“I’m afraid I’m on duty tomorrow, Peter,” was the reply. “But I shall consult with Mabel during the day and see if she needs any assistance to process her material.”
“Yes, you both did a splendid job there.” Everyone in the room murmured their agreement with Beech.
“Entirely down to Billy’s aunt, Sissy… and I’m not just saying that,” Caroline admitted. “Sissy’s experience with dead bodies, and her observations, absolutely pointed me in the right direction, because, frankly, I didn’t have a clue. So much so that I am thinking of enrolling on the next course in pathology that comes along, because we barely touched on it in medical school. You do know, Peter,” she added, “that the evidence from the autopsy we performed will be inadmissible in court, because I am not a registered pathologist or police surgeon?”
“Yes, I know,” Beech replied gravely. “Although we could probably use some of your basic evidence about the body before surgery. The registrars will want a death certificate from you as an attending physician, and in court, if it comes to that, you can explain why you came to the conclusion written on the certificate… which will be?”
Caroline looked into the distance. “At the time I examined her – before surgery – I can only say for sure that she probably died from a drug overdose, not hanging – this is what the physical evidence showed me. But I don’t know if she accidentally administered an overdose herself and I don’t know at what point she actually died. I mean, it could be that she was seconds away from death when she was strung up and that just finished her off – in which case someone would be technically guilty of murder. We know that she could not have hanged herself. She was, probably, already a corpse when she was strung up, so I would have no concrete evidence to put something like ‘murder by person or persons unknown’. If I put ‘accidental death due to drug overdose’, might that not generate a coroner’s inquiry? I don’t think the Duchess would be very happy about that.”
“No, she wouldn’t,” Beech agreed, “but then I think that Sir Edward would probably squash any attempt to hold an inquiry. I think go with the accidental death description and we will just have to hope that we can nail the perpetrator with a confession, which will explain the murder process.”
“Just one more thing, sir,” added Tollman. “I think Billy and I should, if we can fit it in, go and see the editor of the newspaper Miss Treborne worked for. We need to find out what he knows and also caution him to keep his mouth shut. We don’t want him finding out and splashing it all over the newspapers before we have had a chance to investigate. We should probably see him first before he starts preparing the early edition. The Herald does a print run twice a day.”
“Good idea, Tollman. If he gives you any trouble, just intimate that Miss Treborne stumbled across some information that affects national security during wartime and he could find his whole newspaper slapped with a D Notice if he doesn’t co-operate.”
“Yes, sir,” Tollman smiled grimly.
“Right!” Beech was firm this time. “Bed for us all, I think. We’ve done a good job today. Let’s make further advances tomorrow.” Then he made for the door.
“Peter, you’re limping again,” said Victoria in a voice of concern. “Why not stay here tonight and give your leg a rest.”
“Nonsense!” said Beech, looking embarrassed. “I’ll get a taxicab home and climb into bed. Nothing a good night’s sleep won’t cure.”
Victoria followed him to the front door and put her hand on his shoulder. “You must take care of yourself, Peter,” she said softly. “None of us can do without you.”
Beech looked at her intently. “Could you do without me, Victoria?” he asked boldly. He knew he was risking a rebuff. His last attempt to resurrect their past relationship had led Victoria to ask him gently to be patient.
But this time, she returned his gaze without embarrassment and said simply, “Never.”
Beech felt a surge of relief mixed with hope. He kissed her lightly on the cheek and limped out of the door. The ache in his leg seemed to have greatly diminished and he smiled as he made his way towards Park Lane to hail a taxicab.
***
Billy was replete with tea, toast, eggs and bacon and standing outside the Mayfair house when Mr Tollman arrived – just as he had been instructed.
“Good.” Tollman was approving. “Let’s not waste any time, lad. We’ve got a hell of a lot of fish to fry today.”
“Raring to go, Mr Tollman,” said Billy cheerfully, and they strode out towards the bus stop.
