The Crimson Rooms by Katharine McMahon Read Free Book Online Page B

Breen, for whom the outdoors was territory to be mapped and traversed, indulging in anything so purely frivolous as a picnic. “Such a stroke of luck that when I got off the train at Kings Cross I thought I’d just call in at the office to pick up my post. And then, while I was there, this telephone call came about Stephen Wheeler. Of all people. The least offensive soul in the world. At school he was one of those stolid children who never stepped out of line.”
    “What proof is there that he did it?”
    “His army revolver and gloves were found buried near the body. There is a match between the bullet that killed her and his gun. That’s all I know.”
    He resumed his reading and I was left to watch the deepening countryside; a timber-framed farmhouse, a shaggy haystack, and hedgerows blowsy with cow parsley. At the police station we swept through a cluster of onlookers, including a couple of reporters with notebooks, and spoke to the officer on the desk who was breathless with self-importance. In a few minutes we were ushered through to a cramped back office where the investigating sergeant sat behind a heap of papers, taking sips from a mug of tea.
    “Wheeler’s not speaking,” he told us. “If only he’d help himself. He was full of words yesterday morning, apparently, when he came here to report her missing. But since we’ve arrested him, nothing except your name and details, Mr. Breen. I was hoping I’d have a full statement by now.”
    “I’m very pleased he’s said nothing. As far as I’m concerned a client shows excellent sense in refusing to speak except in the presence of his lawyer. May we see him at once?”
    Wheeler was slumped in his cell with his head in his hands. He was a stocky, soft-fleshed man of around forty with a surprisingly heavy beard for an insurance clerk, and ungainly hands, the heels of which he ground into his eye sockets so that I could not help wondering what image he attempted to blot out.
    Breen was transformed when with a client; the hurry went out of him and his voice grew tender. But with Stephen Wheeler not even these strategies were successful. His head sank ever further and he wouldn’t speak. My notebook and pencil were redundant.
    Only once, when Breen asked, “Tell me, Stephen, about the last time you saw your wife,” did he look up and allow us to see the expression of utter hopelessness in his swimming eyes. Then his head went down again.
    After quarter of an hour or so, Wheeler was handcuffed between two policemen and escorted down a little corridor to a stifling interview room where space was so limited that I, being the most insignificant person present, had to stand with one foot in the passage. And there, beneath the grimy light of a single bulb, Wheeler was subjected to question after question, none of which he answered, not even to give his name or date of birth. By the time he was charged with murder, his head was so low that he might have been asleep except that occasionally a tear fell into his lap or he ran his sleeve under his nose.
    An hour later, we left the police station with nothing achieved but an agreement that Breen would represent Wheeler when he appeared at Amersham Magistrates’ Court in the morning—which meant that, unless Wolfe rematerialized in time, I would have to deal with Leah Marchant’s bail proceedings single-handed.
    What we did have, however, was a duplicate résumé of Wheeler’s war record and a copy of the police statement, which Breen passed me a page at a time so that I could read them, at great cost to my equilibrium, as the taxicab lurched back toward London.

Five

    Stephen Anthony Wheeler
DOB: September 14, 1888
Occupation: insurance clerk
2nd Battalion London Rifles
Rifleman S. A. Wheeler: 289351 2/5 London Regiment
Trained Haywards Heath, Crowborough, Jarris Brook
Served Trenches of Ploegsteert Sector
Invalided (gas poisoning): 2nd Battle of Ypres, April 23, 1915
Spell at Birkenhead: recruiting duties
Promoted: