by Peter King
The merest of fleeting thoughts sped through my brain—I would say something like that and Hemingway would bluster and threaten then finally back down, muttering threats about having my licence taken away.
The thought was gone as fast as a turkey leg at a Salvation Army Christmas dinner. Hemingway said, almost conversationally—“I urge your complete frankness. A man has died here tonight. Because of his role in the media, a lot of questions are going to be asked about how it could happen. I intend to get all the answers I need and I’m starting with you. Now, what are you doing here?”
His tone might have been conversational but his eyes were glacial. It took only milliseconds for me to decide to abandon private eye convention for the moment and tell all I knew.
He listened attentively. When I had told him everything, it didn’t sound like much, even to me.
“So you had no reason to anticipate that anything more sinister might happen than these incidents you mention?”
“Absolutely no reason.” I put all my conviction into it.
“Did you know Jenkinson?”
“I recognised him from seeing him on TV but I’ve never met him.”
“Did you meet him tonight?”
“No.”
“Do you have any idea what he was doing here? I wouldn’t have expected him to be a member of the Circle.”
“No, I don’t know why he was here. And no, I wouldn’t either.”
Hemingway nodded. “I’ll check on that. Anything else?”
“Tarquin Warrington was here. He is surely a member. He left though—just as the main course was being served. I asked him why but he simply told me it was none of my business.”
“Very well. I’ll look into that too. Any opinions on the cause of death? You saw him die.”
“Poison, I suppose … I mean, what else could it be?”
“The police surgeon will be here any minute—then we may know a little more.” He looked into my face. “How do you feel?”
“Feel? Terrible,” I assured him. “I’m hired to—”
Hemingway cut me off with an impatient gesture. “That’s not what I mean. The sergeant is instructing the constables to ask each person the same question. Doesn’t it strike you as unlikely that only one person is poisoned? Everyone ate the same food.”
“I see what you mean.”
“I didn’t announce it. A person’s imagination can become active. If anyone admits to a constable that they don’t feel well, they will be taken immediately to St Cyril’s Hospital.”
Inspector Hemingway knew his job. I was glad he didn’t look upon me as an interfering private eye. I was on shaky ground already.
“My assistant, Sergeant Fletcher is in the kitchens, taking samples of all the foods eaten tonight—”
“And the wines and coffee,” I added, trying to sound efficient.
“Of course. I’m going to have the sergeant liaise with you afterwards.”
I groaned inwardly. Surely not another Sergeant Nevins! My career as a private eye looked like being a short one.
“Don’t leave until the last guest has left,” ordered Hemingway. “Then check with me before you go.”
I nodded agreement. “Very well.” He was gone. I saw him talking to Goodwin Harper. It was only then that I remembered the envelope that I had seen Roger St Leger hand to IJ before the dinner had been served. Should I go and tell the inspector? He was deep in earnest conversation and Per Larsson had joined them now. They didn’t look as if they would relish being disturbed. In any case, what could I tell them? My only suspicion was based on the looks on their faces. How could I convey those?
I was supposed to be a detective. Right, I’d detect. If there was nothing of significance in IJ’s pocket, I didn’t need to say a word to the inspector. I made my way casually across the room.
None of the doors had been opened yet and no one had left. A few guests had gone into the lines but many still stood in groups, discussing in low voices. I edged my way through.
As I approached the body, I saw Roger St Leger standing a few paces away. He was looking at IJ with a strange expression on his face. Was it sadness, compassion, sympathy? Maybe none of those. Satisfaction? Surely not and yet … he turned and saw me. He gave a start and walked quickly away.
I looked around surreptitiously. All clear. I moved close to the body. I could see the corpse-white face and the bloodless lips. I took another step—
“Looks quite peaceful, doesn’t he?” said a voice and I almost jumped out of my skin. It was Charlie Flowers, formerly of Wheelers who now had his own small chain. I nodded. To my relief, Charlie’s attention was on IJ and not focused on my guilty start.
