They ascertained from Mr Bailey that, of the six apartments on the second floor, one was unoccupied and two tenants were away for the summer. They had spoken to Mr Ledbetter in number nine, and that only left Miss Cavendish in number eleven.
She turned out to be a sour-faced middle-aged woman with a permanent air of disapproval. She had plenty to say about Adeline Treborne.
“The woman was a disgrace. In my opinion, she lowered the tone of this building. And she was a terrible neighbour. Sometimes I would hear her raucous laughter. Very unladylike. Sometimes I would hear her arguing with someone and sometimes, if I happened to be in my bathroom at the same time she was in hers, I would hear her sobbing loudly.”
Billy looked up from his notes with a face of concern and frowned at Tollman.
“Did you ever go into her apartment when you heard this sobbing – to see what the matter was?” asked Tollman, knowing full well what the answer would be.
“No!” Miss Cavendish was outraged by the suggestion. “I prefer to limit my acquaintances to people of moderation. Miss Treborne was a complete stranger to politeness. Everything she did and said was outrageous. I caught her wandering the corridor in a robe with bare feet one evening. She looked dazed – probably intoxicated – and when I looked at her, she just said ‘Boo!’ and laughed.”
Billy stifled the urge to smile and continued writing.
“So, Miss Cavendish, what did you hear, the evening before last?” Tollman asked.
“I saw her brother arrive at about six o’clock – I’ve seen him before – and then I heard the maid leave a little while later. I heard raised voices several times during the evening, between the Treborne woman and her brother, culminating in a very loud argument at about ten, when her brother left, I assumed, and slammed the door. I heard the boot boy pick up my shoes and then not long after that I heard a knock on her door and she let someone in. I think I heard a man’s voice. He must have stayed about fifteen minutes because the door opened and shut again…”
“Any raised voices that time?”
“No. But I did hear her laugh loudly at some point.”
“Did you hear anything else at all, Miss Cavendish?”
“Well… I woke up at about midnight… very briefly… and I thought I heard two women talking… but my bedroom window was open, and it could have been coming from the street. I’m not sure. I went back to sleep again fairly quickly. I can’t be certain. But my bedroom shares a wall with the Treborne woman’s living room and I can’t help hearing things sometimes.”
“Thank you, Miss Cavendish. We’ll call on you again, if there are any further developments.”
“If her death does turn out to be murder, I shan’t sleep a wink until you catch whomever is responsible. Supposing it is just some itinerant villain who murders lone women at night and robs them? Was she robbed?” she asked as an afterthought, as she showed them the door.
“Not as far as we know, Miss,” Tollman said reassuringly. “I’m sure you are quite safe.”
“Well, that’s an interesting addition,” he said quietly to Billy as they descended the stairs, “hearing women’s voices about midnight.”
Billy nodded and looked back through the notes he had made at the team meeting. “Mrs E said that the live-out maid suspected that Adeline Treborne got deliveries of drugs late at night. She reported that Mr Jenkins saw a man on the stairs once, but that could have been completely unrelated. It could easily have been a woman who delivered the drugs.”
“Mm. Meanwhile, the Major is looking more and more dodgy to me. Let’s have a pie and a pint and then take the bus along to Fulham. See if we can’t collar this character in mid-chukka.”
“Eh?”
“Polo term, lad. Don’t worry about it.”
***
Beech and Victoria had walked to the duchess’s house in Knightsbridge. Beech had decided that he would present Victoria as a discreet legal consultant, approved by the Commissioner to advise in cases that required delicate handling. Victoria was happy with that role, but she privately wondered whether the duchess would be open-minded enough to accept a female legal expert.
The duchess was seated, pale but composed, when the butler showed them into the drawing room. Standing beside her, in uniform, was her attractive son. Victoria estimated that he was probably in his late thirties and his amused manner, as Beech explained Victoria’s presence at the meeting, demonstrated an effortless charm, self-assurance and sense of privilege. Victoria decided that she disliked him intensely.
