Free Depths of Deceit by Norman Russell Page A

ask you, and it’s this: was Mr Gregory Walsh fond of honey? Or did he ever mention honey in any particular context?’
    ‘ Honey ?’Thelma exclaimed. ‘I’ve no idea whether he liked it or not. What can honey have to do with my fiancé’s violent death?’
    ‘Is honey kept in the house?’ Knollys persisted. ‘Mr Walsh, sir—’
    ‘No, Sergeant!’ cried the old man. ‘I do not eat honey. And there’s none in the house. I detest the wretched stuff. Now, if you don’t mind, I’ll retire to my bed. Thelma will show you the way down to the laboratory, and you can talk to Craven.’
    Old Mr Walsh left the room, closing the door behind him. Jack Knollys took the amulet from his pocket, and showed it to Thelma. She looked at it curiously, but it was clear to Knollys that it meant nothing to her.
    ‘It’s a pretty little thing, isn’t it?’ she said. ‘A little lion on one side, and a seated man on the other.’
    ‘It was found in Mr Gregory Walsh’s pocket.’
    ‘Maybe he picked it up in the street,’ Thelma suggested. ‘It certainly wasn’t something that he had before he was killed. He’d have shown it to me, otherwise.’
    As they descended the narrow staircase to the ground floor, Knollys felt compelled to ask Thelma Thompson a question.
    ‘Will you be all right here, Miss Thompson? Haven’t you got a woman friend who could keep you company?’
    Thelma paused on the stairs, and smiled. She placed a hand lightly on Jack Knollys’ arm.
    ‘How kind of you, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘In fact, I’m quite content to stay here in the house for a few days in order to look after Greg’s father. He married and became a father very late in life, which makes Greg’s loss even more cruel. Greg was his only child, you see. His wife – Greg’s mother – died three years ago. He and I always got along well. My parents know where I am, and they don’t live far away. In a week’s time, Mr Walsh’s widowed sister will arrive to live with him. She’s years younger than he is, so he’ll be well cared for.’
    Thelma paused for a moment, as though making up her mind to speak further. ‘Greg’s dead,’ she said at last, ‘and nothing can bring him back. But I do have another friend – a gentleman friend – who has already called to see me, and once things are settled here, I’ll start walking out with him. Life must go on. Just go down that little flight of stairs, Mr Knollys, and through the glazed door. That’ll take you into the laboratory.’
     
    The laboratory proved to be a large, square room occupying most of the ground floor at the rear of the house. Stone-flagged and with a low, stained ceiling, it received daylight from a row of frosted glass windows giving on to a narrow passage which divided 5 Hayward’s Court from its neighbour. The room held the characteristic tang of hot metal and coal-gas. An acrid vapour smarted Knollys’ eyes.
    Three laboratory benches, each equipped with a ceramic sink, piped water and gas, and a professional microscope, filled the centre space, and at one of these benches a man stood working. He was somewhere between fifty and sixty, and wore a long, brown laboratory coat, which concealed all but his stiff whitecollar and sober tie. He was holding a test tube by means of a special holder, and was gently moving it across the flame of a Bunsen burner. He looked up as Jack Knollys entered, and smiled; but it was a world-weary, cynical kind of smile, which did nothing to animate the man’s pale face.
    ‘Mr Craven? I’m Detective Sergeant Knollys of Scotland Yard. I’d like to have a word with you, if I may.’
    ‘Bear with me a little while, Sergeant,’ said Craven. ‘I need to finish this test without interruption. I’ll be with you in a minute.’
    Still holding the test tube in its clamp, Craven poured the contents into a small glass dish, and put the test tube safely into a little wooden rack. He turned out the Bunsen burner, and wiped his hands on a