‘Would you mind not doing that, sir?’ asked Jack.
‘Not doing that?’ Sir Douglas repeated blankly. ‘Of course I’ve got to do that, Major. Dash it, never mind that the housekeeper at Saunder’s Green seemed to take a real shine to you. I know it’ll be a real blow for the poor woman, to find out there’s been a dead body on the premises, but we don’t have any choice in the matter. We can’t be swayed by sentiment.’
‘No, of course not,’ said Jack. ‘That’s not why I’m asking. It’s just that when the body is disinterred, there won’t be any chance of hiding the fact. The balloon will go up good and proper and, just for the moment, I’d rather let sleeping dogs lie.’
‘I’m sorry, Major, it’s out of the question.’
‘Give me three days,’ asked Jack. ‘After all, the poor woman’s body has been there for twenty years. Three days won’t make that much difference.’
‘I can’t possibly agree,’ said Sir Douglas.
‘Three days,’ repeated Jack. ‘Three days to find the marriage certificate.’
‘If there is one,’ commented Bill.
‘Oh, I think there is,’ said Jack absently. He looked at Sir Douglas with a smile. ‘It really could make all the difference.’
Sir Douglas looked at him thoughtfully. ‘You’ve got something in mind.’ He stubbed out his cigarette. ‘Tell me. Does this appertain to the Rotherwell enquiry?’
‘Yes, it does, sir.’
‘Dammed if I see how,’ he grunted. He drummed his fingers on the desk, then came to a decision. ‘Very well, Major. This is all very irregular, but as you actually found the body, you have a right to ask.’ He cocked an eyebrow at Bill. ‘Granted it’s part of the Rotherwell case, you’d better help him, Rackham. You can add some official weight to the enquiry. And then, when you’ve found what you’re looking for, maybe you’ll be kind enough to tell me what it’s all about.’
It was at ten past eleven on the second day that Jack looked up from the leather-bound register in Somerset House. ‘I say, Bill,’ he said with supressed excitement, ‘I’ve found it.’
The next day, an advertisement appeared in the classified column of all the daily newspapers.
Mrs Jane Davenham – did you really think my mother didn’t talk about marriage? Times are hard, but I’m sure we can come to an arrangement. M.R. Reply to P.O. Box 64, Harley Street.
The following morning Jack presented his card for box number 64 at Harley Street post office. He was rewarded with a letter. He quickly ripped it open and read it, then stuffing the letter in his pocket and, trying to smother a broad grin, he walked down Harley Street to the Embankment and Scotland Yard. Bait taken.
‘I’m surprised Sir Douglas agreed to the scheme,’ said Betty that evening.
Jack pulled her closer to him on the sofa. ‘He’s a sporting old bird,’ he said. ‘He wants to get hold of Jane Davenham as much as I do. Besides, what we’re doing might be unconventional, but it isn’t illegal. He wouldn’t agree to anything against the law.’ His arm tightened round her. ‘No, my sweetheart, now we’ve got Matthew and Julia Rotherwell safely out of the way, my main concern is you.’
‘I’ll be fine,’ said Betty. ‘After all, all I have to do is meet the woman.’
Bracing herself, Betty walked over the footbridge in St James’ Park and, shoulders squared, made for the left-hand bench, looking out onto the lake. Taking a copy of On The Town from her bag, she left it unopened on her knee. She hadn’t bought it to read; it was a signal.
It was about ten minutes later when a middle-aged woman walked past the bench. She had a coat with big patch pockets and was fingering something in the pocket. She seemed to be taking a very keen interest in the landscape, looking around her constantly.
Her eyes went first to the magazine and then to Betty. She walked on a few steps then stood for a moment, as if contemplating the pelicans and ducks on the lake. Turning back, she looked suspiciously at her surroundings once more, then sat down beside Betty.
‘Mrs Julia Rotherwell?’ she said without preamble.
‘Yes,’ said Betty. ‘And you are Mrs Davenham, I presume. My mother-in-law spoke about you. And marriage.’
‘She was mistaken.’
Betty shook her head with a knowing smile. ‘No. I’ve got the marriage certificate.’
Jane Davenham drew her breath in with a hiss.
‘It took me some time to find it,’ continued Betty, ‘but I wanted proof positive before I wrote to you. Marriages, Mrs Davenham, are a matter of public record and Somerset House is open to everyone.’