The duchess accepted Victoria’s presence without demurring in any way, and they sat. Victoria was aware of the Duke’s eyes scanning her face and form and it made her slightly uncomfortable.
Once coffee had been served by a maid and the door was closed, Beech said simply, “Your Grace, our investigations thus far have been very thorough, and we have every reason to believe that your daughter did not commit suicide but was murdered.”
The duchess’s hand flew to her mouth and she murmured, “I knew it!” The Duke appeared to lose some of his self-assurance and muttered, “Good God!”
Victoria took some small pleasure in saying, “In fact, sir, you would appear to have been one of the last people to see your sister alive.”
“Henry?” the duchess asked in alarm. It appeared that she was unaware of the Duke’s visit.
“It’s nothing… nothing… I’ll explain later, Mother.” He seemed rattled. Beech and Victoria exchanged glances. “Perhaps you should have a rest now,” he continued. He turned to Beech. “The undertakers have said that we can visit the Chapel of Rest this afternoon. My mother needs to … emotionally… conserve her strength. If you will excuse me for a moment.” He lifted the duchess to her feet and guided her to the door. He turned back. “I will just take my mother upstairs and then we can resume our conversation.”
After the door had closed, Beech said gently, “That was rather brutal of you, Victoria.”
“I’m sorry,” she confessed, “he was just so full of himself. I don’t like that kind of man at all. I just wanted to put him in his place.”
Beech looked perplexed. “How can you make that sort of judgement in so short a time?”
Victoria smiled ruefully. “Believe me, it is quite possible. But,” she added briskly, “I can assure you that I will be much less impulsive when he returns.”
Beech shook his head in confusion. The instincts of women were quite beyond him.
The Duke returned – this time, Victoria noted, with a little less swagger than before.
“Now,” he said, in a businesslike manner, “where were we?”
“Your visit to your sister, sir,” Beech responded in an equally brisk tone. “We believe you arrived at about six o’clock, ate a prepared meal with her and left, after an argument, at around ten.”
The Duke looked irritated. “Servants’ gossip?” he said with a sneer.
“No. Witness testimony of neighbours and housekeeping staff.”
“Damn busybodies! Yes. I visited my sister, as you say, at around six o’clock, ate a meal with her… although she barely ate anything… and, yes, we had an argument and I left. But I can assure you that she was very much alive when I left her.” He laughed, which made Beech and Victoria both react in astonishment. “Do you know,” the Duke continued bitterly, “when I heard Adeline was dead, part of me hoped that she had seen the error of her ways and killed herself. It would have been the honourable way out of the situation and, despite what my mother would wish, suicide would be preferable for the family name than this mess we find ourselves in now.”
Victoria felt a surge of distaste. “Did your sister ever explain to you why she chose to write her newspaper column?”
“Oh, some damn silly nonsense about being treated badly by society when our father lost all his money!” The Duke made it quite clear that he found it
a poor excuse. “Yes, it is true that when my father had to declare bankruptcy, Adeline was cut dead by young women who, frankly, should have behaved better. But it was equally hard for me. I had to resign my membership of several clubs, sell my hunters, take up a commission in the Army – that sort of thing. As I said to her time and time again – one just has to weather these storms. People will come around once we have remade the family fortune. Sorry, I know it’s early, but I need a drink…”
He got up and strode over to the sideboard, pouring himself a large Scotch with just a whisper of soda. Downing it in one gulp, he poured another and returned to his chair.
“Frankly, and this is what I tried to get through to Adeline and what the argument was about on the night she died, I could have revived the family fortunes a lot quicker if she had not chosen to blacken our family name with her activities. I have put together several investment opportunities but as soon as men hear the name Treborne, they turn away. Don’t blame ’em.” He took a deep breath and another mouthful of Scotch. “Truth be told, I’m not sorry my sister is dead,” he said brazenly, “but I am fearful of what terrible muck your investigation might turn up.”
