Jimmy Payne!’ responded James, recognizing an old school friend. With red hair, freckles and large spectacles, it was not difficult. He had one of those ‘young’ faces and could have just walked out of the physics lab as a member of class 5A.

J Payne stood up and shook hands with J Pooley.

‘I thought that you were up at Cambridge,’ questioned Pooley.

‘I’ve been up there and come back down,’ responded James Payne. ‘It’s a long story, or a short story, whichever one you want. I’ll tell you all about it over a beer some time.’

‘Oh right!’ said James Pooley, adding, ‘So here you are working at Lloyd’s?’

James Payne smiled. ‘The underwriter is my uncle,’ explaining everything, ‘What are you up to?’

Pooley explained his position with Burke & Co, advising his school chum that the company did not appear to have any business with Payne & Others, as they seemed to be only marine business.

The young Payne challenged this immediately. ‘We write a small incidental non-marine book and - ’ he paused for effect - ‘I am underwriting a small motor account.’

The two young men had been keen motor vehicle buffs at STOGS – short for St Olave’s Grammar School – following all the new makes and models with the enthusiasm of the train spotters that flood the railway stations.

‘Crikey, that’s exciting!’ exclaimed Pooley.

‘Do you have any motor business?’ questioned Payne.

‘We have only existed for four weeks, but we will have the boss’s Bentley, and his sister’s Morris Cowley when they come up for renewal. But I do have the boss’s permission to try and establish a motor portfolio, and as you know, if you can remember, my dad has a small garage/workshop.’

‘Oh right! How is he getting on? Because one of the things I am working on is setting up a register of motor repair agents whom we can trust for dealing with claims.’

‘He is still underneath the arches in Peckham,’ replied Pooley, ‘but business is good, and he is looking at some new premises out in North Essex, an old aircraft field with some huts and hangers.’

‘Crikey! That really is expansion.’ exclaimed Payne

‘It is because he may be working on some buses. Putting roofs on “Ks” and “NSs”, fitting pneumatic tyres, and that sort of thing.’ Jim did not need to explain to Jimmy the different types of omnibus. He was sure that the underwriter was familiar with the Bs, the Ks, the recent S-Type and the new NS as they had followed the development of the London General Omnibus Company, and their vehicles, from the time when Sydney Pooley, James’s father, used to drive them to school on the Brown and Cream Special.

At that moment two young brokers arrived at the box to see Jimmy Payne.

‘Crikey!’ he exclaimed, ’I’ve got a queue. What about lunch later today – 1.00 pm at Simpson’s?’

‘Fine, see you there,’ answered James, and he set off to find Thadeus.

James approached the rostrum, to call ‘Burke–Burke’ but before he reached the front of the queue of brokers seeking the caller’s attention, he saw Thadeus’ top hat held high above his head about six boxes away. A ‘box’ is a large desk with a set of benches down each side, rather like a luncheon booth, indeed they are a remnant of the old Lloyd’s coffee room. At these desks sit the underwriter, his deputy – who usually sits opposite the underwriter – and some staff, quite often these are youngsters who enter the lines written by the underwriter or his deputy. At the other end of the box from the underwriter might sit a senior member of the syndicate staff engaged in claims settlement.

As Thadeus was probably the only person in the room wearing a top hat it was easy to spot him. On this occasion Thadeus had spotted James on his way to the rostrum and had simply raised his hat confident that eventually James would come over to him even though he continued his conversation with an underwriter.

As James approached Thadeus was leaving the box and saying goodbye to the underwriter.

‘I am very grateful, sir, for the time that you have allowed me, and the careful attention that you have given to my proposals,’ said Thadeus

‘No luck there then!’ said James as they moved out of hearing range of the box.

‘No. Damned man will not write any cotton mills.’

James enlightened Thadeus about his fortuitous meeting with young Payne.

Thadeus was delighted, advising James to get a policy wording and, if possible, a set of rates from the underwriter. ‘I think they have different premium rates for each type of vehicle and I think they have different rates for different areas of the country.’ Thadeus continued. ‘I have a lunch date with that CID inspector. He is entertaining me at the George & Vulture, so I am only a few yards away if you should need me.’

