Bill tapped his fingers on the desk. ‘I feel sorry for her, too. It’s not good, is it? However, if we can get hold of Trevelyan before he does any more harm, then that’s a happy ending as far as I’m concerned, no matter whose father he is. Having said that, I think it’s probably a false alarm. I’m not saying Mrs Rotherwell is a notoriety seeker, because I don’t believe that for a minute, but I still think she might be mistaken.’
‘And if she isn’t?’
‘All right. Say she really did see Trevelyan in St James’ Park. Say, for the sake of argument, that he recognised her. Why on earth should he follow her to her hotel? As he’s managed to keep his head down for twenty years, the Royal Park Hotel is the last place I’d expect to find him. His freedom depends on no one spotting him. He’s hardly going to hang out in the one place where that’s likely to happen.’
‘I hope you’re right,’ said Jack uneasily. ‘Because if Mrs Rotherwell isn’t mistaken and Trevelyan really has been staking out the hotel, then she’s in very real danger.’
All was quiet for the rest of the day. Horrocks, with the reluctant permission of Mr Wilfred Grafton, manager of the Royal Park Hotel, stationed himself in the lobby to no avail. Mrs Rotherwell came and went, but there was no indication from her she’d spotted Michael Trevelyan.
Tuesday followed the same pattern but on Wednesday morning, Bill telephoned first thing.
Jack could hear noises in the background. Bill obviously wasn’t alone. ‘I’m at the Royal Park Hotel,’ he said quietly. ‘I’m ringing from the manager’s office. The hotel doesn’t want any sort of fuss, but you’d better get over here. Mrs Rotherwell’s disappeared.’
TEN
Mr Wilfred Grafton, manager of the Royal Park Hotel, was a worried man.
A plump, meticulously morning-suited man, he regarded Bill, Jack and Constable Horrocks with a sort of horror. ‘I cannot believe that Mrs Rotherwell’s absence calls for Scotland Yard,’ he said stiffly. ‘It was bad enough knowing the police were on the premises,’ he said, glaring at Constable Horrocks. ‘I was assured it was merely a matter of clearing up a case of identity. Surely the matter can be resolved without calling upon Scotland Yard.’
He swallowed nervously and ran a hand through his thinning hair. ‘I refuse to believe that Mrs Rotherwell was involved in anything criminal. This is a most respectable hotel. Absolutely respectable.’
That, thought Jack, was exactly right. The Royal Park, although large and perfectly pleasant, wasn’t glamorous. It certainly wasn’t the Ritz or the Savoy. It wasn’t the sort of place that was visited by millionaires, motor-racing stars, captains of industry or Indian maharajahs. No; it was firmly middle-class and exactly, from what he’d seen of her, the sort of hotel Mrs Rotherwell would choose.
‘Our clientele,’ continued Mr Grafton, ‘are drawn exclusively from the better classes. We pride ourselves on excellent service and … and …’ He struggled for a word. ‘Respectability,’ he finished lamely. ‘We’ve never had any trouble of any sort that necessitated the police being called. Ever. And as for Mrs Rotherwell, I would have sworn she was a most respectable lady.’
‘She is,’ Bill assured him.
The manager attacked his hair again. ‘There’s nothing criminal involved, is there?’ he asked piteously.
‘We certainly don’t suspect Mrs Rotherwell of anything criminal,’ said Bill with what was meant to be a reassuring smile. ‘We merely want to find out what has happened to her.’
‘But that’s exactly what I don’t know!’ wailed Mr Grafton.
Jack took a hand. ‘The thing is, Mr Grafton, we want to reassure ourselves that Mrs Rotherwell has come to no harm.’
The manager swelled alarmingly. ‘Harm? Why should she have come to any harm?’
Bill’s mouth thinned. ‘We think she might have come to harm,’ he said, ‘because she told us she was being followed by a man wanted for murder.’
In other circumstances, Jack would’ve enjoyed the manager’s reaction. He sank back in his chair, his mouth opening and shutting wordlessly. It was like watching the air going out of a pricked balloon. ‘Murder?’ he managed at last. ‘Oh no. Not here.’
‘Obviously not here,’ Jack said dryly. ‘It’s the fact that Mrs Rotherwell isn’t here that’s the problem. When did you see her last?’
