Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Yes, of course. I’m meeting my editor for lunch but I’ll drop in afterwards. What proof have you got? The newspapers restricted themselves to saying that the body was believed to be that of Amelia Rotherwell.’

  ‘I know they did, but since then, that poor beggar, Matthew Rotherwell, has identified her.’

  ‘How did he do that?’ asked Jack. ‘Second sight?’

  There was a tut down the telephone. ‘You know what I mean. Of course he couldn’t say it was his mother just by looking at her, but he had to go through the formalities all the same. He was fairly sure it was her, because of the clothes and the shape and so on.’

  ‘That’s not very definite.’

  ‘No, I’m coming to that. What he did tell us, and this is definite, was that his mother had broken her leg, years ago, and, moreover, he gave us the name of her dentist.’

  ‘Ah.’

  ‘As you say, ah. Dr Roude found the old fracture and the dental records match, so that’s it. Oh, and by the way, it looks as if I was right about how she was killed. There’s signs of a blow on the skull, but she was drowned, all right. There was water in the lungs.’

  ‘Well done you,’ said Jack.

  ‘So you can safely put all your wilder ideas to rest. We’ve issued an arrest warrant for Michael Trevelyan. God only knows what’s happened to Jane Davenham. I just hope we don’t find her corpse next.’

  ‘So do I. By the way, did you compare the typing from the Underwood we found at the flat with the typing on the packing case Jenny Langton received?’

  ‘We did. They’re a match. It’s the same typewriter sure enough. There’s another thing. We’ve managed to get a photo of Trevelyan out of Mrs Shilton.’

  ‘Good grief! I bet that took some effort.’

  ‘It certainly did,’ said Bill with feeling.

  ‘I can’t imagine she’ll be very happy about you using it.’

  ‘Happy or not, we’ve got it. I’m going to nail this bloke, Jack. Think of the Rotherwells and the misery he’s caused. Matthew Rotherwell was really cut up about his mother. He was delighted that she had come back to England and she was really looking forward to her first grandchild. She’ll never see that baby.’

  Jack paused. That was a shockingly sad thought. ‘That’s pretty tough,’ he said quietly.

  ‘I’ll say.’ It was Bill’s turn to hesitate. ‘And he knows where Miss Langton lives. That’s not nice. He’s got away with murder for too long.’

  ‘Aunty’s terribly upset,’ said Jenny, crushing out her cigarette. ‘The police have been round and more or less forced her to give them the photograph of my father.’

  ‘Forced?’ asked Betty, her nose wrinkling.

  ‘I don’t mean physically forced, of course, but asked her in a way she couldn’t really refuse. They talked about hindering the police in the execution of their duties and all that sort of thing, and Aunty just isn’t the sort of person to stand up to it.’ Jenny sighed and shook herself impatiently. ‘Having said that, she was so upset, she was gearing herself up to go and beard poor Mr Rackham in his den, so to speak.’

  ‘She’s going to Scotland Yard?’ said Betty in surprise.

  ‘That’s what she said. She spent all yesterday afternoon talking about it.’

  It was Jenny’s afternoon off and the two girls had met for lunch in the Lyon’s tea room on Tottenham Court Road. Jenny wanted to do some shopping and then there was dinner tonight with Jack and Betty. And Mr Rackham. Was that a problem?

  Betty had been really lucky, Jenny thought to herself with a touch of envy. After a lifetime of never having enough, Betty suddenly had a lovely home, enough money not to be worried and a man who really cared about her. A man who cared. At this point her mind conjured up a picture, not of Jack, but of a square-shouldered, untidy, ginger-haired man with thoughtful eyes and an engaging grin. She thrust the image forcibly away. Mr Rackham was the police and the police, according to Aunty Gwyn, were the enemy.

  Aunty Gwyn had so taken it for granted that Jenny shared her views, it was difficult not to be swayed, and yet …

  ‘It’s so hard,’ she broke out. ‘I remember coming to see you that day I’d been to Saunder’s Green. You were an absolute brick. You were so kind, Betty.’

  Betty couldn’t help but feel pleased.

  Jenny half-smiled at her expression. ‘You really were. You listened and didn’t laugh at me. I wanted to know what I’d seen and why I’d seen it. And yet if I’d had any idea what I was stirring up, I would never have asked Jack to …’ She broke off. She had nearly said interfere but that was unfair.