They continued together with their broking work. By 12.50 pm the cotton mill had 70 per cent in written lines, 25 per cent from the leader and three lines of 15 per cent, and 12½ per cent in promised lines, a 7½ per cent and a 5 per cent – a total of 82½ per cent. Thadeus would need at least three or maybe four extra underwriters to finish his slip. It would not be easy and he might end up scrabbling around for 2½ per cent lines. As a last resort one of the 15 per cent lines might increase a bit.

They walked up Cornhill together to their luncheon dates.

Thadeus had not spoken to Inspector Johnny Jackson since the Whelan affair, other than accepting his invitation to lunch. At the George & Vulture the inspector was inside the doorway checking his table booking. They shook hands and said hello, took their seats and exchanged some general banter with Lucy, their waitress, a bright young thing, wearing the full ceremonial dress of her trade, including the strange, and useless, little white hat.

A decent bottle of red wine was already opened on the table. Both ordered a steak – the sirloin had been recommended by Lucy – with bubble and squeak and cabbage. No starter as they agreed that they would have spotted dick for afters.

‘How is the world of crime?’ asked Thadeus.

‘Nothing serious in the city, but around the country there is much unrest following the strike compromise on “Red Friday”. Many of the militant miners are already being cruelly victimized by the employers and that is leading to violence and theft; a very sad situation.’

‘I agree,‘ replied Thadeus. ’I think that the TUC will just sell off the miners to help the Labour Party.’

‘There certainly appears to be a lot of underhand political shenanigans,’ posited the inspector and, sensing that Thadeus was about to launch himself into an economics debate, wisely changed the subject. ‘So, how is the world of insurance?’

‘Do I detect an unusual leaning towards the left-wing in a policeman?’ asked Thadeus, refusing to be deflected by the new question.

‘No, I would not regard myself as in any way a political animal, but I do have a passionate belief in justice, as I think every policeman should. And I feel that quite often privileged social groups within our country have held on to what they see as economic advantages which act as a catalyst for justifiable reaction. Whereas the greater social and economic justice to all people would be of the greater advantage to all classes of society. Look at the unnecessary suppression of Jews, Catholics and, more recently, women. And, before you comment, I am not going to discuss the Land Question,’ harangued Jackson.

‘You have certainly done your homework on me!’ responded Thadeus with a smile. ‘Burke & Co are progressing as well as can be expected, as one of the directors might say.’

‘A doctor on the board?’

‘Not quite, my sister is in her final year at Edinburgh, although at present she is working in a hospital down here.’ Then, changing tack Thadeus went on. ‘There are rumours in the Room of one, or maybe more, underwriters leaving some of their figures out of the audit. Are you involved in looking into that?’

‘I have been shown evidence of substantial financial guarantee business that seems to be avoiding the watchful eye of the committee, but it is not a subject for general discussion,’ said Jackson sotto voce.

‘Well, if I can be of any help, let me know,’ said Thadeus.

‘I thought you were busy solving the Sir Percy Dennington case for me.’

‘I’ve made a few enquiries,’ defended Thadeus. ‘I know nothing of the alleged crime, but I now know more about the deceased. The fourth son of Sir Henry Dennington, inherited the baronetcy following the death of all three of his elder brothers in the war. Perhaps there is a crime there? ‘

‘One of the brothers was “missing, believed died in action”,’ corrected Jackson.

‘If he appeared suddenly, he would be ahead of Percy in the title and money stakes anyway, so there is no motive for murder’. I had met Sir Percy in the course of business. He was not a very prominent member of the Manning’s syndicate; ‘third man’ on the box, handling endorsements and some simple underwriting. I had shown him a piece of bloodstock business, and I was aware that he was interested in thoroughbred breeding. I think he personally owned a couple of horses. ‘I understand that he drank a poison. Can you give me more details of that?’

‘Arsenic,’ came the simple reply. ‘Drank it in a glass of Drambuie. Arsenic can taste quite sweet, so a glass of Drambuie would be ideal cover. But for a fatal dose you need quite a large amount. With a small amount you get sick, symptoms vary according to the dose, but generally there is vomiting and diarrhoea. The bottle carried a huge amount and the one, or possibly two, large glasses that he consumed was more than enough to finish him off.’

‘Two large glasses of Drambuie is unusual,’ said Thadeus

‘Yes. Either two glasses or the one glass filled to the brim, according to the pathologist. Sir Percy was drinking from a small brandy balloon. That is what I think swung the verdict towards suicide,’ replied Jackson.

