by George Baxt
“Yes, quite a beauty.” She might have been commenting on a side of gammon.
“She isn’t any longer,” said Miss Farquhar, as Hitchcock thumbed through the slender book.
“Lost her looks, has she?” asked Hitchcock.
“She did after the scandal.”
“Won’t you sit down, Miss Farquhar?” Hitchcock’s charm was ingratiating, and the landlady sat. “Now what was that about a scandal?”
“She had a lover in the military. Very highly placed. Quite a rich man, too. She brought him down.”
“How do you mean?”
Miss Farquhar leaned forward and whispered conspiratorially, “He told her secrets.”
“How unwise of him.”
“Indeed. He was disgraced. Cashiered out of the army. Strings were pulled to keep him from a more serious penalty. It was all very hush-hush. Powerful family. Links to the royals, you know.”
“Oh, them.” Nancy Adair was examining a fingernail. Strange woman, thought Hitchcock. Terribly strange. With this kind of information Miss Farquhar was providing, if Hitchcock were a reporter, even a freelance one, or especially a freelance one, he’d be taking notes. Madeleine Lockwood was becoming a more fascinating link in their chain of progression, and now more than ever he was looking forward to meeting her.
“Them indeed. He was known to be quite matey with the late King George. Taught young Edward how to play polo.”
“Is all that in this book?”
“Oh, no. The book’s contrived from whole cloth. All very glamorous, you know, the gaiety and joie de vivre of spying.”
“Of course,” said Hitchcock, “pour le sport.”
“So Madeleine Lockwood is to receive you! Well, what do you know! She’s such a recluse!”
“Is she? Then she’s not friendly with your cousin Phoebe?”
Miss Farquhar leaned forward again. “Actually, Phoebe is one of the few villagers she permits to cross her threshold. Well, she does need someone to shop and run errands. And Phoebe’s not much trouble, as she’s a bit light in the head.”
“And quick on her feet.”
“She gets around quite nimbly for a woman her age. She’s almost seventy. So’s Madeleine, as a matter of fact.” Hitchcock’s eyebrows were raised a scintilla. “That would place Miss Lockwood in her fifties when she was spying for us during the war.”
“She wasn’t spying for us. She was spying for them.”
“The Germans? Well, I’ll be blowed! How’d she keep from being condemned to the firing squad?”
“Him and his connections!”
“Theirs must have been a rather late-in-life love affair.”
“Does love respect timetables?” asked Miss Farquhar quaintly.
“I suppose it doesn’t.” Hitchcock resisted the urge to pinch her cheek.
Hitchcock looked again at the photograph of Madeleine Lockwood. “She doesn’t look fifty in this photo.”
“Why should she? That photo was taken forty years ago, when she was cavorting in the halls.”
“Hmmm. I wonder.” Hitchcock had lost all interest in breakfast. Nancy Adair was tapping a finger impatiently on the tabletop, while trying to summon up the courage to light a cigarette.
“Yes?” said Miss Farquhar.
“I was wondering if you could help us.”
“More tea?”
“No, thank you. Miss Adair and I…” He heard an intake of breath. It came from Nancy Adair.
“Who’s Miss Adair?” asked Miss Farquhar.
“That’s my professional name,” said Nancy swiftly. “In private life I’m Mrs. Jennings, but I write under the name Nancy Adair.”
“Oh, of course! So many writers use pseudonyms.” She turned to Hitchcock. “You were wondering if I could help you? Do you need directions to Medwin?”
“We need an introduction to Miss Lockwood.”
“I thought she was expecting you!”
“She isn’t. She doesn’t even know we exist.” Hitchcock spoke rapidly, hoping to assuage the little lady’s sudden look of dismay. “It’s like this. Nancy and I are collaborating on a book about espionage, and we’re especially researching little-known spies. You know, those who didn’t make headlines or met tragic demises, such as our Miss Lockwood.” He hoped she’d be softened by his proprietorial attitude toward Madeleine Lockwood. “You probably don’t know, but there are people who have heard of her and consider her a minor legend, such as my German acquaintance whose name you heard me mention a few minutes ago. Isn’t that so, dear?” Nancy managed a smile as she thought the hell with it and lit a cigarette. “So, my dear, generous Miss Farquhar, that is what finds us on the road to Medwin and here enjoying your generous hospitality. “
“You’d like me to phone Phoebe and ask her to intercede with Miss Lockwood?”