“First stop, Fleet Street,” said Tollman firmly. “I’m just in the mood for a barney with a gobby editor.”
Arthur Cranham did not disappoint. He was a typical Fleet Street newspaper editor. Loud, opinionated, clever and tough. When told that the Detective Sergeant and the Constable wanted to see him privately, he began to protest.
“You can discuss anything with me, anything private, in front of my staff,” he said loudly and waved his arms expansively to encompass his not inconsiderable stable of employees. “I have no secrets.” The ‘staff’, made up mostly of grizzled middle-aged men, with a smattering of female typewriter operators, paused in their endeavours, with interest, to see how their boss would win out over the coppers.
Tollman gave the sort of small, mirthless smile that made the hairs on the back of Billy’s neck stand up and he waited for the sucker punch that would take Arthur Cranham down.
“How about Maisie Skinner?” said Tollman quietly, and Billy was fascinated to see all the air knocked out of Cranham as though he were a balloon in the hot sun.
“This way,” was the editor’s surly response, and the two policemen followed.
“Bloody hell, Mr Tollman,” murmured Billy, barely moving his lips. “What have you got on this man that felled him so quickly?”
“I’ll tell you later, son,” Tollman murmured back as they entered Cranham’s office and then closed the door.
The editor of the London Herald looked uncomfortable as he said, “I paid my dues on that score. Why has it all reared its head again?”
Billy had no idea what the man was talking about, but he was intrigued to see Tollman manipulate him by mentioning a name.
“Actually,” Tollman said briskly, “I haven’t come about Maisie Skinner…” Cranham looked visibly relieved. “That was just to stop you playing silly buggers and give us a bit of privacy to discuss another matter.”
“Sit down,” – Cranham motioned to the chairs by his desk – “and tell me what you really want… Detective Sergeant Tollworth, is it?”
“Tollman. We’re here about Adeline Treborne.”
Cranham’s face broke into an exasperated expression. “I don’t believe it!” he almost shouted. “What?! The bloody aristocracy paying the police to fight their libel suits now, are they? Forget it! I’ve had QCs in here threatening me with High Court actions if I print something about their clients, and they never follow through because they know that the dirty little secrets will have to be spelled out in detail if it goes to court. So, you can tell your Commissioner that threatening police action isn’t going to work either. Got it?”
Tollman sat calmly through the tirade, while Billy tried to repress the urge to thump the aggressive Cranham.
“Finished, have you, Mr Cranham?” Tollman asked sarcastically. “For your information, we are not here on behalf of some of Miss Treborne’s aggrieved victims. We are here because, last night, Adeline Treborne was found dead in her flat and we believe she was murdered.”
Cranham’s face turned ashen and he said, “Good God! That’s impossible! Her copy was delivered this morning!”
It was Tollman’s turn to be surprised. “Show me.”
Cranham opened the door and bawled into the newsroom, “Miss Taylor! Bring me the original copy for A Lady’s View!” A young typewriter operator scuttled across the room with a s
heaf of pink notepaper and thrust it into the editor’s hand. He turned back into the room waving the pink paper. “Eight thirty this morning, it was on the mat, as usual. On pink paper, as usual. In a pink envelope. And in her handwriting, as usual. See for yourself.” He handed the papers over to Tollman.
“Could they have been delivered last night?”
“Nope,” was the firm answer. “I was here until gone midnight and there was nothing pushed through the letterbox last night. And I was here at eight this morning and there was nothing on the mat. Perhaps her ghost delivered it?” Cranham guffawed at his tasteless joke. Then his news journalist’s instincts kicked in. “So, how did she die? Strangled by a lover? Knifed by an irate debutante? Was it gruesome?”
Tollman’s lip curled in distaste. “You said that you were here until after midnight. Have you any witnesses?”