Mr Grafton gulped. ‘Yesterday morning,’ he said eventually. ‘I didn’t see her personally. We have a large clientele and I regret I cannot possibly be individually acquainted with all our visitors. However, at the insistence of this gentleman—’ once more, he indicated Bill – ‘I checked with the clerks who have been on duty at the desk since Monday. Mrs Rotherwell left her key at the desk on Tuesday morning.’
‘Have you been in her room?’ asked Bill.
Mr Grafton shook his head. ‘Not personally, no. However, the chambermaids will have cleaned her room as usual and they certainly would have reported anything untoward.’
‘Could she have left a note or something to tell us where she might be?’ asked Jack. He very much wanted to see her room.
‘She wouldn’t have left it in her room, surely,’ said Mr Grafton, reasonably enough. ‘She would have told the clerk at the desk. I did have a memorandum of her absence passed to me this morning, as she had not mentioned she was planning to stay out overnight, but we had no reason to suspect any …’ He gulped and tried for the words. ‘What may be described as foul play.’
He looked at them pathetically. ‘Surely this will prove to be nothing more than a misunderstanding. Perhaps she is staying with a friend or relative?’
‘She told me she had a married son, Matthew Rotherwell, who lives in Kensington,’ said Jack. He raised an enquiring eyebrow to Bill. ‘We could try telephoning him. I suppose he’s in the phone book.’
‘Let’s have a look in her room first,’ suggested Bill. ‘I’d rather do that first than alarm her family.’
Reluctantly, the manager agreed.
Mrs Rotherwell had been staying at the Royal Park for three weeks. The room, which obviously had been cleaned by the chambermaids, just as Mr Grafton had said, was neat and orderly. Her personal possessions consisted of clothes, toiletries, a few books and two framed photographs. One had obviously been taken in bright sunlight against a white bungalow with a veranda and was of a wiry, middle-aged man, wearing a short-sleeved shirt and shorts, together with a younger man, also in short sleeves and shorts. There was a strong resemblance between them. Mr Rotherwell and son Ronnie in Ceylon, presumably. The other was of a younger man with a woman about the same age. That must be Matthew Rotherwell and his wife, thought Jack.
‘She probably had the bulk of her possessions in storage somewhere,’ said Bill, picking up a handful of letters from the drawer of the dresser. ‘What have we got here? Three letters from friends in Ceylon. That’s to be expected. There’s one with a Wimbledon postmark, too.’
Ignoring Mr Grafton’s protests, he quickly read the letter through. ‘It’s from Mrs Shilton, Jack. That’s Miss Langton’s aunt, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, that’s right. Mrs Shilton told me she’d written to Mrs Rotherwell.’
Bill put the letter back in its envelope with an impatient sigh. ‘What this room hasn’t got,’ he said in frustration, ‘is any clue to where she might be now. I’d hoped we might find an invitation or an open timetable or something of that sort, but there’s nothing. I can’t even see an address book or anything of that sort. She must have had one, surely.’
‘If it’s a small book, it’s probably in her handbag,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘However, we know she didn’t intend to stay out overnight. For one thing, she’d have probably said as much to the clerk on the desk, and for another, I imagine she’d take her toothbrush and face-cream and so on.’ He picked up a pair of spectacles that were resting on a small book entitled Devotional Thoughts on the bedside table and tried them on. ‘She left her reading glasses, too.’
He looked at Bill and shrugged. ‘We’re going t
o have to contact her son, Bill. I know you’re reluctant to worry him, but there’s nothing else for it.’
Back in the manager’s office, they found the entry for Mr M. Rotherwell easily enough in the telephone directory.
Bill reached for the telephone, then hesitated. ‘I think I’d better call in person,’ he said. ‘I’ve got an uneasy feeling about how this is going to turn out and I’d rather speak to them face to face.’ He looked at the address. ‘24, Cosby Place, Kensington.’
‘D’you mind if I come along?’ asked Jack.
‘I’d be glad if you did,’ said Bill. ‘I don’t know if this is connected to Trevelyan, but if it is, that’s your pigeon.’
‘What shall I do about Mrs Rotherwell’s room?’ asked Mr Grafton.
‘Leave it as it is for the time being,’ said Bill after a few moment’s thought. ‘It could be that she’s met with an accident and is in hospital.’