My hands had flown up with the shock. I was able to conceal my reaction by raising them in a gesture of pious supplication. For good measure, I rolled my eyes up at the chandeliers.
“In the midst of life …” I murmured in tones of incantation that many an archbishop would have envied. Charlie nodded and moved on. This time, when I glanced around, I made certain that no one was near and, as far as I could tell, watching.
Keeping my gaze fixed on IJ’s face, I stole a hand to his suit-coat pocket. I twitched it open and slid my fingers inside. I could feel nothing … I reached further …
My attention was still on his face when an ice-cold hand clamped on my wrist. The breath froze in my throat but there was worse to come. The eyelids flickered open and Ivor Jenkinson slowly rose to a sitting position. The head turned, jerkily and his accusing glare burned into me.
Chapter Ten
IJ SAT IN THE centre of the room in a large armchair that one of the staff had brought in.
He still looked like a corpse. His face was deathly-white and devoid of any texture suggesting life. His eyes were dull yet staring—a chilling combination. He had mumbled only a few words and none of them had made sense. Baffled murmurs could still be heard for the spectacle of a dead man coming back to life had overwhelmed the gathering. Those who had been standing in line to give their particulars to the constables so they could leave had now come rushing back.
Goodwin Harper came up to Hemingway.
“He was dead,” Goodwin Harper was saying in bewilderment. “I swear he was dead. I’m no doctor but I was a medical orderly in the war and I’ve had first-aid training since. I know how to find life symptoms and there were none. None!” His voice rose. “He was dead, I’d swear it!”
The inspector laid a steadying hand on his arm. “The police surgeon will be here any minute. We’ll hear what he has to say.”
While they were talking, another discussion had broken out.
“Brandy,” said Frankie Orlando, looking solicitously at IJ’s inanimate features. “Get him some brandy.”
“Should be Armagnac,” suggested an unidentified voice.
“Nonsense,” scoffed Benjamin Breakspear, the authority on everything. “Cognac, preferably the VSPO.”
“Courvoisier,” corrected Bill Keating who had the dealership.
“Stravecchio,” Vito Volcanini said. “Horses have won the Palio on Stravecchio.”
“As a restorative, Calvados is the best drink,” contributed another.
“Here,” said a voice just as Hemingway broke off his discussion with Goodwin Harper and saw what was happening.
“No—don’t give him anything!” he cried but it was too late. IJ had obediently accepted the brandy glass that was put into his hand and drained it, oblivious to its origin or year.
In a few lightning steps, Hemingway was at his side but was only in time to catch the glass that fell from IJ’s seemingly nerveless fingers. All eyes were on IJ. For several heartbeats, the scene was motionless. Then IJ said in a surprisingly clear voice:
“It will be my best programme. It will prove the guilt and…”
His voice trailed away. His stare seemed to be focused but on some distant object. He was still chalky-white and his posture was stiff and unnatural. He sat like a robot. The assembly was silent
and when IJ spoke again, all crowded to listen.
“Now they can get the money, it will be the biggest …”
His voice faded again. We were momentarily distracted by the opening of the door and a conversation with one of the constables which didn’t carry.
A man bustled in. He was round and tubby and his short legs moved in quick jerky steps. He wore an old black suit with a waistcoat that barely buttoned. The black bag he carried meant he must be the police surgeon.
Hemingway saw and hurried to greet him.
“Dr Pepperdine, glad you’re here. This way please.”
The little man hurried over, looking curiously at the room and its occupants. He appeared irritated at having to be here.
“All right,” he snapped. “Where’s the body?”
There was a pause. “I am,” said IJ. His voice was firm but he did not seem to see the doctor.
“Don’t be absurd,” barked Dr Pepperdine. He glared at the inspector. “What’s all this tomfoolery, Hemingway? Why are you wasting my time? You said there was a dead man!”
The inspector had probably never been at a loss for words in his life but he came very close to it now.
