Free Depths of Deceit by Norman Russell Page B

cloth.
    ‘Now, Sergeant Knollys,’ he said, ‘I’m all attention. I expect you’re here in connection with the death of Mr Gregory. Well, I know nothing about it. On the day he was killed in Priory Gate Street, I came in here to work as usual at eight o’clock. Mr Gregory never turned up until ten, which was his agreed starting-time. So he wasn’t here ,and I wasn’t there .’
    This man, thought Knollys, didn’t like the late Mr Gregory Walsh, or at least, resented him. Perhaps it would be wise to find out why.
    ‘Mr Walsh was only twenty-six, so I’ve been told,’ he said. ‘Was he a qualified chemist? Was he skilled in the craft? These are not idle questions, Mr Craven.’
    ‘Skilled? Oh, he was skilled enough. And he was well qualified, I’ll grant him that.’
    The man’s voice was grudging, and held an undertone of angered disappointment, but it was clear to Knollys that Craven would never tell a lie. He might begrudge telling the truth, but he’d tell it, nonetheless.
    Craven picked up the small glass dish and peered at the liquid. Evidently, the result was satisfactory. His mind was clearly more on the day’s work than the cruel fate of his employer’s son.
    ‘But I’m qualified, too, Mr Knollys, and I’ve worked here sinceI was fourteen. There’s very little I don’t know about this business, and until last year—’
    He stopped speaking, and again took up the dish. He swirled the contents around, and gave a little grunt of satisfaction. Box heard him mutter, ‘Yes, the crystals are growing nicely!’
    ‘Until last year? What happened then, Mr Craven?’
    ‘Old Mr Walsh – you’ve met him, haven’t you, upstairs? – old Mr Walsh had always half promised me a partnership on account of my seniority here, and the many years that I’ve worked for him – fifty years, to be precise. “Don’t worry, Craven”, he’d say, “when the time’s ripe, I’ll make you a partner”. But then, he decided to hand over the business to young Mr Walsh, and that was the end of all talk of a share for me!’
    Craven all but slammed the dish down on to the bench. For the first time since Knollys had entered the dim chamber, he looked him straight in the eyes.
    ‘But that’s all changed, now, hasn’t it, Mr Knollys?’ he said, the bitter smile returning to his lips. ‘Mr Gregory is dead, so maybe the old man will think over what he used to say about a partnership . He’ll need all the dependable help that he can get, now, and there’s none more dependable than me.’
    Knollys felt a sudden stab of pity for the man. He had spun himself a fantasy about a partnership, which had been unkindly dangled before him for years, in order to keep him loyal to the business. To become a partner, you had to bring money into a business, and Craven was clearly not a moneyed man.
    ‘I wish you every success, Mr Craven,’ said Knollys. ‘Now, let me ask you a specific question. Was Mr Gregory Walsh engaged on any experiments that could conceivably have a connection with the Mithraeum in Priory Gate Street?’
    Mr Craven looked interested. He left the bench, and invited Knollys to enter a tiny office, little more than a cupboard, situated near the staircase door. He pulled down a ledger from a shelf, and turned its pages for a while.
    ‘On these pages, Mr Knollys,’ he said, ‘you see all the jobs assigned to Mr Gregory Walsh this month. There’s Tuesday, the fourteenth – the day he was killed. Nothing until eleven o’clock, when he was due at the East India Dock to collect a sample of pine oil from one of the Baltic freighters. Nothing then till the afternoon , when he was due to collect some samples of paint and pigment from Thomas & Jones at Tower Wharf. That would be something to do with faults in manufacture, I should imagine. Nothing about the Mithraeum.’
    Knollys had seen and heard all that was necessary. As he prepared to mount the stairs to take leave of Miss Thompson, he asked a sudden and