DEATH OF A POET
1928
Detective Sergeant John Howard pulled
the lace curtain aside and looked out on the grey November morning. The Police surgeon had almost finished his examination
of the body that lay on the bed behind. It was of a young man in his late twenties, dressed in a white suit, more suitable
for a summer's day than this chilly autumn morning. He lay on his back, one arm outstretched to the small bedside table, on
which an open bottle of pills had spilt. A jug of water and an empty glass testified to an apparent suicide. It seemed an
open and shut case.
Few people were about in the
street outside, leaves swirled in the chill wind. A milkman's horse and cart stood opposite, the rattle of milk bottles heard
faintly through the glass.
John Howard turned as the Surgeon
told him that the body could now be removed, as he had concluded his on scene examination as far as it could go. The surgeon
snapped the catch on his Gladstone bag, pulled his coat together and nodded at John. "I'll see
you later at the post-mortem then Sergeant, I'll be in touch. Good morning to you". He turned and left the room.
The milkman glanced with curiosity
at the police constable stationed at the front gate and moved his horse further along the street. John picked up the photograph
frame, which the young man had been holding in his right hand. It was of a couple in their early fifties, taken in a local
photographic studio, the name written in gilt ink on the mask. They stared out with set expressions into the lens of the camera.
He turned the frame over. There
was an inscription written on a label. 'With Love to dear Richard, from Mother and Father, 15th March 1920.'
It was a birthday present to an only son, as John was later to discover, as he made his search through the papers in the bedroom
and in the study desk downstairs.
Richard Loveton had served throughout
the war in a non-combatant role as a medical orderly, but had witnessed some of the worst slaughter, spending the last
months in hospital himself, as the result of a wound and shell-shock. His experiences had not been unusual. He had later,
after some difficulty, obtained a post in the City's University Library. His life had been lonely and he had found it difficult
to form attachments, despite the shortage of men.
Now in 1928, at the age of twenty-nine,
having lost first his Mother and then his Father, living alone with the memories of them around him for company, the cumulative
depression had finally overcome him. Detective Sergeant John Howard had experienced suicide before, but not usually of a seemingly
healthy young man with much to live for. But this was a sad case.
He found the daily journal and
the poetry in a drawer in the bedroom, all written in a small neat hand. He took them back to his office at the station, reading
first the journal, which had commenced when Richard Loveton was a young pupil at the local Grammar school, continuing through
the war and the years after.
He felt, as though he was intruding into the private emotions
of a sensitive and intelligent boy and then young man, who, given the right conditions and encouragement could have become
a successful writer. The poetry was more difficult to judge, and it was not for him to do so. But even he could see that it
was well constructed and that it spoke with perception and feeling of the horrors of war and love of his home and peacetime
life.
More recently he had written of his love of nature and the
world around him. His failure to find an outlet for his own natural emotions other than in his writings had also been expressed.
John Howard closed the journal and the poetry notebooks knowing that although there was no direct evidence as to why Richard
Loveton had taken his own life, the background of this tragedy lay between the covers of the notebooks he had just read.
The next day he returned the journal and the poetry to the
drawer in the bedroom and closed the front door of the house. He gave his evidence at the Coroner's court and a verdict of
suicide whilst the mind was unbalanced was given. He later attended the funeral, only three distant relatives and colleagues
from the University otherwise present.
And that, as far as Detective Sergeant John Howard was concerned,
was the end of the case.
------------------ooOOoo-----------------
1938
Detective Inspector Howard felt a twinge of recollection
when the young constable told him the address. Was this not the house where the young poet had committed suicide nearly ten
years ago? There had been a burglary, a rather puzzling one, at a large house towards the edge of the city. It was an area,
typically, where University Dons lived, large gardens, trees and overgrown privet hedges.
There had been a break-in, but no sign of damage to doors
or windows. It was though the burglar had possessed a key and had let himself in. The owner had been out at the theatre, returning
late to find the back door to the house standing open. Strangely, nothing was reported stolen.
"Then why are you asking me to investigate?" John asked the
Constable. "Well sir, the owner felt that something had happened, like something stolen that he hadn't yet discovered,
or even something put there he hadn't yet found. He felt really uncomfortable about it and asked that a senior officer go
along and speak to him".
John Howard sighed. "Alright, I'll go along and see what
I can do". It would be politic to keep in with the University establishment, and he could do with a break from his desk. His
sergeant was on leave and he was covering in his absence.
He recognised the house at once. It had changed little in
ten years. He was admitted to the study and looked around trying to remember the arrangement of the old fashioned heavy furniture
of his previous visit. It seemed a long time ago, a lot had happened in the intervening years. The depression and now, with
the rise of German militarism, another war seemed likely.
Morris and Austin cars stood in the drives of the houses
now, and there were changes and improvements, especially in the kitchen arrangements of this house. He was shown the back
door, and how it had been found open when the owners returned from their outing.
The present owner, a lecturer at one of the colleges, was
a thin nervous man. " My wife is very upset, she feels uncomfortable to think that someone has entered our home, and to tell
you the truth, so do I".
John Howard told him that he knew how he felt. Most people had similar feelings when
their house had been broken into. He advised him to change the locks and showed him how improvements could be made to the
security of their home.
"Are you sure that there is nothing
further that you can tell me sir?" John asked him.
The lecturer looked uncomfortable, hesitated, and then said
"Well, there is one thing. We had a plumber in a week or two ago, and while he was in the loft I took the opportunity to have
a clearout up there. I found a cardboard box with some things in which must have been left by a previous occupant. I brought
it down to throw it out, but decided to have a look through before I did so. There was a pair of shoes and some clothes, also
some papers. All rubbish, nothing of value."
"I suppose I shouldn't have done
so, but I took a look through the papers. There were some diaries, written by a young man, I should think, going back before
the last war and after. It made interesting reading. I lecture in English, you know, and was impressed by the quality of the
writing. Then I found the books of poetry, obviously by the same person, all hand-written. This was a real find. I spent several
evenings going through them in detail. All very good, some of the work outstanding".
" I wondered if the author, one Richard Loveton, could be
traced. Why had he left his work behind? I must admit", he continued," I did feel a bit uncomfortable about the whole thing,"
He laughed nervously. "I was alone in the house at the time, my wife being away for a few days. I could have sworn that there
was someone else in the house, with me while I was sat reading it all. There wasn't, of course. That's what has made me feel
nervous about the break-in."
"What happened to the contents of this box sir?" asked
John Howard.
"Well, that's the thing I haven't told you, I suppose I should
have. It's disappeared. Gone. From my study. The only thing missing. I could hardly report it, it didn't belong to me, Thought
it best not mention it, less complication you see. But I am sorry the writing has gone, It's a loss."
"I am glad you have told me about this Sir, not that it is
very important, but it is strange, nevertheless. I'll include it in my report, but not in any way that might cause embarrassment
to you. Perhaps we should leave it there then".
"Oh, there's one other small thing", said the lecturer, "
I found this patch of cloth caught on the bush just outside the back door. I meant to mention to your constable, silly of
me." He handed John a small square of white cloth, as though torn from a suit.
John took the cloth hesitantly, sensing where it had come
from. He bid the Lecturer good day with a strange sensation of unreality. Somehow, Richard Loveton himself ought to
have had a hand in this matter, but that was impossible, he was ten years dead, after all.
He put the cloth in his pocket and walked from the garden
out into the road. As he did so a small gust of wind swirled brown leaves around his feet, and further on a milkman urged
his horse on to the next house.
Max Frost
28 March 2001