“Mr Jenkinson was pronounced dead,” he said finally, choosing his words with care.
Dr Pepperdine peered at the figure in the armchair.
“Jenkinson? Aren’t you that TV chappie?”
The question was lost on IJ whose gaze wandered as if he were trying to locate the source of the voice.
“Yes, he is,” supplied Hemingway.
“You say he was pronounced dead? Pronounced by whom, may I ask?”
Goodwin Harper took a hesitant step forward.
“I thought he was dead—”
“Thought!” snorted the bristly little doctor. “You thought he was dead? Ha!” The last exclamation came out like a gunshot and IJ’s attention finally turned in the doctor’s direction. He studied him as if finding him curious.
“I examined him too,” Hemingway said. “Cursorily but I did check his pulse, wrist and throat, his eyes and his respiration. Can’t blame Mr Harper—I agreed with him. Mr Jenkinson did seem to be dead.”
Dr Pepperdine was opening his black bag and taking out his stethoscope. He unravelled the cord and clamped the plugs in his ears. “This chap thought he was dead—you say he seemed to be dead,” he barked at Hemingway. “Doesn’t look dead to me.”
He pulled open IJ’s shirt and was about to place the probe on his chest. That close, he looked into IJ’s pallid features. A tiny portion of the doctor’s bluster ebbed away. “On the other hand …” he muttered. He listened for a moment. IJ was impassive again as if he were unaware of the presence of the doctor or his stethoscope.
“Irregular heart beat,” the doctor said in a low tone. He took a small torch from his bag and looked into IJ’s pupils. The eyes still stared, unaffected by the beam.
The doctor tossed his instruments into the bag and zipped it. “Get him to a hospital as quickly as possible,” he ordered. He wasn’t quite as testy now.
“The ambulance should be here any minute,” said Hemingway even as a constable came hurrying over. “Ambulance outside, sir.”
“Something I don’t like here,” Pepperdine said to the inspector. “Have the ambulance bring him to St Cyril’s Hospital in Marylebone. They have some special equipment there I’ll need. I’ll be there by the time the ambulance arrives. Tell them to make it fast.”
He picked up his bag and was out of the room with his short jerky steps before Hemingway could reply.
Attention returned to IJ. He looked very slightly more normal. His flaccid skin had taken on a tinge of translucency and there was a hint of expression in the eyes that had been absent before.
I was delighted—for my sake as much as his. My first assignment as a private eye—it would have been unthinkable to have a corpse on my hands.
Inspector Hemingway evidently noticed the improvement too.
“Feeling better, Mr Jenkinson?” he asked. I felt he could be excused the cliché question after the ordeal he had been through.
“It’s the Courvoisier,” explained Bill Keating. “It’s a wonderful remedy.”
“I thought he got Cognac,” said Benjamin Breakspear.
It was hard to tell if IJ heard the inspector’s question. He seemed to be trying to speak but then gave up.
The drama was over. Feet were shuffling. It was an anti-climax and the guests wanted to go home.
Then IJ’s head turned and he tried to look over his shoulder. Was he trying to see someone? Slowly, he stood up and it was like watching Frankenstein’s monster rise from the grave. I expected him to creak.
He took a hesitant step and one hand raised as he tried to point. His mouth opened but nothing came out. His knees sagged and he crumpled and fell forward on his face.
The unfortunate Goodwin Harper was nearby and he was first at IJ’s side. He examined the prone man then shook his head and looked up at us in bewilderment.
“He’s dead,” Goodwin Harper said. “He’s dead again!”
Chapter Eleven
SCOTLAND YARD WAS VERY disappointing. All right, perhaps I didn’t really expect squad-rooms, drunks, huge pistols and badges with haunted-looking detectives wolfing down massive sandwiches and swilling hot coffee by the bucketful while others lounged by the water-cooler, arguing over 401s, 622s, citizen’s rights and the Miranda-Escobedo law.