‘I quite often use a small brandy balloon for liqueurs. There is a cocktail drink, popular at the Savoy called a “rusty nail”, Drambuie and Whisky. I drink it sometimes with a knob of ice,’ informed Thadeus.

They had finished their steak and were awaiting the pudding, but when Lucy arrived at the table she advised Jackson that he was required urgently on the telephone.

Meanwhile the two James had been enjoying similar fare just round the corner. Steak and kidney pie, or Kate and Sydney as the South London lads called it, also with bubble and squeak. But it was to be followed by cheese and a glass of port.

Jim avoided any reference to Cambridge, which Jimmy clearly wanted forgotten, and they got down to some serious insurance work. The Payne syndicate would grant Burke & Co a binding authority, allowing them to issue certificates of insurance to motor vehicle owners. The syndicate would supply a pad of these certificates and a set of detailed rates for use all over the country. The commission was not high, just 15 per cent, but the underwriter handled all the claims direct with the insured, and so the broker had no work to do in that field, unless there was a problem of course.

‘What excess do you have?’ asked Jim.

‘A standard £5 excess each and every loss for material damage, but no excess on the third party section in respect of bodily injury. That seems to be the market norm. However clients can reduce the premium by carrying an increased excess amount,’ was the reply.

‘Unlimited liability under the Road Traffic Act?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about motorcycles? I ride a Royal Enfield 350cc.’

‘Yes, I write motorcycles, and can do a special deal for your one.’

‘Do you have a bike, or a car?’ enquired James Pooley of his friend.

‘Nothing at the present time. But I have been promised a bonus at the end of the underwriting year, and I intend to get something sporty at that time,’ informed James Payne.

Pooley returned to business. ‘How about horse boxes? Mr Burke is particularly interested in establishing a book of bloodstock business and that might be useful as part of his presentations.’

‘I do not see a problem with that. The only worry would be the loss of tack and rugs at shows or the racecourse, when the box is left unattended. More particularly they drive off and leave a bucket full of brushes, mane-combs and the like behind, or a horse-rug that they had been using to sit on the grass. Then later they report it as stolen.’ Jimmy knew his underwriting!

‘We could probably insert a large excess; say £25.’

‘That would suffice, for a start, but I’ll tell you now that I would keep a close eye on that section of the policy.’

‘What about liability for horses, the property of a third party, killed or injured in an accident? Say a maximum of £500 any one horse.’

‘We could try that. I would prefer half of that limit. And I will need to think about the premium required.’

They selected their cheese from the trolley and ordered two large glasses of the Warre.

‘When could we start?’ asked Jim

‘This afternoon if you like. Uncle Charles will have no problem with Mr Burke; he is a name on our syndicate. It is a pity that you went to STOGS with me rather than Harrow or Eton, but I expect I’ll swing that one,’ Jimmy chuckled.

‘Mr Burke will need to read all the papers and it will be his signature on the documents. Can I pick up a set of this paperwork when we get back to the Room?’

‘No problem!’ advised Jimmy Payne. ‘Now, what about some paperwork for your dad to do some claims work for us?’

‘I think that he will be very interest in the idea. He has had an apprentice working with him for about a year, but he has just recently taken on an experienced man. The new chap worked on bus engines at Camberwell Garage, so I expect that his expenditure has increased. He could probably use any extra income. I’ll talk to Dad at the weekend,’ said Jim Pooley.

Jackson came back to the table, but did not sit down. ‘On your feet, sleuth,’ he said, addressing Thadeus. ‘A Lloyd’s underwriter has just been shot dead in the Room.’

They hurried along the south side of Cornhill, crossed the road and went into the Royal Exchange building. As they bustled along Jackson explained that the dead man was Edward Thomas Thurlow, deputy underwriter to his brother George Thomas Thurlow, and Thadeus was just able to confirm that he knew both of the men and had placed bloodstock business with them.

‘Shot by a communist apparently!’ advised a sceptical Jackson.

‘At what time?’ questioned Thadeus

‘Ten minutes past two – that’s about five minutes ago,’ was the reply.

‘Odd,’ said Thadeus

They walked into the building and up to the ‘barrier’, an archway manned by a waiter at the entrance to the Underwriting Room proper.

A group of people were gathered around the body. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman kneeling beside the dead man, two uniformed Lloyd’s waiters in serious discussion with what looked like staff from the Superintendent of the Room’s office, and a handful of curious watchers.

