Be Not Afraid

by Christopher Nicole

  “I don’t know. I think he sold it.”

  Watt looked at Harriman.

  “Can you remember when this was, Miss Townsend?”

  “Oh, ages ago.”

  “Yet he still has the licence.”

  “Does he?” Anna asked.

  “But the gun is not here,” Harriman pointed out. “Would you know who he sold it to?”

  “No.”

  Harriman regarded her for a few seconds. Then he said, “A gun is the personal responsibility of the person to whom it is licensed. For it to be sold or go missing and that fact not be reported to the police, could be a serious matter.”

  “Well,” Anna said, “you will have to ask Papa. When,” she added hastily, “he is well enough to speak with you.”

  “Of course. May I leave that with you, Chief Inspector?”

  Watt nodded. “I’m quite sure there is an adequate explanation. You see, Miss Anna, we are interested simply because General Shrimpton and—”

  Harriman gave a warning cough.

  “General Shrimpton was shot with a point three two revolver, and we are fairly sure it was a Smith and Wesson.”

  “But the papers said he was shot by his mistress, or committed suicide after shooting her.”

  “I’m afraid there is no possibility of that,” Harriman said. “Quite apart from the forensic indication that neither of the deaths could have been suicide, there is also the matter of the murder weapon. It isn’t there.”

  “So it seems certain there was a third person present,” Watt said. “The murderer.”

  “And you think it was Papa?” Anna cried. “Papa is in hospital unable to move. Anyway, why should he do such a thing?”

  “Of course we do not suppose the colonel did it,” Watt said, very embarrassed. “It’s just that there is the possibility that the general’s murder was connected with the attempts on your father’s life, and if Colonel Townsend did sell that gun, or it was stolen and he did not report it, well, it could provide a link.”

  “I understand,” Anna said.

  “I will have a word with the colonel today,” Watt said. “Just to clear the matter up.”

  “Oh, please don’t,” Anna begged. Both policemen looked at her.

  “He doesn’t know about the general. He doesn’t even know he’s crippled yet. He’s very weak. Well, you know that, Mr Watt.”

  Watt nodded vigorously. “I do indeed.”

  “He’s coming home tomorrow. Dr Cheam is coming with him and the three of us are going to tell him what’s happened to him. Depending on how he takes that, we will tell him about General Shrimpton. If all goes well, I will telephone you, Mr Watt, and you can come out and talk to him about the missing gun on Sunday. I really don’t want him to become agitated in his state.”

  “It would be terrible,” Martina said.

  “I quite understand,” Watt said. “I’ll wait for your call. We must leave now. And thank you again for being so frank with us.”

  The two policemen went down the front steps and got into their car.

  “Such brave women,” Watt commented as they drove away. “Particularly that lovely girl. When you think what she has gone through, and is going to go through, with a permanently crippled father . . .”

  “Yes,” Harriman said drily. “May I ask, Mr Watt, are you married?”

  “Oh, yes,” Watt said.

  “Children?”

  “Two sons.”

  “But no daughters.”

  “Sadly, no. We would have liked one but it was not to be.”

  “Pity. Having daughters, especially when they are teenagers growing into women, can give you a marvellous insight into the wiles of the female sex.”

  “I suppose they can.” Watt frowned. “I’m not sure I take your meaning.”

  “That beautiful young lady,” Harriman said, “whose eyes would melt a stone idol and in whose mouth butter would not melt, knows a great deal more than she was willing to admit.”

  “A great deal more about what?”

  “General Shrimpton’s death.”

  “My dear fellow, you’re not suggesting—”

  “I am not suggesting anything, Mr Watt; I am making one or two observations. Such as, it is well known that the general was a womaniser; he has been named in two divorce suits and has been attacked by at least one angry husband.”

  “Then isn’t that where your investigations should take you?”