Victoria looked at him in disbelief, almost as though he were some unknown creature that came from another world. She could not comprehend the level of callousness that a brother could display towards a sister – even if that sister was Adeline Treborne.
The Duke caught her looking at him intently and, almost as if he had read her mind, he said suddenly, “You know, it’s a terrifying thing to go to war.” He held Victoria’s stare and, for a moment, she glimpsed a flash of fear in the normally brash face. “Many men find it makes the horror more bearable if they persuade themselves that they are doing it to protect their women and children back home.” He paused for a moment, as if to gather his emotions. “Women become idealised… I’ve seen it. Women become lovelier, more fragile, more precious in the minds of the soldier about to go over the top.”
Victoria saw, out of the corner of her eye, Beech drop his head in discomfort at the recognition of the emotions being described.
The Duke continued, all the while his gaze never leaving Victoria’s face, “Imagine then, if you come home from that place in Belgium or France, that place full of fear and anguish, and you find that your own sister is not a flower of womanhood but a malicious and vile slattern whose only joy in life is making other people unhappy? How would you feel?”
He then turned to Beech and said simply, “Chief Inspector, you may regard me as a suspect, but I tell you honestly that I did not kill my sister. But I also tell you, with equal honesty, that I wanted to kill her. I just lacked the courage.”
***
Billy was impressed. Just a hop, skip and a jump away from the grime of the New King’s Road was a hidden world of rolling acres, greenery, horses and money.
“I never knew this place existed,” he marvelled as they walked briskly up the long drive to the gleaming white neoclassical mansion that served as the clubhouse.
“Some one hundred acres, so I believe,” said Tollman authoritatively. “Shame about the view of the Imperial Gas Works over the top of the trees, though.”
They passed a group of horses being ridden slowly back to the stables. They were steaming gently in the sunshine and Billy wrinkled his nose at the pungent smell.
“I don’t get on with horses,” he said confidentially to Tollman. “Temperamental buggers.”
“Can’t say as I’m desperately fond of them myself, lad, but the manure is good for my roses.”
They reached the clubhouse and were directed by a young officer to the steward’s office, where an elderly man was quietly doing some accounts.
Tollman produced his card and the steward rose to his feet, extending his hand in welcome.
“Major Sutcliffe,” he said breezily.
Billy could tell that this was not what Tollman was expecting. There was a moment of awkwardness before Tollman recovered enough to ask, “Major Sutcliffe of 5 Trinity Mansions, Chelsea?”
“What?” The major seemed puzzled.
“Do you live in Chelsea?”
“God, no! I live here… I have a cottage here. What’s all this about?”
“We are looking for a Major Sutcliffe, who resides at number 5, Trinity Mansions, Chelsea,” Tollman persisted, “and we were led to believe that said Major Sutcliffe was an avid polo player.”
The major looked even more confused. “I am an avid polo player – or I was, in my younger days, but I don’t live in Chelsea and…” Then suddenly he broke off and remembered something. “Ah! Wait a minute… I wonder if this is anything to do with the chap in question?” The major produced a letter from his desk drawer and handed it to Tollman. “I was just about to write to the lady to say that she must be mistaken…” He tailed off as Tollman opened the envelope to reveal a letter and a cheque for £10 from a Mrs Emilia Warren.
Tollman read the letter out. “’Dear Major Sutcliffe, I have thought better of my decision not to subscribe to saving the dear polo ponies from the ravages of war and I enclose a cheque for £10, which I hope will help to avoid the poor animals suffering at the front line. Yours faithfully, Mrs Emilia Warren.’ I take it, Major Sutcliffe, that you did not ask this Mrs Warren for a donation?”
“Absolutely not!” exclaimed the major. “Not altogether sure what the lady is on about. The horses here are privately owned by our members, for them to ride when they are on leave. Polo ponies are tremendously expensive animals and our members pay a lot of money to have them stabled, ridden and generally pampered in their absence. Cavalry horses are altogether a different breed, don’t you know? Can’t imagine where she could have got the idea that our members’ horses were being sent to the front line!”