The police sergeant recognized Jackson and saluted, with a smart ‘sir’, Jackson nodded an acknowledgement. The two kneelers rose and the sergeant introduced Drs Bryce and Ellington. They had been at a meeting with an accident underwriter, who was there in the crowd somewhere, explained the lady.

‘Two shots, both straight through the heart, by the look of it. Death would have been instantaneous,’ she explained.

‘Thanks,’ said Jackson. ‘We’ll need a full statement from each of you, I am afraid. Perhaps you would be good enough to give the constable your names, addresses and telephone numbers. The police doctor will be here in a short time and I would be obliged if you could wait and have a quick word with him. You did not see the actual shooting?’

The younger male doctor spoke. ‘No, we heard the shots as we came down the stairs, but when we reached the scene it was all over “bar the shoutin’” as they say, and there was a lot of that.’ His voice tailed off under a withering look from his more senior colleague.

‘We will wait over there,’ she said, pointing to a column a few feet away. Just next to where Thadeus was standing writing something into a pocket notebook.

Jackson turned to the sergeant who had the waiter ready and waiting.

‘This is Mr Malcolm, he was the waiter on duty at the time,’ explained the sergeant efficiently.

‘I would like the whole story, from the top,’ instructed Jackson.

Thadeus came over and stood in an adjacent position.

Mr Malcolm started his tale. ‘It was just after two o’clock, sir, when Mr Edward Thurlow came up to the barrier from inside the room. He stood for a moment or two deciding which direction he was going to take. Took a couple of steps towards the Bank of England exit, then “Bang!” he was shot by the communist.’

‘How do you know he was a communist?’ asked Jackson.

‘He shouted out, sir, if you will excuse the words used, “You capitalist bastard! Up the workers!” and he threw a red flag over the body.’

Jackson stuck his tongue into his cheek in order to hold back

a smile, Thadeus needed to turn his face away. Definitely a communist, they both thought.

‘Can you describe him?’ questioned Jackson.

‘He was an Orthodox Jew,’ stated Malcolm. Jackson waited for more and Malcolm, realizing this, continued. ‘He wore a long black coat, had a bushy black beard and a black hat,’ he explained, adding, ‘and he wore glasses.’

Again Jackson struggled to hold back a grin, and again Thadeus needed to turn his face away.

Definitely an Orthodox Jew, they both thought.

‘How did he manage to escape?’ Another question from Jackson.

‘There were not many people in the corridor at that time of day and I rushed over to see if I could assist Mr Thurlow. The communist ran down the corridor towards the exit on the Bank of England side. There were two chaps coming the other way carrying large bundles of papers and he pushed them both over, ran out of the doorway, and, as I have been told later, jumped on to the back of a motorcycle and rode off.’

‘Excuse me a moment,’ interrupted Jackson. ‘I need to consult with my colleague. Please wait here, Mr Malcolm,’ and with that he called the sergeant across and led the officer, and Thadeus, some distance from the scene. ‘Before I hear any more evidence about this incident I need an interval,’ he explained. ‘Is it a Jewish communist, a Jew disguised as a communist, a communist disguised as a Jew? Or a disgruntled Name who owns a theatrical costume shop?’

‘It is certainly a bizarre affair,’ commented the sergeant.

‘There could be a more serious aspect to this incident,’ warned Thadeus. ‘There is quite an established group of fascists in London, interested in slandering both Jews and communists. The University of London has been a nucleus for their efforts over the past two or three years, and this affair has a student flavour to it! However, I am of the opinion that their activities would be more convincing.’

‘True!’ said Jackson, ‘that should be taken into consideration.’ He turned to the officer. ‘Have you arranged for more men to come here?’

‘Yes, sir,’ came the response. ‘There should be three extra chaps arriving any minute.’

‘Good. Get the names and addresses of all concerned. You need to be quick about that as the building is beginning to fill up as people return from lunch. Allow those who work here in the building to return to their places; but make sure you know where that is. Ask the Superintendent of the Room if he can find an office nearby for you to use. Then start taking written statements.’

The sergeant nodded and began to walk away but while he was still within earshot Jackson added, ‘As soon as you have the extra men see if any witnesses can be found in the street. Not easy, but there might be someone hanging around expecting to be interviewed.’ He nodded a ‘get on with it’ signal, and the sergeant strode purposely towards the constable.

‘Well, Thadeus, what do you think?’