“Is it too much to ask?”
“Not at all. From what I’ve heard from Phoebe about Madeleine’s monstrous ego, she might be more than delighted to be tempted back into the limelight.”
“Mind you, Miss Farquhar, we’re not offering her a tour. We’d just like to spend some time with her and interview her. I suppose it’s too early to phone cousin Phoebe?”
“Not at all. She’s up with the birds. I’ll be right back.” When Miss Farquhar left the room, Hitchcock said to Nancy Adair, “Wasn’t this a most fortunate stroke of luck?”
“Most fortuitous.”
“You don’t sound terribly enthusiastic.”
“I’m just anxious to get on with the program.”
“May I remind you, young lady, that this is my show. You foisted yourself upon me in a supporting role. To take it a bit further, I’m the director here and I call the shots.”
“Of course, Mr. Director.”
“And sarcasm is uncalled for.”
“I’m sorry. Forgive me. I slept very badly.”
“So did I.”
“Like hell you did.”
Miss Farquhar returned. “Phoebe will try to arrange it!”
“That was quick!” exclaimed Hitchcock.
“Why waste time when it is so cruelly evanescent?” She gave them directions to Cousin Phoebe’s house in Allerton, and Hitchcock was effusive in his gratitude for Miss Far- quhar’s help. She saw them out to their car and as they drove off waved them good-bye with a lace-trimmed blue handkerchief she had stashed in her meager bosom. Then she went back into the house, marched directly to the library where there was an extension of the front-desk telephone, and put through a call to a number in London.
Hitchcock was reciting aloud, “Phoebe Allerton, 22 Hollyhock Lane, turn right at the petrol station as one enters Medwin. How long do you think it will take us to get to Medwin?”
“I should think within a hour, if we’re lucky. But lorries are beginning to appear on the road, and we just might get stuck in traffic outside Brighton.”
“Nancy?”
“Yes?”
“Have you met Miss Farquhar before?”
Nancy started to stammer and then corrected herself. “What made you think that?”
“They way you suddenly went silent at breakfast. Up till then, there’d been no shutting you up.”
“I told you. I was tired. It takes me a long time to get going in the morning.”
“It took you a long time to settle on a place for bed and breakfast last night.”
“Mr. Hitchcock,” said Nancy evenly, “you’ve been involved in too many spy stories. Now settle back arid relax.” He settled back, but he didn’t relax. His mind was racing and probing and examining and sifting fact after fact after fact. Supposition and possibility ran hand in hand, and suspicion had triggered a red light of caution in his mind. Somehow, there had to be a way of losing Miss Nancy Adair.
* * *
“I don’t like that. I don’t like that one bit.” Sir Arthur Willing was wearing a suit of Irish tweed that bagged at the knees and the elbows. He thought the circles under Basil Cole’s eyes were unbecoming, and he wished N
igel Pack would stop jiggling with his left leg the right leg he’d crossed over it. Detective Superintendent Jennings was about to take the floor but decided politically to wait until Sir Arthur was finished expressing his displeasure at the news he’d recently received and shared with them. “What do we know about this woman called Nancy Adair? Very little, I gather.”
“Very little indeed,” said Nigel Pack. “We’ve had a tracer on her after finding out she’d been in the village the night Mueller was murdered at Hitchcock’s cottage. She has no telephone, no address, and of course no background. “
“Meaning, in other words, she wasn’t born, she was created.” Sir Arthur exhaled. “I don’t like this one bit. Anyway, very astute of dear Miss Farquhar to have phoned us once she recognized Hitchcock from photos she’s seen of him and wondered why he was traveling incognito to a visit a former spy.” He took a breath and then continued, “And with a blonde chit who looked nothing like pictures she’d seen of Mrs. Hitchcock. Deucedly clever of the old darling. Arrange to send her something, will you, Basil? Chocolates or some books. I’d suggest cash, but I remember her pride, though it did goeth before her fall. Too bad we had to drop her.” He addressed Jennings. “By the way, the woman signed them in as Mr. and Mrs. Jennings.”