‘Have you got the certificate with you?’
‘Of course not,’ said Betty with a dismissive laugh. ‘It’s in a safe place with, I may say, instructions to send it to the police with a full explanation, should anything untoward happen to me. So, Mrs Davenham, you can stop playing with that gun or knife or whatever it is in your pocket and listen to me.’
Mrs Davenham gave her a startled glance and, withdrawing her hand from her pocket, sat back on the bench.
‘I want to see the certificate,’ she said after a few moments.
‘Fair enough,’ agreed Betty. ‘I can easily get another copy. I’ll give you that copy in return for two hundred pounds.’
‘Two hundred pounds?’
‘In the first instance, yes. There will be further instalments.’
Jane Davenham’s eyes narrowed. ‘I would advise you not to be too greedy, Mrs Rotherwell. I know where you live.’
‘You probably know where we did live, Mrs Davenham. I have no illusions about what you are capable of. And, I may say, that you are in no position to make threats. I am going to give you a letter. It contains instructions as to where you will leave the money. If those instructions are not followed, then I will go to the police.’
‘You won’t make any money like that,’ said Jane Davenham with a sneer.
‘No, but you will suffer the consequences. That was actually what my husband wanted to do. It was I who persuaded him that there could be another way.’ She smiled. ‘Think of it as a mutually beneficent arrangement.’
She didn’t miss the cold, angry gleam in Jane Davenham’s eyes. Suddenly Betty wanted to be as far away from this woman as possible. She stood up and, taking an envelope from inside the magazine, paused before giving it to her.
‘Wait ten minutes before you open this. Don’t forget, if anything happens to me, the police will know the truth. Matthew wants to tell them. If I think I’ve been followed, I will let him have his way.’ She handed her the letter. ‘Goodbye, Mrs Davenham.’
Boiling with anger, Jane Davenham watched her walk away. She glanced at her watch. She’d better keep to the instructions. For the moment, that woman had the upper hand. She smiled slowly. For the moment.
The minutes ticked by. Jane Davenham looked at her watch again. Nearly ten minutes. She took the knife from her pocket and slit open the envelope. She gazed in utter astonishment at the single word on the sheet of paper it contained.
The word was, Boo!
What the hell? She thrust the letter angrily into her pocket as a man sat down on the bench beside her. ‘Good morning, Mrs Davenham,’ he said politely.
She gazed at him in horrified recognition. It was Chief Inspector Rackham.
Another man sat down on the other side. Her stomach turned over as she recognised Jack Haldean. She looked at him wildly as he tipped his hat and smiled.
‘Or should that be Mrs Rotherwell?’
His hand shot out and gripped her wrist, forcing her to let go of the knife. It clattered to the ground as she struggled in his grip.
‘Let me go!’ she screamed. She hit out frantically as three more men hurried across the path to the bench. ‘Help me!’
With some difficulty, Rackham snapped the handcuffs round her wrist. ‘I’m sorry, Mrs Davenham, but these are my men and you are under arrest.’
‘What an absolute wild cat,’ said Rackham. He and Jack were in Rackham’s offi
ce at Scotland Yard. ‘I feel better now she’s safely under lock and key.’
He glanced up as a knock sounded on the door and Betty walked in.
Jack leapt to his feet and hugged her close. ‘Betty, you complete star,’ he said, pulling out a chair for her. ‘We couldn’t have pulled it off without you. You were brilliant. I was so relieved when I saw you walk away from that woman.’
‘I was pretty relieved myself,’ said Betty, unbuttoning her coat. ‘She was so angry that I honestly thought she might try and murder me on the spot. I’m sure she had a weapon.’
‘She had a knife,’ said Jack. ‘And yes, I think she was prepared to use it.’ He squeezed her shoulders, conscious of the sudden lump in his throat. ‘I’m just glad to have you back.’
‘I’ll drink to that,’ said Bill, raising his cup of tea. He put the cup down and stood up. ‘Let me take your coat, Betty. You carried it off magnificently. She never suspected a thing.’
‘Thanks,’ said Betty, sinking into the chair. ‘It made such a difference, knowing you were close at hand. I couldn’t have done it otherwise. Is that tea?’ she asked, looking at the tray on the desk. ‘Can I have some?’
