Sebastian Gloom

On the trail of the Culprits.

It was well past midnight before Benson's patience was rewarded. The servants door opened and a small figure crept out into the night. A woman. Benson crouched down while she passed him by and recognised her as Doris Kettle, the cook's assistant. Barely more than a girl, she had been working for the Cranstons for only a few months. Benson decided that she was either the daughter, sister or sweetheart of one of the villains and had taken the job precisely so that she could learn the location of the Solomon Bottle. He waited for her to pass by, then emerged and followed silently behind her.

He could be wrong about her, of course, he mused. It was possible that she had some legitimate reason for setting out a this time of night. It could be that she always went home after spending the day in the Cranston house and that her departure had been delayed by his visit. It might be that the real traitor was even now leaving the house, going in the opposite direction. Well, that was just the chance they took in this line of business, he told himself. If the real police had been carrying out an operation like this they would have had several constables watching the house, but he had no-one other than himself. He had no choice but to take a chance.

The woman walked for two or three miles, her feet tip tapping their way along the stone pavements lining the streets as she left the wealthy residential districts behind and entered a far less reputable area whose streets were darker and whose houses were smaller and packed more closely together. Benson was encouraged to see her looking behind herself from time to time, as if she were scared of discovery. Or perhaps she was just scared of falling foul of muggers and footpads, a not unreasonable fear when walking the streets of a big city after dark. Now and again a dark figure lurking in the shadows did stir at her passing and Benson prepared to go to her defence, but the figure always lost interest after getting a better look at her, perhaps thinking she had nothing worth stealing and wasn't good looking enough to be worth ravishing.

After walking for an hour she came to a building and knocked urgently on the door, once again looking around to see if anyone was watching. A long minute passed during which nothing happened and she knocked again. This time the door opened and she hurried through without waiting to be invited. As soon as the door had closed again Benson hurried out of cover and ran across the street, finding a spot under the front window where he could listen without being seen.

The occupants weren't in the front room, but the inside door linking it to the rest of the house was open and the faint sound of raised voices could be heard. He couldn't make out the words, but it was clear that an argument of some kind was taking place. Benson's imagination filled in the details. The woman would be telling them that they'd stolen the wrong bottle and the occupants would be reacting with anger, saying that the people who'd hired them had said nothing about a second bottle. The voices rose to a higher pitch. Had they figured out that she'd been tricked and were berating her for being so gullible and stupid? If so the front door would be opening soon as they checked to see if she'd been followed...

Benson ran away from the window and hid behind a horse trough, just in time as the door opened and a grim, fierce looking face looked out into the night. He looked this way and that, but saw nothing but a cat running across the street and a scattering of cherry blossom petals being blown by the wind along the gutter. He looked some more, staring intently at every possible hiding place, and at one point he stared straight at Benson. The investigator froze, knowing that part of him was visible but hoping that his dark coat would look like just one more shadow.

There was silence broken only by the sound of the wind through tree branches and, somewhere, the hooting of an owl, and the man finally seemed satisfied, going back in through the door and closing it. Benson ran back to the window to resume listening, but the voices were quieter now, as if the dispute had been settled, and he retired to his hiding place again, just in time as the door opened for the third time. Doris Kettle emerged and hurried off down the street back the way she had come. Returning to the Cranston house before she was missed.