  ‘Help?’ suggested Betty.

  ‘Help,’ repeated Jenny ironically. She rubbed her face with her hands. ‘It never crossed my mind that anything like this would come out. About my poor mother and what sort of man my father was, I mean. I thought my father was Dad.’

  ‘Dr Langton?’

  ‘Yes. Dad. I really cared about Dad. Dad was my father in every respect apart from the actual biological one, and that’s the bit that hurts. Who the hell is this man – my father? I must have something in common with him and that’s an awful thought. It’s frightening.’

  Betty reached across the table and squeezed her hand encouragingly. ‘You’re not your father. You’re you. After all, no one’s a carbon copy of their parents. There’s loads of other stuff that matters. In your case, it’s who brought you up, to say nothing of your own self.’

  ‘Thanks,’ said Jenny softly. ‘D’you know, part of why I’m feeling so wretched, is that I almost wanted to find him? Then, as things have gone on, I’ve just become more and more scared that the police will find him. I’ll have to face him, Betty, and I don’t want to.’ She shuddered. ‘I wish I could feel like Aunty Gwyn. She’s convinced my father is innocent.’

  ‘What? Even after poor Mrs Rotherwell?’ said Betty. ‘Surely that must’ve shaken her.’

  ‘Oh, it did, but she doesn’t really believe it. She refused point blank to read the accounts in the Sunday newspapers.’

  ‘Well, they were pretty lurid.’

  Jenny tossed her head impatiently. ‘She’s just hiding her head in the sand. I do care for her, Betty. She’s such a kind person, but she believes that everyone is good at heart and they’re not, are they?’

  ‘Is she really certain he’s innocent?’ asked Betty sceptically.

  ‘Absolutely. The police are telling wicked lies and that’s the end of that.’

  Betty hesitated. ‘Jack thinks she might be in touch with him. I know Bill Rackham thinks the same.’

  Jenny winced. ‘She might be. After all, how did he know about me if she didn’t tell him? He sent me that brooch and took my photo from my room. Aunty Gwyn thinks I should be pleased he took my photograph,’ she burst out. ‘She thinks it was clever of him. She thinks it showed he cared.’

  ‘How do you feel?’ asked Betty.

  ‘Honestly?’ Jenny lit another cigarette. ‘Scared. You know what happened to Mrs Rotherwell. I don’t want him to care. I don’t want anything to do with him.’

  ‘That’s understandable,’ said Betty. ‘I don’t see how anyone could enjoy being in your shoes.’ She looked at her friend’s expression. ‘Try not to worry too much, Jenny. I know it’s easy to say, but Jack’s doing all he can.’

  ‘And Mr Rackham,’ added Jenny. ‘Yes, I know.’ There was a little lift in her voice as she said his name.

  Betty felt a little glow of triumph. She’d guessed Jenny liked Bill Rackham. Liked him very much. That was partly why she’d arranged a dinner party for the four of them.

  Jenny glanced at the clock and picked up her bag. ‘I must be off.’

  ‘Well, don’t forget, dinner tonight.’

  ‘No, I won’t. Seven o’clock. I’m looking forward to it. I really must be going, but I’ll see you then.’

  After placating Archie Keyne, his editor, with the promise of two short stories and an article, Jack left the Cheshire Cheese and walked from Fleet Street
to the Embankment.

  The afternoon was glorious, with the autumn sunshine turning the Thames into a glittering carpet of light. He usually enjoyed this stretch of London, with the barges on the busy river and the trees lining the pavement. However, he was so absorbed in his thoughts that he scarcely took in the scene. It was one thing discussing fictional murders with Archie, and quite another contemplating poor Mrs Rotherwell.

  He had been moved that morning when Bill had reminded him of the baby that she would never see. Matthew and Julia Rotherwell had really cared about her. What sort of grandmother would she have made? It was an interesting question. In fact, it was a fascinating question. What sort of woman was she?

  He was so absorbed in his train of thought, that he nearly walked into a woman who was striding determinedly along the pavement.

  He veered off abruptly to one side, when he realised who the woman was.

  ‘Mrs Shilton?’ he said, raising his hat. ‘I do apologise. What brings you to town?’

  ‘Good afternoon, Mr Haldean.’ She glanced along the road to the bulk of Scotland Yard. ‘I intend to call on the police. Do you know they have issued a warrant for my brother’s arrest? I am going to tell them that this must be stopped. They insist that my brother murdered – murdered, I say – Amelia Rotherwell. He would never harm a hair of her head. He would never harm anyone. It is quite outrageous that they should blacken his character in this way.’

  ‘It must be very upsetting for you,’ said Jack diplomatically.

  ‘Indeed it is, Mr Haldean.’ She gripped the handle of the furled umbrella she was carrying as if she was going to use it as a weapon. ‘I understand from Jennifer that the officer in charge of the case is the man who accompanied you to my house. Rackham, I believe his name is,’ she added with a sniff. ‘I intend to give him a piece of my mind. I will not,’ she said fiercely, nearly jabbing Jack with the umbrella, ‘allow this to continue a moment longer.’

  Poor Bill had quite enough on his plate without Mrs Shilton descending on him like an avenging fury, thought Jack. ‘I’m terribly sorry, Mrs Shilton, but I don’t think you’ll be able to see him. I happen to know he’s engaged for the afternoon.’

  ‘Engaged?’ Her voice trembled. ‘But I must speak to him! It’s … It’s …’

  Jack felt a stab of sudden sympathy, mingled, he realised, with a twist of embarrassment, as her lip quivered and she blinked away tears.

  ‘Don’t, Mrs Shilton,’ he said, reaching out his hand to hers. ‘Please don’t upset yourself so.’

  She took a handkerchief from her handbag and dabbed her eyes. ‘I’m sorry,’ she said, between sniffs. ‘I just can’t bear anyone thinking such horrible things about Michael.’

  There was a bench a few yards away, under the shade of a plane tree. ‘Let’s sit down until you feel a bit more yourself, shall we?’ he suggested, taking her arm and gently escorting her to the bench.

  ‘You’re very kind,’ she managed as they sat down. She took a deep breath and, dabbing her eyes again, scrunched up her handkerchief in her hand.

  ‘I wish I could convince the police how impossible it is that Michael has done the things they say he’s done. It’s just wrong,’ she added with a resurgence of her old ferocity. ‘Michael is a good, kind man. He was distraught when Caroline went missing. He did everything he could to try and find her. No one who knew him could credit for an instant that he was responsible for her disappearance. Violet Laidlaw was deeply attached to her cousin and she never believed Michael was guilty. She even persuaded her father, old Mr Wild, to put up the money for Michael’s defence.’

  ‘The case never came to court though,’ said Jack.

  ‘No, it didn’t. But if it had, old Mr Wild was prepared to foot the bill.’ She heaved a deep sigh. ‘You’d have to have known Mr Wild to realise how remarkable that was. He was very careful with his money. I must say I never cared overly much for Mr Wild. He ruled the household with a rod of iron, but I was grateful to him for promising to help Michael. I like to think that if it had come to court, the truth would have come out and Michael would have been proved innocent. After all, someone must know the truth about what really happened that day.’

  ‘Whoever wrote the forged letter from Caroline Trevelyan must do,’ said Jack thoughtfully.

  She turned to him eagerly. ‘You’re right, Mr Haldean.’

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Shilton, were you there when that letter arrived?’

  ‘Indeed I was. Michael was excited at first, but very puzzled. He showed it to me and asked what I thought. I was relieved at first, to think we had some news, however peculiar, of Caroline, and then we both became convinced that Caroline simply could not have written that letter.’

  And that was probably as near to an accurate account as they would ever get. It was as they had thought. Trevelyan could have easily written the letter.

  ‘I feel so helpless,’ she said, her voice cracking. ‘Even Jennifer seems to believe the worst. She actually thought I’d read the awful things that were in the newspapers. I refused, of course.’

  ‘Of course you did, Mrs Shilton.’

  ‘But even so, I can’t help knowing what’s been said. How can anyone think that Michael – Michael! – not only murdered Caroline and Mrs Rotherwell but is also thought to have done away with this Mrs Davenham as well? That is simply not possible, Mr Haldean.’

  She glared at him so fiercely that he sat back in surprise.

  ‘Not possible?’

  ‘Absolutely not possible.’ She flushed with indignation. ‘Don’t you see? I believe the newspapers are saying that this woman, this Mrs Davenham, was associated with my brother.’