  “They are doing so. However, I would say there is as much chance of the general coming into contact with a girl like Anna Townsend and not wishing to pursue the matter than there is of Australia regaining the Ashes. Miss Townsend is an intelligent young woman. She would have noticed his interest.”

  “She is also a very modest young woman,” Watt argued, “who would have been embarrassed to suggest it.”

  Harriman gave him an old-fashioned look. “There is a file on Colonel Townsend, which I have read. It covers the kidnapping of his daughter and his eventual rescuing of her. After five years in various European brothels.”

  “That does not mean she cannot be modest,” Watt snapped. Anna was one of his favourite women.

  “Possibly not. But it is unlikely. And, as I have said, I also consider it just about impossible that Shrimpton, being the man he was, would have said, hello Miss Townsend, sorry I can’t help you, goodbye Miss Townsend. He would almost certainly have suggested another meeting.”

  “Again . . .”

  “She might have been too modest to mention it? But I specifically asked her, Mr Watt, and she said he had not done that. I would have said that Shrimpton, again being the man he was, may well have invited her to that pied-à-terre where he conducted most of his affairs.”

  “Then you are suggesting—”

  “I am observing, Mr Watt. And when you consider the coincidence of the general being shot with a revolver of the same calibre as that owned by her father, which has now so conveniently disappeared . . .”

  “Are you accusing that unfortunate girl of shooting Shrimpton and his housekeeper?”

  “No, I am not, at this time. I am accusing her of lying about her visit to London. I would be much obliged if you would keep an eye on the young lady, Mr Watt.”

  The Adventure

  Anna and Martina had the house spick and span, and suitably rearranged, for Berkeley’s homecoming, with Baby Howard neatly dressed and highly excited.

  Druce arrived an hour before the ambulance and hurried Anna into the drawing room. He hadn’t been out the previous day, although he had telephoned; he had been back to see his parents but had not sounded very optimistic on the phone. Anna could guess that he had been endeavouring to come to terms with the possibility of a permanent estrangement, which was not something she either wanted or had set out to create.

  She supposed she was being very selfish. She liked Druce enormously, had found him a stimulating companion and a reassuring lover; she admired many things about him but did not love him in the sense that she could devote her entire life to him. That might be possible in the future, after she had carried out the several tasks that were her duty. But she could not be certain even of that. Yet she wanted to be married to him, to have the security of his presence. Did that entitle her to disrupt and possibly destroy his life? Of course it did not, in civilised terms. Her problem was that she could not afford to consider life in civilised terms until this business was finished.

  This morning he was definitely agitated.

  “I saw Peter Watt yesterday,” he said as soon as they were alone.

  “Don’t tell me he’s been questioning you as well.”

  “This was another matter. But he did mention that he had been out to see you with a Scotland Yard fellow.”

  “That’s right.”

  “But my God, Anna, that means they’re on to you.”

  “Of course they are not. They’re merely interviewing everyone who saw General Shrimpton on the day he died. As it happens, apart from his staff, I wa
s the last person to see him alive.” She gave one of her roguish smiles. “Apart from the person who killed him, of course.”

  “Anna,” he held her hands, “I am terrified.”

  “Well, don’t be. Nothing is going to happen. How are your parents?”

  He sighed. “They’re going to take a lot of work.”

  “Well, we can’t wait. I want us to be married just as soon as it can be arranged. I know Papa will want that too.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “I’ve been thinking about that. If we were to have a child, that might bring them round. Continuing the family name and all that.”

  “After we’ve talked with Papa,” she said. “I hear the ambulance.”

  She left him standing in the doorway to run outside and be with Martina as the ambulance drove into the yard, followed by Dr Cheam’s car.

  “Are you nervous?”

  “I am scared stiff,” Martina confessed.

  “Well, leave it to me,” Anna said.

  Martina glanced at her; she was still trying to come to terms with the realisation that this girl had taken over all of their lives and was now planning to take over the life of even her own father.