‘If it had been George Thurlow I would definitely suspect a disgruntled Name; the syndicate has lost a lot of money recently. But it was Edward, it might be something personal. I will make a couple of telephone calls. Meanwhile keep a note of this name.’ Thadeus handed Jackson a piece of paper, torn from his notebook. On it were written three words.

Jackson took the sheet of paper and walked across to the waiter, Mr Malcolm, who was looking strangely naked, having relinquished his red coat and been supplanted in his duties at the barrier by a colleague.

‘Do you know a man named Alfred Tammis Austin?’ he asked.

‘No, sir,’ was the response.

As Jackson turned to set off in the direction of Thadeus, a tall, dignified man wearing a plain dark grey suit and a bowler hat of the same colour confronted him. He carried a rolled umbrella, the handle of which he held up to attract Jackson’s attention. The gentlemen introduced himself, ‘George Thurlow, brother of the poor fellow laying there.’

‘We need to talk,’ said Jackson simply.

‘Yes. Do you mind if we go to my office? It is just round the corner in Finch Lane. I appear to be the centre of attention here, understandable but disconcerting.’

‘Certainly. One moment,’ responded Jackson, then, turning to Thadeus, ‘would you be good enough to tell the sergeant where I have gone?’

‘Certainly,’ replied Thadeus, then to George Thurlow, with a dignified bow of the head, ‘Mr Thurlow.’

Thurlow responded similarly, ‘Thadeus.’

The inspector and the underwriter set off towards the Cornhill exit.

Thadeus advised the police sergeant of Inspector Jackson’s movements, giving him the address of the Thurlow office from memory and the telephone number from his pocket notebook. He decided to return to his own office, crossed Cornhill, looked into Simpson’s – upstairs and down – but James and his lunch date had left. He then went into the George & Vulture, apologized to Lucy for the sudden departure from her table, settled the bill and walked through the alley to his office. ‘Jackson now owes me two lunches,’ he thought.

James was at his desk making notes about the new motor account, the subject that he would discuss with Thadeus at an early opportunity.

Ethel was typing a letter. There were no messages.

Thadeus telephoned his home. ‘Hilton, is Freddie there?’

‘Yes, sir, one moment.’

‘Hello, Thady.’

‘What are you doing?’

‘Reading Fyodor Dostoyevsky’s short stories. They are excellent, much better than his long books. Some of his characters are like oil paintings…’

‘I thought that you were supposed to be swotting Toxic Materials,’ Thadeus interrupted his sister.

‘I have completed that task and am now engaged in well earned recreation,’ she responded.

‘Good,’ he stated decisively. ‘This evening I need a brief lecture on the subject of arsenic.’

‘I thought that we were to attend the theatre to try out my new leg, the pale and slightly withered one, to be encased in trousers,’ she complained.

Two days ago the plaster had been removed from Freddie’s leg and she had taken to wearing trousers and carrying one of Thadeus’ country sticks. The combination gave her the appearance of a music-hall performer. Thadeus feared a visit to the theatre might involve his elder sibling being dragged backstage and admonished for mixing with the clientele.

‘We may be able to fit in a fleeting visit to Oscar Wilde, I suppose,’ he admitted.

‘Good. Arsenic is far too important to be taken seriously!’ quipped the girl.

They said their goodbyes and Thadeus called James into his office.

He informed the young man of the events in the Underwriting Room at lunchtime. Adding that it was not a good afternoon to be insuring a cotton mill.

‘Can we talk about motor insurance,’ James leapt in.

‘Why not,’ said Thadeus, feeling that some light diversion was in order, ‘but I need to make an important ‘phone call first.’

He dialled from the instrument on his desk and spoke to an Algernon Tammis Austin at his home in Kensington. The gentleman was too distressed to hold a conversation and Thadeus found himself talking to a manservant and receiving a brief outline of the afternoon’s tragic events at the house.

Thadeus and James discussed motor insurance until nearly 4.00 pm. The most important aspect being who would do what in the office?

‘I am looking around for a man to handle the policy documentation, of which, hopefully, there will be a mountain soon,’ disclosed Thadeus. ‘You had better get over to the Room and pick up the promised paperwork from your friend Jimmy. I am attending the theatre this evening, so I will leave the office before 5.00 pm.’

‘Shall I take the cotton mill with me?’ asked James,

‘Why not. See what you can do,’ smiled Thadeus, ‘and telephone me at home before you leave.’