Jennings chuckled and scratched an ear. “That’s nice to know. At least we know she’s aware of my identity. Now how would she know I was the detective assigned to the case? I suppose we have an informant at the Yard.…”
“Or here.” added Sir Arthur. “Anyway, let’s hope Miss Farquhar doesn’t suffer a similar fate as our bogus Lemuel Peach. Hitchcock has been leaving only corpses in his wake. Sad that we couldn’t have foreseen that possibility. What’s troubling you Basil?”
“Miss Farquhar.”
“Why she was dropped? She couldn’t keep a secret.”
“How Hitchcock and this blonde woman just happened to choose her place to spend the night.”
“I should suggest, dear Basil, that the answer would lie somewhere with this pseudonymous Miss Nancy Adair, inasmuch as I doubt Hitchcock’s ever heard of our Miss Farquhar before last night. Now then, Mr. Jennings. You’re looking anxious to get on with it.”
“I am. There’s a lot on my plate and I’d like to get to it.” He shifted in his seat as he referred to his notebook. “We’ve identified the impostor of Lemuel Peach.”
“Ah! What a nice way to start the day,” said Sir Arthur. “His real name is Nicholas Haver, and he was born in Munich. He has visited this country before on two occasions, and on both occasions was apprehended and deported for suspicions of espionage. I emphasize suspicions, as nothing could be proved, but the authorities deemed it expedient to kick him the hell out.”
“And unfortunately for him, he bounced back a third time.” Sir Arthur clucked his tongue. “How do these people keep slipping back in after they’ve been booted out? They’re so awfully good at that sort of thing. Every time one of ours gets caught, we have to work out elaborate exchanges to gain their freedom or else arrange to fix pensions for their widows.”
“May I continue, Sir Arthur?” Jennings was beyond disguising his impatience. Sir Arthur nodded his head, wondering why Basil Cole was still looking distrait. “Haver was a musician by profession. In fact, he was a violinist in a trio at the Emelka Studios in Munich when the pianist of that trio was Rudolf Wagner.”
“How marvelous!” exclaimed Nigel Pack. “Well, that should tidy that up.” At the mention of “tidy,” Basil shot Nigel a look.
“It doesn’t tidy anything up,” said Jennings, “because if he had murdered Wagner, the other violinist would have seen him. As it was proved, both musicians’ hands were busy with violin and bow. Also, there’s no record of Haver’s espionage activities until two years ago, which means he’s fairly new at it.”
“How’d he get to the King’s Cross Church?”
“Through the caretaker, who’s done a flit.”
“You think he’s one of them, too?” asked Sir Arthur.
“I don’t think so. He’s had the job for years and probably found Haver’s offer of a sop irresistible.”
“Anything about when Haver joined the Nazis?”
“Some two or three years ago. Recruited by some woman. I’ve little more there. At any rate, Haver was part of the chain set up here to transfer information.”
“Now how do you suppose Fredrick Regner knew all that? It’s there in his manuscript, so he had to know.”
“We know Regner’s had access to many secret documents, which is why he had to flee Germany. They’ll kill him if they catch him.”
“What else have you got?”
“Hans Meyer continues at large. We can’t get a thing on him.”
“Well, he’s bound to surface sooner or later,” said Sir Arthur grouchily. “They always surface sooner or later. Is that all, Mr. Jennings?”
“That’s all this morning, sir. And if there’s nothing else from you, I’d like to return to the Yard.”
“No, and thank you very much. I think we’re progressing nicely. Basil, what the hell is bothering you now?”
“If I could have a private word with you, Sir Arthur,” said Basil as the other two rose to leave.
“About what?” snapped Sir Arthur.
Basil Cole drew himself up bravely. “It’s about tidiness,sir.
“Tidiness?”
“Tidiness.”
Twelve
Phoebe Allerton was aptly named. She twittered like a bird. Her hands fluttered when she spoke, and her eyes were as big as an owl’s, if not especially reflecting wisdom. Her charming cottage at 22 Hollyhock Lane in the very modest little village of Medwin dated back to the early sixteen hundreds and, during the nineteenth century, Miss Allerton told them, had been the scene of a series of brutal murders.