“Hold on a minute! Why would I kill the goose that lays the golden eggs, eh? Do you know how much our circulation’s gone up since she started writing for us? The hoi polloi love a bit of dirt – especially when it’s about their betters. Don’t try and frame me for this murder, Tollman. You’re looking in the wrong direction. Start looking among the people she wrote about. Some of them threatened to kill her, take my word for it.” Cranham suddenly bounded over to the door again. “I can do better than that… Miss Taylor!” He bawled again. “Bring me the Complaints File!”
“What, all of it?” she bawled back, astonished.
“Yes! And be quick about it!”
There was a pause as Miss Taylor struggled up to the doorway with her burden and then Cranham turned around to Tollman with a heavy, bursting at the seams box file, which he dumped on Tollman’s lap.
“There you are,” he said triumphantly. “Fill your boots with that lot!”
“Is this all to do with Adeline Treborne?” Tollman was incredulous.
Cranham laughed. “Absolutely! Every bit of it. And that’s only the file for 1915. She’s been writing the column now for two years. That woman is… sorry… was… hated by all London society. Never known anything like it.”
“Did you discuss this with her?” Tollman asked. “Did you offer her protection?” he persisted. “I mean, if she was worth so much to your circulation figures, wouldn’t you want to protect your investment?”
“Never saw her. I didn’t even know where she lived,” was the surprising answer. “She waltzed in here, about two years ago, all dressed in her finery and makes me an offer. She produced a load of incredibly racy society stories from her handbag and asked me how much they were worth. I looked at them and realised that, if they were not complete fiction, they were gold dust. I made her an offer. She bargained a bit and we agreed on a sum…”
“What was that sum?”
“Three hundred pounds a year.” Billy couldn’t help himself and whistled. Cranham acknowledged Billy’s disbelief. “It’s a lot of money, I know. But, like I said, the stuff was gold dust and I took a punt. She made a few conditions. She said she didn’t want to see me any more, or visit the office, nor did she want me visiting her home. Made me laugh. Here she was, dishing the dirt on all her school friends and their parents and she’s trying to make me feel like I’m the lowest of the low. She said she would put her name on the articles… I said to her, ‘Why would you want people to know it’s you? Do it under a pen name, otherwise they won’t invite you to functions and you won’t be able to get the stories.’”
“What did she say to that?” Tollman was puzzled.
“She just shrugged and said she had ways of getting the information anyway, and not to worry about that side of things. She said she wanted everyone to know it was her. She didn’t care. Then she said that the copy would be delivered by hand, every Thursday, for the weekend editions. And it has been, without fail. And like it was this morning.”
Billy and Tollman looked at each other and Tollman handed over the heavy complaints file to Billy with an exasperated sigh.
“So, when can I run the story about Treborne’s murder?” said Cranham hopefully.
“You can’t,” said Tollman flatly. “There’s a possibility that she was involved with a spying ring,” he lied creatively, “and there’s going to be a D notice slapped on it.”
Cranham made a noise of disgust. Adeline Treborne was nothing but a good story to him now. Billy realised that the man had absolutely no scruples.
“Right… well, when you get this case sorted out, I want the full SP on this one. Otherwise I’m going to come down like a ton of bricks on your Commissioner. This paper needs to run the story first, or I will want to know why!”
Tollman rose, and Billy did likewise, clutching the heavy file in front of him. “You do that, Mr Cranham, you do that,” Tollman said in a patronising tone of voice. “I’ll give the Commissioner the Maisie Skinner file and you two can have a nice chat about old times.”
Cranham scowled. “All right. You’ve made your point. Now hop it, there’s good little policemen.” He eyed Billy up and down. “Or, in your case, son, good big policeman.”
Out in the street, Billy waited for a beat and then said, “Well, are you going to tell me or not, Mr Tollman? About this Maisie Skinner?”
Tollman’s face took on a grim set. “Prostitute, lad. Matey in there was friendly with her, very friendly, if you get my drift. She was found face down in the canal up by Regent’s Park, barely a stone’s throw from Mr Cranham’s residence. He came up with an alibi. We couldn’t prove otherwise, so we had to let him go. But, judging by the reaction when her name is mentioned, he’s still in fear of being collared again.”