  ‘Well, er …’

  ‘In an immoral relationship!’ she added, her voice rising. ‘The idea is utterly incredible!’ She shuddered in disgust. ‘As if my brother would have anything to do with a woman like that!’

  ‘An immoral relationship,’ repeated Jack slowly. He had no urge to laugh. They might be living in the Jazz Age, as the newspapers called it, but Mrs Shilton’s outlook was formed long before the war.

  Vague ideas were starting to form a pattern in his mind. Yes, if Jane Davenham had been murdered, then that was certainly immoral, but Mrs Shilton, he knew, meant the phrase in its conventional sense.

  ‘Tell me, Mrs Shilton – and I apologise if the question seems odd – but would you befriend a woman who was in an immoral relationship?’

  ‘Certainly not!’ she exclaimed in near horror. ‘I don’t know how you can ask such a thing.’

  ‘Well, such relationships are known,’ he said with a smile.

  ‘I have no truck with this modern post-war laxity,’ she said severely.

  Jack nodded. Not that illicit relationships were unheard of before the war, of course, but they were certainly talked about a great deal more nowadays.

  ‘No, of course you don’t,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘I wouldn’t expect a lady such as yourself to have any other views on the matter. What if – and once again, I apologise if the question seems odd – an old friend, someone you had known for many years, found herself caught up in such a relationship?’

  She looked at him quizzically, as well she might. ‘I would, I hope, try to convince her of the error of her ways. I may say this has never actually happened, Mr Haldean, but if it came to my attention that one of my friends was indeed in such a situation, I would probably write to them, informing them that our friendship was at an end until the situation was resolved. I would feel it was my duty, however painful, to do so. I wouldn’t enjoy it,’ she added.

  ‘No, I don’t think you would enjoy it. You knew Mrs Rotherwell, didn’t you?’

  She blinked. ‘Are you implying that Amelia Rotherwell was caught up in such a relationship? Because let me tell you, young man, that such a suggestion is utterly outrageous.’

  ‘No, I—’

  ‘I was horrified when I heard what had happened to poor Amelia. The idea that my brother was responsible in any way is com
pletely ridiculous, of course.’

  ‘Yes, but—’

  ‘And for you to imply that Amelia Rotherwell, a most respectable woman and a widow to boot, should … Well! Words fail me.’

  It was just as well words had failed her, thought Jack. He couldn’t see how he was going to get a word in otherwise. ‘No, I wasn’t suggesting anything of the sort, Mrs Shilton. All I was trying to do was gauge if Mrs Rotherwell’s opinions on such matters were similar to yours.’

  ‘Rather stricter, if anything,’ she snapped, only partially mollified.

  And that was interesting. Mrs Rotherwell had told both him and Bill she had been with a friend when she had glimpsed Michael Trevelyan. That friend, they believed, was Jane Davenham.

  Matthew Rotherwell knew Jane Davenham as an old friend of his mother’s, but Mrs Rotherwell had been in Ceylon for the last twenty years. They had exchanged letters, certainly, but Mrs Davenham could have had any number of affairs without Mrs Rotherwell being any the wiser, if all Mrs Rotherwell knew was what Jane Davenham chose to tell her in her letters.

  So far, so good, but that state of affairs would change abruptly as soon as Mrs Rotherwell visited Jane Davenham in Summer’s Court.

  They had obviously been friendly enough when they came in. They had the porter’s word for that. But it was obvious, once inside the flat, that a man lived there. However, according to Mrs Shilton – and he believed her absolutely – if Mrs Rotherwell had known Jane Davenham was in an illicit relationship, she would have cut the friendship dead.

  I’m looking forward to showing you the new place. We’ll have it all to ourselves … That was a phrase from the unsent letter. That surely implied that Jane Davenham usually didn’t have it to herself? And, what’s more, that Mrs Rotherwell knew it. Maybe that’s why the letter wasn’t sent, but even so, it was odd.

  ‘Amelia Rotherwell,’ said Mrs Shilton, still bristling with indignation, ‘was the soul of respectability.’

  ‘I’m sure she was,’ agreed Jack. ‘I was actually thinking of Jane Davenham.’

  ‘Jane Davenham!’ repeated Mrs Shilton with a snort. ‘If there is such a person. For my part, I believe she’s nothing but a figment of the police’s imagination.’