‘Yes, sir,’ said James, gathering up his papers from the desk.

‘I have arranged for Hilton to prepare us a small meal before we go to the theatre,’ greeted Freddie. ‘Arsenic granules with a hollandaise sauce.’

‘I think I’ll stick to the theory of poisoning rather than the practice,’ responded Thadeus, pouring himself a glass of white wine from the open bottle.

They sat down to salmon fishcakes with new potatoes and a green salad.

‘I expect you are working on a case with your man Watson, or is it Jackson.’ smiled Freddie. ‘Give me the facts!’

‘Arsenic in a bottle of Drambuie,’ said Thadeus simply.

‘An excellent choice, arsenic can taste a little sweet. Almost certainly it would be arsenic trioxide crystals. They take a time to dissolve. Heating the liquid would speed things up, but you run the risk of over saturation which might lead to sediment forming as the liquid cooled. To be sure I would dose a room-temperature bottle the day before.’

‘How much would you need?’ asked Thadeus.

‘To do the job properly I would recommend half of a gram for each mouthful. That is about double the fatal dose, but you do not want your victim throwing up all over the place and staggering out of the room shouting your name.’

‘Our man drank several mouthfuls, possibly a couple of glasses,’ informed Thadeus.

‘That was extremely obliging of him. It means that you need less arsenic per bottle. But you would need to be sure that he has a good swig. Sitting back and sipping the drink would bring on nausea and warn the victim of danger. Was it a full bottle?’

‘I do not know. Why do you ask that?’ enquired Thadeus.

‘Drambuie bottles are not large but you would still need quite a lot of arsenic to ensure a fatal dose for the victim. Half a bottle equals less arsenic! And if you stand in front of him and say, “Cheers. Down the hatch!” off he goes.’

‘And, if it was suicide?’ suggested Thadeus.

‘Personally I would go for a quarter-full bottle. Ensure that my dose was equal to three quarters of an ounce per dram sit back and say “Goodbye”.’

‘That may well be what happened,’ said Thadeus.

‘That could be bad news. No crime, no free lunch,’ commented the girl.

‘That is no problem, I solved a murder for Inspector Johnny Jackson this afternoon!’

The rest of the meal was taken up with Thadeus’ tale of the lunchtime epic.

It was nearly 6.00 pm when James telephoned. He had a lot to say. ‘I have a complete Motor Department on my desk. I will take it home tonight and study the documents and start working out a system for handling them. Also I have finished the cotton mill!’ He paused at this point.

Thadeus said, ‘Well done you. Tell me all about it.’

James continued. ‘I was introduced to Mr Charles Payne, Jimmy’s uncle, and a formidable gentleman. We shook hands and discussed the motor business, and then he asked me if I had any other business to show him. So I produced the slip for the cotton mill. He studied it for a short while, asked me a couple of questions that, fortunately I was able to answer, then said, “Cotton. I can put it under my cargo account. Would a line of 15 per cent suit you?” Yes, I said, thank you very much, sir, and he put down his line and passed the slip over to Jimmy to enter. Then as I was leaving the Room I passed old Mr White, who was sitting quietly on his own at his box. I went up to him and said “I know you have seen this risk before Mr White, but I now only need 2½ per cent to finish and I thought that you might help.’ He glared at me, took the slip from my hand and said, “As I probably know more about this bloody cotton mill than you do, I suppose I’m obliged to assist.” He turned the slip over and pencilled 2½ percent on the back. Held out his hand and smiled. He wrote T-O-J-P beside the line. What does that mean?’

‘To oblige James Pooley. James I think you have arrived!’ chuckled Thadeus.

James continued. ‘Thank you, one other thing, Inspector Jackson telephoned. He said, “Tell Mr Burke that his second hypothesis is looking good.” I told him that you would be at the theatre this evening and he said for you to phone him at home when you return. Is that good news?’

‘Unfortunately it is not, James, just Mother Nature playing her games,’ replied Thadeus mysteriously.

The play was excellent, except that Ernest wore his hat on the back of his head. Really bad form Thadeus thought. Freddie’s leg held up satisfactorily and the extra stick was useful for chasing away a group of youngsters who had decided to play on the Bentley. They set off home determine to experiment with the number of mouthfuls there are in a bottle of Drambuie.