“They found six bodies under these very floorboards,” said Phoebe Allerton. Hitchcock didn’t believe one word. They were seated in the sitting room, where the tables were stacked with piles of murder mysteries. Miss Allerton was probably a feminist, as she seemed to favor women authors. Hitchcock saw books by Agatha Christie and Dorothy Sayers and Ngaio Marsh and Mary Roberts Rinehart and Mignon Eherhart but not the work of a single man.
“And what were the murders known as?” Hitchcock decided to jolly her along until she made up her mind to take them to meet Madeleine Lockwood. They’d been with her for almost half an hour, having located the cottage without a problem and succumbing to her offer of lemonade and her own special chocolate biscuits because Hitchcock recognized the elderly woman’s hunger for companionship, however brief.
“Why, they were known as the Hollyhock Cottage Murders! Haven’t you heard of them?” She was refilling their glasses with lukewarm lemonade and Nancy Adair was trying to catch Hitchcock’s eye to have him make the old lady get on with it.
“I’m afraid I haven’t. Has anyone written about them?”
“I am.” Despite her years she leapt from her chair with the grace of a prima ballerina escaping the lecherous advances of a Fokine faun and scurried to a desk at the opposite end of the long, narrow room. She grasped a thick loose-leaf book and brought it to Hitchcock. Then she stood back with hands clasped in front of her, her face warm with anticipation and possibly expecting applause as Hitchcock opened the book to the first page.
He read the title aloud for Nancy Adair’s benefit: “Blood and Gore” She’d caught his eye and he got her message, but there was little way of relaying to her that Miss Allerton would have to be humored until she was ready to move on their behalf. He said to the old lady, “The title’s a winner.”
“You do like it!” Her voice was piccolo-tweety.
“Adore it. How long have you been writing this?”
“Almost forty years.”
“I shall look forward to reading it.”
“Couldn’t you read some of it now? I’d value your opinion.” The hands were fluttering and her feet were shuffling and Hitchcock feared she might be ab
out to take off in flight.
“I’m afraid there isn’t time, Miss Allerton. You see, it’s terribly important we meet with Madeleine Lockwood.” Miss Allerton retrieved her book and held it tightly to her almost nonexistent bosom. “Her book’s lousy. Had to publish it herself. Limited edition. Got him to pay for it.” Him, thought Hitchcock, the lover cashiered out of the army? “It’s all fantasy.” She took her book back to the desk.
Nancy Adair decided to take matters into her own hands. “Does Miss Lockwood live nearby?”
Miss Allerton sat and arranged her skirt, then she spoke. “She lives just across the road. The big house with the thatched roof. You may have noticed it when you parked your car. It’s very imposing from the outside. He bought it for her fifteen years ago or so. Inside it’s a mess. You’ll see for yourself. She’s a mess too. Sometimes it seems as though her mind is wandering, but I know it’s mostly playacting. She’s an incredibly shrewd person. But when it seems her mind is wandering, well, you’ll just have to be patient and steer her back to whatever track you want her on. She used to be in the theater.” She spoke directly to Hitchcock. “She takes direction well.”
She knows who I am! Hitchcock thought. Aloud, he said, “Were here to interview her for our book on espionage.”
Miss Allerton’s voice went limp. “You’re writing a book too? Is there anyone who isn’t writing a book?” She did little to masquerade her exasperation. “A book on espionage? Are you spies too?”
“Good heavens, no,” said Hitchcock, “we’re just researching a book about them.”
“Filthy profession, that. It’s what brought Jane down.”
“Jane who?” asked Hitchcock.
“She sent you here! Jane Farquhar!”
Hitchcock’s mouth was suddenly dry. He had a quick look at Nancy Adair, who had suddenly busied herself with nibbling at a biscuit and avoided his eyes. Hitchcock had a sip of his awful lemonade and then asked, “Jane Farquhar was a spy?”
“She wasn’t a terribly good one. She blabbed all over the place. Began when she was a nurse abroad during the war. Prisoner-of-war camp. She was the head sister there. Well, some of those prisoners had been pretty highly placed in the German hierarchy and they just talked and talked to our Jane. Jane, of course, took her information to the authorities and the next thing you know, she’s got two professions. Nursing and spying. She didn’t last very long.” With a mischievous expression, she then asked the two of them, “What did you say your name was?”