‘Certainly,’ said Bill. He hung up Betty’s coat and, returning to the desk, poured her out a cup. ‘I think it should be champagne,’ he added with a grin, ‘but tea will have to do.’
‘It’s all I want,’ she said, taking the cup. ‘She was a horrible woman,’ she added, shuddering. ‘She frightened me stiff. Goodness knows what Mrs Rotherwell – the real Mrs Rotherwell, I mean – ever saw in her.’
‘Well, to be fair, I don’t suppose the real Mrs Rotherwell ever tried to blackmail her,’ said Jack with a grin. ‘That must affect how you feel about a person.’
‘Where is she now?’ asked Betty.
‘In one of the cells downstairs,’ said Bill. ‘She’s refused to say anything without a lawyer present, which is, of course, her perfect right, so she can cool her heels for the time being. I’m waiting for him to turn up before I go near her.’
He opened the box of cigarettes on his desk. ‘Help yourself,’ he said. He lit a cigarette and leaning back, stretched out his legs luxuriantly. ‘Whatever put you onto it, Jack? That she was Mrs Rotherwell, I mean?’
‘It was Matthew and Julia Rotherwell who set me thinking,’ said Jack. ‘The woman they described, the real Mrs Rotherwell, Matthew’s mother, sounded superficially like the woman we’d met. The clothes were perfect, of course, because they were actually Mrs Rotherwell’s own. The two women were similar enough in height and build for the deception to work and the woman we met certainly knew enough about the real Mrs Rotherwell to give a very convincing performance. No, it was the Rotherwells’ mention of how kindly a woman Matthew’s mother had been and how she was looking forward to the new baby. It occurred to me to wonder what sort of grandmother she would make, and I just couldn’t get the picture to gel in my head. Now, admittedly I had spent longer with her than you did, Bill, but I didn’t get any impression of maternal feeling or kindliness from her.’
‘Kindliness isn’t how I’d describe Jane Davenham, that’s for sure,’ said Bill.
‘Certainly not,’ echoed Betty with feeling.
‘It was really nothing more than a niggle, but it worried me,’ said Jack. ‘At the same time, Mrs Rotherwell was certainly a real person. Her son and daughter-in-law vouched for that, and there was the fact that she had come forward of her own volition. She answered my advertisement and, what’s more, had written to Mrs Shilton about it. And, if anything was certain, it was that the poor woman had indeed been murdered. As you know, I was a bit doubtful that the body we found in Summer’s Court was her, but I couldn’t argue with the evidence.’
‘You weren’t happy though, were you, darling?’ said Betty.
‘No, I wasn’t, but it was meeting Mrs Shilton on the Embankment that finally made me think about Mrs Rotherwell properly. Yes, there was a real Mrs Rotherwell, but was she the woman that Bill and I met?’
Bill blew out a long mouthful of smoke. ‘Well done,’ he said. ‘I met her and I didn’t have any doubts whatsoever.’
‘Yes, but don’t forget I had the dubious pleasure of taking her to lunch. I had longer with her than you did.’
Betty drank the rest of her tea. ‘When was the poor thing – the real Mrs Rotherwell, I mean – actually killed?’
‘The day before I met her at the Criterion, if you know what I mean. That’s a guess, but I bet I’m right. There was some faked evidence to make us think otherwise. There was a newspaper left in Summer’s Court dated Wednesday 21st, the day that Mrs Rotherwell was supposed to have disappeared, but what I think happened is this. Jane Davenham took Mrs Rotherwell to Summer’s Court on Sunday the 18th. She never left the flat. Then Mrs Davenham, wearing Mrs Rotherwell’s clothes, went back to the Royal Park Hotel and stayed there overnight. She met me for lunch on the Monday, stayed another night at the hotel, and then disappeared the following day.’
‘Wasn’t that terribly risky?’ asked Betty. ‘To stay at the hotel, I mean?’
‘It obviously came off,’ said Jack. ‘And although I haven’t got a down on middle-aged ladies, I’ve noticed before how similar ladies of a certain age and class can appear. And,’ he added with a smile, ‘the desk clerk was a man.’
‘What’s that got to do with it?’ asked Betty.
