A Conspiracy at the Barley Row?
Erich in the Bag
Erich Stoben was put under surveillance. His mail to his home and the Saint Luke’s Chapel in Wansdworth was intercepted, as were all his telephone calls. A watch was put on the Chapel and all his movements were logged. The days rolled by and no incriminating evidence emerged. He seemed unaffected by the flight of Schrod and showed no tendency to go underground himself. Time ticked by and nothing happened. An operative even broke into the Chapel to search his desk and papers but nothing was found. Stoben seemed a solid and respectable citizen. However, the chain of command wanted answers and Michael Braithwaite debated whether to pull him in for interrogation anyway. Detective Inspector Grice had a better idea, until now Schrod’s disappearance had been kept out of the newspapers. He had a hunch if Schrod’s disappearance was made public that it might stir Stoben into action and then they could make their move and scoop him up. A couple of days later the Evening Standard ran a small item on the strange disappearance of the antiques dealer.
Michael Brathwaite was growing inpatient. Through their shadowing of Stoben, they knew he read the Evening Standard every day and would see the news item of Schrod’s disappearance. The story of course did not reveal Schrod’s fate or destination. All the reporter was told was that it was a missing person’s case.
Stoben seemed reluctant to follow his co-conspirators into hiding. Michael even toyed with using Aston as bait to draw him into a trap but his superiors were unwilling to take the risk. With increasing pressure for results, Michael decided to throw Tom Measure back into the fray. He was to visit Saint Luke’s Chapel and bring Stoben in for questioning.
Saint Luke’s Chapel in Wansdworth, London, was easy for Tom to find. It was a drab little stone building, in the dark wet light the façade looked sinister. Stepping inside he found a woman sweeping the floor and she directed him upstairs to the Reverend’s little office. The Reverend was out but Erich was sitting at a small desk crammed into the corner of the tiny room.
“Can I help you Sir?” Erich peered over his glasses.
“Are you Mr Stoben?” Tom asked, “I was most anxious to speak with you about the Withington Shelter for the Homeless.”
Erich smiled, “Ah, come in. Yes, I know the shelter well. How can I help you?”
Tom sat down on a spare chair, “Well I’m trying to trace somebody that I think you helped to get into the Shelter. A Michael Aston, he was a friend of mine you see.”
Erich looked blank then let out a smile, “I help so many poor cases, its hard to remember them all.”
Tom knew he was stalling but played along, “He was at the YMCA in Brixton, I believe you got him a ticket to Manchester.”
“Hmm, I’ve been to Brixton many times, too many times sadly.” Erich shook his head. “We do what we can, give them a train ticket and the Shelter gives them a secure roof until they can get resettled into the locality.”
“The last he wrote to me he said he had some money from you.”
Erich thought a moment, “Well we give them something to see them through until they get settled on the right path. We give whatever we can spare from the donations box here.”
Tom nodded, “Oh yes indeed, he got onto the right path right enough. With a hundred pounds in his pocket and a friend who got him a job, who wouldn’t do alright?”
Erich shifted uneasily in his chair, “It wouldn’t have been a hundred pounds, we don’t usually give more than a couple of pounds at the most. You must be mistaken.”
“There was no mistake. We are most anxious you see to trace that money and the man who you directed to find Michael a job.” Tom’s face was stony and hard.
“We? Mr, err”, Erich stumbled over his words.
“Oh I forgot to say, I’m Detective Sergeant Latham of Special Branch,” Tom whisked out his false identity card, “you see Michael is in a spot of bother. A rather delicate matter in fact.”
Erich’s face turned white and he fumbled with his spectacles.
Tom nodded towards the door, “We have a car downstairs, there are questions we’d like to put to you in more formal surroundings. Voluntarily helping us would avoid any bother. Tom got up and motioned to the door.
“I am an honest man, I only help out for the Shelter, I can’t be held responsible for every man’s behaviour once outside,” Erich’s cheeks were now red as he tried to bluster a defence.
Tom tugged on Erich’s jacket sleeve, “I think you should come with us, it won’t take long and we’ll clear everything up.”
Reluctantly, Erich rose and followed.
The car whisked Tom and Stoben to the local police station. Tom’s partner Henry Golding was driving and Michael and Detective Inspector Grice were waiting. Stoben was bundled into the small interview room by Tom and Henry. Tom remained to sit in on the interview, while Henry waited outside the door.
Michael did the formal introductions and before Stoben could put up much of a protest, he waded into the questions.
“Now Mr Stoben, we are anxious to know how you made acquaintance with Michael Aston.”
Erich tried to stall until he could form a coherent argument, “I deal with a lot of cases requiring charity, I can’t remember all the circumstances.”
“Well try this time to remember this one,” Michael growled.
“Well,” Erich gulped, “it must have been when I arrived at the YMCA in Brixton,” he pointed towards Tom, “as your colleague has already mentioned to me.”
The words had barely left Erich’s mouth when Michael shot back, “So who told you Aston needed help and to meet him there?”
“Probably someone who was concerned about his welfare,” Erich shrugged.
“Was it the same man who gave you the hundred quid for Aston?” Tom chipped in.
Erich turned to face Tom who was to one side of the small room, “It might have been, I’m not sure. A young man brought it to the Chapel the morning I went to see Aston.”
“We need names,” Michael said, “we know you know so there is no point stalling.”
Erich shook his head and paused before finally speaking, “The man who told me where Aston was and that I was to arrange his transport to the Shelter in Manchester I know only as Konservendose, Tin Can. I don’t know who the young man was that brought the money, he gave no name but identified himself to me with the words “Fade far away, dissolve, and quite forget, what thou among the leaves hast never known. The counter was “The weariness, the fever, and the fret, here, where men sit and hear each other groan.”
“That’s a poem, by Coleridge,” Grice interjected, “The Nightingale I think it’s called.”
Michael was impressed that a policeman was so cultured but had other concerns to dwell on. He pushed a photograph of Schrod across the table towards Erich, “this ‘Tin Can’ is it not, better known as Charles Schrod, antiques dealer, late of Stamford Bridge.”
Erich nodded silently.