‘Good evening, sir. Good evening Miss Freddie,’ welcomed Hilton. ‘Inspector Jackson telephoned a few minutes ago, sir. He said to telephone him if you return from the theatre within a quarter of an hour. I have the number, sir. Do you wish me to obtain him for you?’

‘Yes, thank you Hilton,’ said Thadeus. ‘And Hilton, can you track down a bottle of Drambuie and a couple of small brandy balloons?’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ questioned Hilton.

‘Yes.’

‘Ice, sir?’

‘No thank you.’

‘Are you sure, sir?’ questioned Hilton again.

‘Yes,’ replied Thadeus again.

Hilton retreated wearing one of his disapproving faces and obtained Inspector Jackson on the telephone.

Jackson demanded a few answers from Thadeus before giving any information. ‘Why did you think that it was “odd” that Thurlow had been shot at ten past two?’

‘I knew both Thurlow brothers. I have done business with them. I also knew that they enjoy an extravagant lunch most days, accompanied by a substantial amount of wine, followed by a couple of large brandies. For one of them to be in the Room at that time could be considered “odd”,’ replied Thadeus.

‘Edward Thurlow was meeting a couple of Names and was expecting them at two o’clock. They, or, to be precise, one of them, telephoned just before one o’clock. Actually the caller had asked for a meeting with Mr George Thurlow but George told Edward that he could not possibly be there at that time and delegated the job to Edward. George Thurlow did not ask who the names were as he was dashing off to a lunch in the West End,’ volunteered Jackson.

‘I assumed that something like that had happened. George did tend to treat his brother as an underling.’

‘Why did you suspect the young Austin?’ questioned Jackson.

‘I knew that Mr Algernon Tammis Austin and his two sons were names on the Thurlow syndicate. I also know that the elder brother, also named Algernon, is a close friend of Gussie Downing. They share chambers. Gussie is a self-confessed communist. Young Alfred, the other brother, is a thespian, engaged on the frustrating road to theatrical stardom. This cocktail of information yielded up the young man as my prime suspect for a leading part in the lunchtime drama.’ explained Thadeus.

‘It is my painful duty to tell you that you were right,’ said Jackson without enthusiasm. ‘Young Austin shot himself this afternoon.’

‘Very sad,’ said Thadeus genuinely, without hinting that he was already aware of the tragedy.

Jackson continued with his account. ‘Thurlow is posting a “cash loss call” on his names. It will be very bad for the Austin family. Thurlow told me that he had been writing American property business for a couple of years, through an agent in Pennsylvania. The business had gone very well, producing good profits. So he decided to sign up some more agents, in various other states, and carry no reinsurance! It is proving to be a disaster. He has cancelled the binders, but the damage has been done. Young Austin left a note, by the way. “Sorry, I cannot get anything right”.’

‘Yes. He shot the wrong Thurlow. I imagine the motorcyclist was entirely innocent of the criminal intentions of Alfred?’ asked Thadeus.

‘Yes, an assistant stage manager from some theatre that I have never heard of. He thought that it was all a student rag-week prank, involving fireworks.’

Thadeus and Jackson chatted for a while, commenting on the tragedy and the unpredictability of human nature. Jackson promised another lunch. Thadeus reminded him that he had paid for that day’s meal and therefore was expecting two lunches.

‘How do we find out how many mouthfuls there are in a bottle of Drambuie?’ asked Thadeus.

‘How would a mathematician handle the question?’ asked Freddie.

‘I would drink a quarter of the bottle, count the mouthfuls and multiply by four,’ answered Thadeus. ‘What would a doctor do?’

‘A doctor would pour the bottleful into a measuring glass and divide the result by about a fifth of a gill, knowing that that amount represented a mouthful,’ was her answer.

‘Dull!’ exclaimed Thadeus. ‘I wonder how Hilton would tackle the problem.’

‘He would measure a mouthful of water in one of his kitchen jugs, look at the label on the bottle to find out the total volume of the bottle then get a pencil and paper and work out the figure required,’ speculated Freddie.

‘Even duller!’ responded Thadeus. ‘How about a medical student?’

‘A medical student would drink the whole bottle carefully counting the number of mouthfuls. Before completing the task he, or she, would fall over in a drunken stupor and reassess the position next morning.’

‘Here’s to medical students!’ cried Thadeus, filling two small Brandy glasses with Drambuie.

Freddie took a glass and raised it to her lips. ‘Cheers. Here we go.’

They both slept well that night.