‘Think about it, sweetheart. If a young, attractive woman was staying at the hotel, the desk clerk would notice. If it was you, say, he couldn’t help but take notice.’ Betty looked understandably pleased. ‘But an older woman? Not so much. It’s really mannerisms and clothes that he’d go on. The chambermaid who brought the morning tea would probably have noticed, but I bet our Mrs Davenham made sure she was covered up with bedclothes when the woman was in the room.’
‘What about the dripping tap in Summer’s Court?’ asked Bill. ‘Do you really think that was left dripping on purpose?’
Jack nodded. ‘I can’t prove it, but that’s my guess. If it was deliberately left dripping, I think it was fairly carefully calculated as to the time it would take to fill the bath and flood the flat.’
‘It sounds like a macabre version of a school maths problem,’ said Bill. ‘I still don’t get the point.’
‘I think the point was to force the issue, to make us act sooner rather than later. The idea of putting her in the bath was to make Mrs Rotherwell unrecognisable. I’d met Jane Davenham and so had you. If we’d seen the poor woman before the bath had filled, we’d know she wasn’t the woman we’d met, no matter how many dentists testified that she was the real Mrs Rotherwell. Incidentally, when I met Jane Davenham in the Criterion, she was rattled when she discovered I’d read the original statement and was fairly chummy with the police. She was taken aback when I suggested she should come here and talk to you, Bill. Then, after she’d thought about it for a few moments, she probably realised how that would make her case stronger.’
‘And what is that case?’ asked Bill.
‘To convince us that there’s such a person as Michael Trevelyan. There isn’t.’
Bill snorted in disagreement. ‘Yes, there is. Of course there is.’ He broke off in irritation as the phone rang. ‘Excuse me,’ he said, and pulled the telephone towards him. ‘Chief Inspector Rackham speaking.’
They saw his face alter as a voice crackled down the telephone. They could only hear his part of the conversation, but his words and the urgency of his voice brought Jack to his feet. ‘She said what? … No, no! Don’t do that! … I’ll be there as quickly as I can.’
Bill hung up the receiver and looked at them, his face white. ‘Jack, you’re wrong. You’re very wrong. Michael Trevelyan’s real all right. That was Miss Langton. She’s had her aunt on the phone in a terrible state. Michael Trevelyan’s at Saunder’s Green and he’s planning something desperate.’ His face twisted. ‘Jennifer Langton’s going to Saunder’s Green. She’s determined to face her father.’
SEV
ENTEEN
Betty started up. ‘Jenny mustn’t do that! He’s dangerous!’
‘I know!’ Bill almost ran towards the door, then stopped and knocked his knuckles against his forehead, as if forcing himself to think. Then, striding back to the desk, he snatched up the telephone and rang Sir Douglas.
After a few brief words, Bill jammed the receiver back on the rest. ‘I’m to get to Saunder’s Green as quickly as possible. Sir Douglas is organising more men to follow.’
‘Come on!’ said Jack urgently. ‘Can we take a police car, Bill?’ he asked as they clattered down the stairs. ‘I’ll drive.’
‘Yes, that’s for the best,’ said Bill, who was obviously trying desperately to get his fears under control. ‘I can’t believe Jenny’s going there. I couldn’t stop her.’
They ran out into the car park and towards the garage. ‘Sergeant!’ snapped Bill to the man in charge. ‘I need your fastest car right away.’
‘Very good, sir,’ said the sergeant and turned away into the depths of the garage.
Jack put his hand on Betty’s shoulder. ‘Will you go home? You’ll be safer at home.’
She swallowed and shook her head. ‘Let me come with you, Jack. I can’t bear the thought of staying behind, not knowing what’s happening. Besides, Jenny might need me.’
He squeezed her hand. ‘All right.’
A black Wolseley, the sergeant at the wheel, drove out of the garage and came to a halt. ‘Here you are, sir,’ he said, dismounting.
Jack, Bill and Betty scrambled into the car.
‘Can’t you go any faster?’ said Bill tersely as they drove down the Embankment.
‘Not in this bus and not in this traffic,’ said Jack. ‘If we have an accident, that’ll really tear things.’
The traffic thinned as they got out of central London, but as Jack wrestled the heavy, sluggish Wolseley along the suburban roads, he ached for the quick responses of his Spyker. How the devil did the cops ever catch anyone in these old crates?
Forgotten Murder Page 25