Mr Grafton seized on the suggestion with relief. ‘I imagine that is the case,’ he said gratefully. ‘That’s so much more likely than anything criminal.’
‘My mother’s disappeared?’ asked Matthew Rotherwell in blank disbelief. ‘She can’t have done.’ He turned to his wife, an intelligent-looking woman, who was clearly only a month or so off from adding to the Rotherwell family.
They were in the sitting room of the Rotherwells’ flat, a pleasant sunny room, elegantly decorated in pale green and primrose.
‘Could she be ill?’ asked Julia Rotherwell. ‘I don’t like to think so, but she might have been knocked over by a car, say, and be in hospital.’
Bill shook his head. ‘I’m afraid that’s not the case. She was last seen at the hotel on Tuesday morning. I had the hospital reports for Tuesday onwards checked before we came here, and there’s no one who’s met with an accident who could be your mother.’
‘But what could have happened to her?’ said Matthew Rotherwell, bewildered.
Bill cleared his throat. This could be delicate. ‘Forgive me for asking, sir, but has your mother ever given you cause for concern by an unexplained absence before now?’
‘Has she ever done what?’ asked Matthew Rotherwell, puzzled.
‘Has she ever gone away without telling us,’ explained his wife. ‘Wandered off, in other words. No, Chief Inspector, never.’
‘We don’t know everything she did in Ceylon,’ began Matthew, but Julia Rotherwell shook her head. ‘What Mr Rackham’s really asking, Matthew, is if your mother’s dotty or not.’ She looked at Bill. ‘I’m right, aren’t I? You do mean that?’
Bill reluctantly nodded.
‘Certainly not,’ said Matthew, affronted. ‘My mother’s as sane as you are.’
‘She really is,’ agreed Julia. ‘She’s a very matter-of-fact person. She copes, you know? After Matthew’s father died, she stayed on in Ceylon with Matthew’s brother, Ronnie, for quite a while before coming back home. We’d warned her that it was a dickens of a job to find a suitable place to live, with this terrible shortage of houses, but she said she would simply stay in a hotel so she had time to look round. She’s been back for a couple of months. She only moved into the Royal Park about three weeks ago. She told me she liked it very much. I’m sure she wouldn’t have left without saying anything.’
‘Did she mention a Caroline Trevelyan, by any chance?’ asked Jack. He and Bill had discussed how to raise the subject of Michael Trevelyan on the way to Kensington. Bill was dead against the idea of asking Matthew Rotherwell outright if his mother had talked about seeing a suspected murderer. That really would alarm any relative with an ounce of feeling, but he’d agreed to find out if Matthew would volunteer the information.
‘Caroline Trevelyan?’ began Matthew. The name obviously meant nothing to him, but his wife nodded vigorously.
‘Yes, of course. You remember, Matthew. Caroline Trevelyan used to be one of your mother’s pupils years ago. They were always very friendly and then the poor woman was bumped off by her husband. Well, she disappeared, at any rate,’ she amended. ‘No one knew what really happened but your mother thought it was obvious her husband had done it. It sounded all too Dr Crippen for words, but it was all very sad, when you come to think about it. There was an advertisement in the newspaper asking for information about her. Your mother was quite concerned. She wondered who on earth could be interested in Mrs Trevelyan after all this time.’
‘Of course,’ said Matthew. He looked at them ruefully. ‘I’ll be honest. I didn’t really pay much attention but I know she’d written to this chap who’d advertised and was going to meet him for lunch. Perhaps he can help, if you can find out who he is.’
‘That was me,’ said Jack. Both the Rotherwells looked at him sharply. ‘Caroline Trevelyan’s daughter has asked me to find out what I can about her mother,’ he explained in answer to their unspoken question. ‘I lunched at the Criterion with your mother on Monday.’
‘Then …’ began Matthew uncertainly. He gave Jack a puzzled look, then rubbed his hand across his forehead. ‘I was hoping whoever it was she met at the Criterion could tell us more, but if it was you, that’s not much help, is it?’
‘When did you last see your mother?’ asked Bill.
‘I went shopping with her on Saturday,’ said Julia. ‘We went to Heals to look at nursery furniture. She was very much looking forward to the new baby,’ she said with a worried smile. ‘I hope she’s all right,’ she added. ‘I can’t think what on earth could’ve happened to her. She’s such a kind, considerate person. She’d never cause us this sort of anxiety needlessly.’