  The vehicles stopped, and white-clad men got out to fuss. Berkeley had apparently made the journey in a wheelchair, and this was now carefully wheeled down a ramp at the rear of the ambulance.

  The two women hurried forward. “Papa!” Anna cried, embracing him.

  He hugged her. “They insisted I travel in this contraption. Martina.” He turned up his face to be kissed. And then Anna lifted Howard for a hug.

  “Home, Papa, home,” Howard said.

  “And it’s good to be here,” Berkeley said.

  Cheam joined them. “You’d better help us get him up the steps,” he told the ambulance men, and they obligingly lifted the chair and deposited it on the porch. “What we will have to do,” Cheam said to Anna, “is fix up some kind of a ramp at the side of the steps, so that you can get him up and down.”

  “You’re making it sound as if I’m going to be immobile for some time to come,” Berkeley remarked. “We won’t be having that. Druce. Good to see you.” He shook Druce’s hand.

  Cheam dismissed the ambulance men, and Anna wheeled Berkeley into the drawing room.

  “You’ll see we’ve arranged a bed for you down here,” Martina said enthusiastically.

  “In the drawing room?”

  “Well, we’re not going to be entertaining for a while,” Anna said. “And you don’t want to be coping with the stairs, do you?”

  Berkeley grunted, and Anna knew he was becoming suspicious. “I think we should all have a drink,” she said brightly. “To celebrate your homecoming.”

  “I’ll do it,” Druce said. He was perhaps the most nervous of them all.

  “Do sit down, Doctor,” Anna invited, and did so herself, next to where the wheelchair had been placed. Druce produced a tray of whisky and sodas.

  “Am I permitted?” Berkeley asked.

  “I don’t see any reason why not,” Cheam said. “It’s not as if you were taking drugs.”

  Berkeley drank deeply. “That tastes good. But there’s the point, Doctor: why am I not taking drugs? Or at least painkillers. You said you’d explain when I got home.”

  “Yes, I did,” Cheam agreed. “Well . . .”

  “I should do this,” Anna said, and held her father’s hand. “Papa, I know you have been through some pretty narrow scrapes in your time. You could have been killed a dozen times.”

  “But they’ve always missed,” Berkeley pointed out. “What are you trying to tell me?”

  “A miss is not always quite as much of a miss as one would like,” Anna said.

  “So I’m going to have a gammy leg for the rest of my life. I’ll get used to it.”

  “I am sure you will, Papa. It’s not the leg that is worrying us.”

  He gazed at her for several seconds, then looked at Cheam, and lastly at Martina.

  “Oh, Berkeley,” Martina said, bursting into tears.

  “How long?” Berkeley asked.

  “Nerves do grow back,” Cheam said. “And join up, as it were. But it can take a while.”

  “How long?” Berkeley asked again.

  “Age is an important factor, too,” Cheam went on. “Perhaps not so much with regard to the speed at which the healing process will work but simply in terms of, well, if you were twenty years old . . .”

  “I see,” Berkeley said. “I am crippled for the rest of my life.”

  “Oh, no, no,” Cheam protested. “We shall work on it. I am laying on a team of physiotherapists to work with you as soon as you are strong enough, and there are other things we can do.”

  “Cheam,” Berkeley said. “Am I crippled or not?”

  “Well, at the moment . . .”

  “Therefore the bedpan situation continues.”

  “I’m afraid so. For the time being. Anna and Mrs Savos are quite prepared to cope.”

  “And sexual matters? You’ll excuse me, Druce, but this is important.”

  “Of course, sir,” Druce said, flushing.

  “Again, we must put our trust in time,” Cheam said.

  “Which, in that respect, is running out anyway, even if I was as fit as a horse.”

  “It will make no difference,” Martina said.

  He squeezed her hand. “I need to have a private chat with Martina and Anna,” he said. “Thanks for everything, Cheam.”

  “I’ll be out again in a day or so to see how you’re getting on.”

  “You mean to make sure I haven’t committed suicide?” Berkeley grinned. “I’m not going to do that, Cheam.”