“Do you think he did her in, Mr Tollman?”
“Nah.” Tollman shook his head. “I think she thought she’d do some more business on her way home and she picked a wrong ’un. Either that or her pimp did her in. Too near King’s Cross for my liking. Crawling with vermin round that station, it is. Come on, lad, let’s take that file back to Mayfair, get a cup of tea off Mrs Beddowes, and then sally forth to nab this major. I’m feeling in the mood to make a collar today.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The Missing Major
The major was not there. “Didn’t come back yesterday,” said Mr Bailey, shrugging. “Not seen him, Mr Tollman. You can try his apartment, but I really don’t think he’s there.”
Billy knocked loudly and then put his ear to the door to hear if there were any sounds from inside. After a while he shook his head and pronounced the place empty.
Tollman looked frustrated. “Best get on with interviewing the other residents,” he said, “then if the Major hasn’t returned by lunchtime, perhaps we might pay a little visit to the Hurlingham Club and see if we can find him.”
“Where is this Hurlingham Club, Mr Tollman?” asked Billy, relishing the thought of a trip somewhere exotic.
“Fulham, lad, on the river, near Putney Bridge.”
“Oh.” Billy was disappointed. Fulham and Putney, to him, were definitely not exotic locations. Middle-class, in parts – maybe, but nothing special.
The first person they interviewed was Mr Ledbetter – ‘Six Shoes’ as Billy called him – and the neighbour opposite Adeline Treborne’s apartment.
Ledbetter was a thin-faced, pernickety man, whose apartment bore testimony to his parsimonious and well-ordered life – no comfort, very few chairs, no pictures on the walls – nothing.
“So, sir,” said Tollman, resigned to the fact that he wouldn’t be offered a seat. Billy began to take notes. “The night before last. Did you see anyone coming or going from Miss Treborne’s apartment?”
“No,” said Mr Ledbetter.
Tollman sighed inwardly, realising that Mr Ledbetter was a very pedantic man and would need specific questions in order to respond.
He tried again. “Did you hear anything, sir?”
“Yes. Several things.” Then there was a silence.
>
Resisting the urge to smack him, Tollman continued, “Could you please talk us through the sequence of events that evening and explain to us, in detail, what you heard.”
Mr Ledbetter pursed his lips. “I put six pairs of shoes out at nine forty-seven. At about nine fifty-eight, I heard Miss Treborne’s door slam and heard the lift being summoned. I did not hear the boy pick up my shoes, which made me very cross. I waited for fifteen minutes, I heard a knock on the door opposite, and then I opened my door and looked out. My shoes were still there,” – he sounded aggrieved – “and I noticed that Major Sutcliffe was entering Miss Treborne’s apartment…”
“Was he?” muttered Tollman grimly, catching Billy’s eye, who nodded.
“Yes. Do you want me to continue?” Mr Ledbetter obviously didn’t like being interrupted.
“Yes, please.”
“I waited another fifteen minutes and was on the point of summoning the porter to complain that my shoes had not been picked up by the boot boy, when I heard Miss Treborne’s door open and close again. Then I heard the boy gathering up my shoes. Then I was able to go to bed finally – half an hour later than my usual time – and I heard nothing further until I was awakened by that girl screaming.”
“So, that would be at ten thirty, sir?” Billy was anxious to get his notes right.
“What? When I went to bed?”
“No, when you heard Miss Treborne’s door open and close.”
“I said so, didn’t I?”
“Right.” Billy realised that there was a lack of co-operation looming and gave up.
“Well, we won’t trouble you any further, sir,” said Tollman firmly and motioned Billy to follow. Once outside and out of earshot, he murmured, “Gawd, that was hard work!”
“Good witness, though,” said Billy, looking at his notes. “He may be a pain in the arse, but he’s very precise.”
A Death in Chelsea Page 6