Even so, we are all brainwashed to some degree by this American television view of crime-fighting. It nags persistently at the memory despite being surrounded by the calm and orderly lobby of Scotland Yard as I was now. I looked it over casually, not wanting it to be too obvious that I had never been here before. It was much like another lobby I had been in recently only that had belonged to a cereal manufacturer.
A very polite young lady took my name and asked me to be seated. I barely had time to glance at the headlines of the Daily Telegraph when she called my name.
“Sergeant Fletcher will be with you in a moment, sir.”
Oh dear! I hoped he wasn’t going to be another Sergeant Nevins—a beer-drinking, rugby-playing bully with no imagination and a dislike of security men.
I returned to the Telegraph. At least Hemingway seemed like a reasonable fellow, aside from his icy efficiency. I went over in my mind the latter part of the previous evening. When Dr Pepperdine had returned to Le Trouquet d’Or, he had been madder than a wet hen. “What’s the matter with you, Hemingway?” he bellowed. “How many more times are you going to get me back here to look at the same corpse?”
The inspector displayed admirable self-control. “You’d better examine him very carefully, Doctor—”
“Examine him carefully! Of course I will! D’ye think I didn’t before?”
“This time,” said Hemingway, remaining remarkably unruffled “I am sure you’ll agree that Mr Jenkinson is indeed dead.”
The scrappy little doctor went to work, using several instruments I didn’t recognise. Despite his testy words, his examination lasted considerably longer than before. Finally, he sighed. “Poor chap’s dead and no mistake.”
The doctor had IJ’s body loaded into the ambulance then he climbed in himself. “Not taking any chances,” he growled. The inspector spent a little time speeding up Sergeant Nevins and the constables in their task of recording the particulars of all the guests. He came over to me. “No need for you to wait any longer. Come and see me at the Yard tomorrow morning at ten.” So here I was.
The story hadn’t made this edition of the Telegraph. I wondered if Nelda Darvey had been able to hold the presses or whatever it was they did and get the story on the streets in her paper. Before I could scan the other journals on the table, my name was called.
I turned to see as toothsome a little blonde as I had ever set eyes on. Slightly under medium height, hair trimmed short and curling slightly, her bright blue eyes sparkled and her full lips parted in a smile as if she was glad to see me.
> “I’m Sergeant Fletcher,” she introduced herself in a warm, friendly voice.
“I’m very glad to meet you,” I said and I really meant it. Her uniform fitted her trim figure beautifully. Was it half a size too small though? Or did Scotland Yard have better tailors than I would have expected? Further speculation was cut short as Sergeant Fletcher asked solicitously, “No trouble parking, I hope?”
“No,” I assured her, still astounded at the improvement over Sergeant Nevins. “I came by tube.”
“Good.” She smiled as if genuinely relieved by this news. “We have a large group of police officers from Korea visiting today, studying our methods and they all came by limousine. The parking area is chaos.”
“I’m sure that you can teach them a lot.”
“This way.” She led me out through a door that clicked open and then shut on seemingly invisible commands. We went along a corridor and I followed with pleasure, admiring the sway of her shapely rear in the tight black skirt and the twinkling black-clad ankles. We entered a lift, went up two floors and at a glass-panelled door, the comely sergeant knocked and led me in.
Inspector Hemingway’s office was sparse and very functional. There were no files—they must be central. Against one wall was a glass-fronted cabinet full of bottles and jars. The inspector sat behind a tidy desk and behind him was a photograph of him with Edwina Currie in front of the House of Commons. There were two chairs for visitors. Sergeant Fletcher sat on the left and I faced the inspector.
The sergeant crossed her knees demurely and smiled gentle encouragement. I enjoyed the smile and the knees but hoped that it didn’t mean I needed to be bolstered up for an ordeal. It started mildly enough.
The inspector greeted me briefly and opened a file in front of him. He studied it for a few seconds and said:
“Your father died when you were fourteen. You left school and went to work at Smithfield Market.”
I stared at him astonished.