Billy could see the cogs and wheels going around in Tollman’s brain as he processed this information. He was clearly piecing together something.
The major spoke again. “I suppose there could be a Major Sutcliffe at Windsor maybe. Household Cavalry there. Here and Ranelagh tend to be Hussars and Lancers, you know. I suppose there could be another Major Sutcliffe in a regiment I’m not familiar with… but I doubt it. I know most everyone involved in polo.”
“No, sir, I don’t believe there is another Major Sutcliffe anywhere,” said Tollman, with a look of triumph. “I believe that you are being impersonated by a criminal.”
“Good Lord!”
“May we keep this letter and cheque?”
“Absolutely. Whatever you need, Detective Sergeant. Just let me know when you’ve cleared it all up, there’s a good man. It’s a bit worrying to think there is someone out there impersonating me. My good name could be dragged through all sorts of mud!”
“Don’t you worry, Major, we’ll sort this one out very quickly. PC Rigsby, let’s be on our way!”
As they marched up the driveway, at a faster pace than before, Billy was itching to know what Tollman was thinking.
“Do you know who it is? This so-called Major in Sloane Square?” he asked.
“Not yet, Billy, but I’ve got a few candidates in my head.” He stopped dead and looked at his watch. “We’re too late for the banks, they’ll be closed now. But we need to go back to Sloane Square and find out which bank the so-called Major pays his rent from. Ten to one he will make regular payments into that account of monies he has conned from little old ladies, by making them believe they are saving the polo ponies from being massacred by the Germans.” He gave a grim smile. “It’s the old Spanish prisoner con.”
“The what? How did Spain come into it?” Billy was confused.
As they reached the bus stop and waited for the next bus, Tollman explained. “It is the oldest confidence trick on record, Billy. It goes back to the Spanish Armada in 1588…”
“1588! You’re having me on!”
“It’s absolutely true. Even though th
e English beat the Spanish Armada, confidence tricksters would go around England telling people that English sailors had been taken prisoner by the Spanish and, in order to bring these brave boys home, they would need to be ransomed. So, gullible and kind-hearted people all over Elizabethan England would stump up their hard-earned pennies to bring the ‘prisoners’ home. Well, this is a variation on it. Only this time, it’s polo ponies needing to be rescued, not Spanish prisoners.”
“So, what do we do, Mr Tollman?”
“Plain-clothes job in the morning, Billy. We stake out the bank in question and see if we can nab him in the act of paying in his ill-gotten gains.”
“What about the post? Shouldn’t we go through his post?”
Tollman shook his head firmly. “No. A confidence trickster would never give out his home address. Normally, he would leave a meeting with the money, or a cheque, in his hand. This…” – he pulled the lady’s letter out of his pocket and waved it under Billy’s nose – “is a mistake he hadn’t counted on. He obviously mentioned the Hurlingham Club when he met with the lady, but she wasn’t convinced by his patter, and he left empty-handed. Then she changes her mind and decides to send the cheque by post. He made two mistakes. One, he should never have used the name of a real person and two, he should never have mentioned the name of a specific club, he should have left it vague.”
“Do you still think he has something to do with Adeline Treborne?”
“I do, Billy, I do. He could have been the last person to see her alive. Perhaps he was trying to persuade her to save the polo ponies, who knows? Or perhaps he was so desperate for money, he killed her for it. We won’t know until we nab him.”
CHAPTER EIGHT
“An extraordinary level of distress.”
There was to be a team meeting that morning, after breakfast. Tollman arrived early and, for once, partook of the meal, exchanging views with Lady Maud about the war and Germans in general.
“There is an article in The Times this morning, Mr Tollman,” she said, turning over the pages of the newspaper as she sipped her tea.
A Death in Chelsea Page 7