  “I’ll see you out, Doctor.”

  Anna accompanied him out to the porch. “I would say he’s taking it very well.”

  “Too well,” Cheam commented. “It either hasn’t sunk in yet—”

  “Or it is what he has suspected for the past week and he has already decided how to deal with it.”

  “Yes,” Cheam said. “Which bothers me.”

  “I believe him when he says he is not contemplating suicide. I’ll keep you informed of his mental state.”

  “Anna . . . I don’t know how to say this. Yours has been such a tragic life. And now it seems set to continue. If there is anything I can do, anything I can give you . . .”

  “Thanks all the same, Doctor. But we’ll manage.”

  *

  “Now then,” Berkeley said. “First things first.” He had known, subconsciously, that something was very wrong from the moment he had regained full consciousness. Known, but refused to accept. Now the unacceptable had to be accepted. He had only lowered his guard on a few occasions in his life, and it had nearly always brought him close to catastrophe. Now the catastrophe was here. He, Berkeley Townsend, once considered the most dangerous man in Europe – a title he had not sought but of which he had been proud – was now one of the most helpless men in Europe, a sitting duck. His only reassuring thought was that, as he still had the use of his arms, when it happened he should be able to take at least one of the bastards with him.

  But there were others to be considered. “I release you, Martina, from any obligations you may feel you owe to me, and certainly the obligation of marriage.”

  “That is nonsense,” Martina declared. “I told you once that I would obey anything you asked me to do except leave you.”

  “My dear girl, any marriage between us can only be in name.”

  “I do not accept that either. Have we not already consummated our love? Marriage is merely a formality. But we will be married.”

  Berkeley looked at Druce.

  “I intend to marry Anna, sir, unless you have withdrawn your permission.”

  “You understand that there may be other attempts on my life?”

  “I understand that is possible, sir. It is Anna’s wish that I move in here after our marriage.”

  “Which puts you in the firing line. What do your parents t
hink of this?”

  “I’m afraid they do not approve of the marriage, sir. This has nothing to do with any knowledge they may have of the Karlovys, or the German connection, or . . .” He glanced at Anna, who had just returned.

  Berkeley caught the glance. “All right,” he said. “Something has happened while I was in hospital. Out with it.”

  Anna sat beside him and told him everything she could remember of the events of the past week. He listened in silence. When she was finished, he looked at Druce. “What do you say to this?”

  “I was deeply shocked, sir. I still am.”

  “But you still wish to marry her.”

  “I will support her in every way I can, sir.”

  “Understanding that if this ever comes out, you will go to prison?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “You haven’t told me if you think I did the right thing, Papa,” Anna said.

  “You did the wrong thing.”

  “Papa!”

  “Not in killing that woman; she deserved to die. Probably not even in killing Shrimpton; he was just as guilty. But in killing on impulse. Execution should only be undertaken as part of a deliberate and carefully thought-out exercise.”

  “I’m sorry Papa. But when I recognised her—”

  “I understand that – but our business now is to make sure the police don’t track us down. You say Watt is coming here tomorrow to ask about that gun?”

  Anna nodded.

  “I’ll handle it.”

  “With respect, sir,” Druce said.

  “Yes?” Berkeley asked, slightly impatient.

  Druce’s flush was back. “Anna and I differ on this matter, as I am sure you will appreciate. While I understand and admire her loyalty to her family and to what she considers her duty, I am sure you will agree with me that what she has done certainly cannot bear the possibility of a repetition in the future.”

  “That depends on the future,” Berkeley pointed out. “I am not quite sure what you’re driving at.”

  “Harry would like you to forbid me ever to do anything like that again,” Anna said.

  “I would appreciate that, sir,” Druce agreed.

  “Have you asked her not to?”

  “She will not promise.”

  “Then neither can I. If you marry into this family, Druce, it has got to be warts and all. I thought you understood that.”