‘Did she seem worried at all?’ asked Bill. That was as close as he was prepared to go in asking ‘had she seen a suspected murderer?’.
‘She was certainly concerned that someone was asking about this Caroline Trevelyan,’ said Julia. ‘She’d been very fond of Mrs Trevelyan and hoped that, even after all this time, the truth would come out, but I wouldn’t say she was worried, exactly.’
‘It might be difficult to tell how she was feeling, Julia,’ put in Matthew. ‘You know what my mother is like.’
‘I know she doesn’t like to worry us, Matthew.’
‘That’s true. If she had anything on her mind, anything that was bothering her, she’d keep it to herself until she’d thought of a solution.’ He nearly smiled. ‘It’s kindly meant, but she does like being in charge.’
‘You’re right,’ said Julia Rotherwell. ‘She’ll ask for your opinion but she always has her own answer worked out. What she’s really after is confirmation.’
Yes, thought Jack uneasily. That’s how she’d struck him, a woman who kept things to herself. She obviously hadn’t mentioned seeing Michael Trevelyan to her family, but that seemed perfectly in character. If she really had seen him, of course. Twenty years was a long time but that damned advert of his had made the whole Trevelyan business fresh in her mind. She could’ve recognised him.
‘Does she have any friends in London?’ asked Bill. ‘I want to know who else we could ask, you understand.’
‘She doesn’t have many friends,’ said Julia with a shake of her head. ‘She’s lived abroad for so long, you see. I know she chatted to a couple of ladies in the hotel, but they were just passing acquaintances.’ She frowned in recollection. ‘She did mention a couple of names, though.’ She looked up brightly. ‘One was in connection with this Caroline Trevelyan business. I’m trying to remember the name. Mrs Shilton? Is that it?’
Jack and Bill swapped glances. They seemed to be coming full circle. ‘We know about Mrs Shilton,’ said Jack. ‘She was a relative of Mrs Trevelyan’s.’ It was best, he thought, to put it like that.
Matthew turned to his wife. ‘Who did my mother used to write to? I know there was someone, a woman she’d known years ago, before she went to Ceylon.’ He smiled fleetingly. ‘There were a few old friends who she kept in touch with, particularly at Christmas and so on, but most of them either lived abroad or have died over the years. There was one woman though, who I know lived
in London. I think they’d met up a couple of times. Julia, you know who I’m talking about. What the dickens was her name?’
Julia screwed up her face in an effort of remembrance. ‘It was a Mrs Davenham,’ she said slowly. ‘Mrs Jane Davenham.’
Bill sat up sharply. ‘Excuse me, Mrs Rotherwell, did you say Jane Davenham? Mrs Jane Davenham?’
‘Yes, that’s right,’ said Julia Rotherwell, obviously taken aback. ‘Why? Do you know her?’
Jack looked at Bill in surprise. Bill had never mentioned a Jane Davenham and yet the name clearly meant something to him. ‘Who is she, Bill?’
Bill shook himself. ‘It’s probably something and nothing. It’s just that the lady’s name came up the other day.’ He forced himself to smile. ‘It was in connection with a lost cat.’
Although Bill’s reply evidently satisfied Matthew and Julia Rotherwell, it didn’t fool Jack for a moment. He knew his friend far too well to believe that a lost cat was the top and bottom of the story. Besides that, what on earth would Bill be doing chasing a lost cat? However, he obviously didn’t want to say any more in front of the Rotherwells.
‘It’s probably another Mrs Davenham,’ said Julia.
‘It very well might be,’ said Bill casually. ‘There must be lots of Jane Davenhams in London.’
‘Perhaps,’ said Matthew doubtfully. ‘I can’t say I would’ve thought the name was that common.’ He turned to his wife. ‘Do you remember where she lived?’
‘No,’ said Julia. ‘Your mother mentioned the address. I know it was a flat and somewhere central. What on earth was the name? Wrexham Mansions? Something like that.’
‘Roxborough,’ muttered Bill. ‘Roxborough Mansions.’
‘That’s it,’ said Julia with certainty. ‘I remember now. It must be the same person, Mr Rackham, if the address is the same.’
‘It certainly seems so,’ said Bill guardedly. He cleared his throat. ‘Can you tell me anything about Mrs Davenham?’
Forgotten Murder Page 15
