“May be a mere coincidence. Many people came to England after the Boer War, like the Northams did. During the Great War, we needed people with useful experience and so we recruited many who were capable of fighting on our side and also working in the intelligence service.”
“What happened to them after Allan was killed?”
“They were reported to have died in a car crash. A guard heard the gunshot and saw those two get into a car and drive away from our office near the London docks. Road blocks were placed since the car was seen heading towards the coast. They managed to break through and were given chase. The coppers were gaining on them when they were separated by a flock of sheep. By the time the sheep got off the road, ten minutes had passed. All of a sudden, the coppers saw a column of smoke and went towards it. The car had gone off the cliff. Their bodies were never found and were presumed to have been washed into the sea. We did find scraps of clothing and some remnants of the secret plans for the submarine.”
“So none of the plans could be salvaged?”
“No, they were burnt in the fire. The car exploded on the rocks below. We also found a remnant of a petrol can. The can must’ve opened when the car went down the hill and that probably helped accelerate the fire. We suspect that they were Boers who came to England with the influx of English settlers displaced during the war. Their opportunity to take revenge on England came during the Great War.”
“If Allan Fitzhugh wasn’t a spy, why go to all the trouble of befriending him, then killing and framing him as a spy? It just doesn’t make sense. It seems like they had him in their sights all along.”
“Everyone knew that Allan was from one of the prominent families in this region and that would make him trustworthy. His knowledge of Germany and other places gave him access to top secret documents and plans. So, these Boer spies for Germany knew that Allan was someone who could get those secrets for them. The only question is why he would betray his country?”
“He wasn’t spying for Germany. His wife told me that he suspected them of spying and he wanted to trap them. He swore her to secrecy.”
“If he had only shared his suspicions with us, then the two of them would have been put under surveillance. We can only speculate what happened from the evidence we have.”
“What did they do before they joined the intelligence service?”
“They both worked at St. Cuthbert’s Hospital in London. They had excellent references from the hospital. Their work was impeccable. Nobody had anything bad to say about them.”
“Any pictures of them?”
“Unfortunately, no. It seems that after they shot Allan Fitzhugh, they burnt their files in the fire place. It mystified us as to why he would have their files in his office but, like you said, probably because he suspected them.”
Dermot asked if he could take the files with him since he may find some clues in them. Gardner gave him permission to do so, with instructions that they must be returned because they belonged to His Majesty’s Government.
As Dermot walked back to his car, he couldn’t help but wonder why this case was so mysterious. Most murders were open and shut cases, but this case seemed to be linked to a mysterious death from a decade ago. He decided to visit St. Cuthbert’s Hospital and find out more about the Northams.
— — —
Dermot showed his police badge at the front desk and asked to be shown to the director of the hospital. Dr. Butterworth was a stout and balding man with glasses. He looked like a strict school headmaster who wouldn’t tolerate any insolence and he seemed annoyed for being disturbed.
“Police business. It’s of the utmost importance,” said Dermot, trying to sound very stern. He had faced such situations before and knew that saying he was from the police made people take him seriously.
Dr. Butterworth immediately put down his pen and set his papers aside. “What would you like to know, Detective Carlyle?”
“Do you remember two people who worked here and left just before the Great War began? Their names were Ethel and David Northam… a mother and son.”
“I wasn’t the director then, but I was a doctor performing surgeries. I hardly knew them. Nobody had any complaints about them that I remember and they both kept to themselves. David worked as an orderly and Ethel in the hospital dispensary.”
“Were they close to any of the staff here?”
“Could be. You must remember that it has been several years since they worked here and many of the staff have now gone their separate ways. Some, like the Northams, volunteered during the Great War and never returned.”
“There has to be someone here who remembers them well!”
“I don’t know, Detective. That is all I can tell you. It’s hard keeping up with files and paperwork, and it’s definitely hard keeping up with people from many years ago. Why are you asking?”
“Can’t reveal much, but they were involved in something untoward during the war years.”
Dr. Butterworth shrugged his shoulders. “I read about that in the papers and it is hard to believe that they were spies. We never had any problems with them here.”
Dermot could see that Dr. Butterworth was getting a bit uneasy. He thanked him and left his office. As he walked along the corridor, he passed by the hospital dispensary. It was a clean room, with a desk and a few chairs. There was an older woman standing behind the counter and placing bandages in the cupboard. Dermot went in.
“Excuse me. Have you been working here for a long time?” he asked.
The woman turned around and eyed him curiously.
“Who wants to know?”
Dermot took out his badge and showed it to her. “I work for the Metropolitan Police. I want to ask if you knew a Mrs. Ethel Northam and her son, David, who worked in this hospital before the war.”
The woman looked at him. “My dear fellow, it’s been many years since anyone came enquiring about them. My memory isn’t what it used to be.”
Dermot smiled. “May I know your name, please?”
“Sister Claudette Fleming. I’ve worked here for over twenty years.”
“Perfect. It would be vital if you could remember anything about them.”
She thought for some time and told Dermot that Ethel was quiet and kept to herself, but was close to her son. They came and went home together. When the Great War began, they decided to help with the war effort and claimed that their experiences during the Boer War would be of value to the British Government. They had even changed their accents to sound British.
“What did she do here?”
“She helped the chemist prepare medicines. Sometimes, she would accompany doctors and help dress wounds with the ointments we prepared here. All our dispensary workers did that. My assistant, Eunice, is doing that right now.”
Dermot looked at the walls and saw a few pictures of the staff. A thought flashed through his mind and he asked Sister Fleming if she had any photographs of the Northams before they left to work for the government. She told him that there was a picture of the staff taken when the Great War began and that she had taken it for safe keeping when a part of the hospital was damaged in one of the German Zeppelin raids. She had kept the photograph in her attic and hadn’t seen it since the war.
Dermot took out his card, wrote on it, and then handed it to her. “This is my telephone number in Meadowford where I will be staying for a few more days. Please call me when you find that picture. It’s of utmost importance.”
Sister Fleming nodded. He then asked her where the Northams had lived while they worked at the hospital and she told him that they lived at 245B Cheshire Street, which was just up the road.
— — —
Dermot walked out of the hospital and took a deep breath. He never thought that this case would be so complicated. Maybe the facts he was collecting were irrelevant to the murders and he should just focus on the household of Fitzhugh Manor. Perhaps it was just a robbery that went horribly wrong when Lady Fitzhugh woke up. The thieves killed her so she wouldn’t identify them and Slattery had known who the killers were. However, he couldn’t put out that aching feeling in his bones that he must follow this lead as well. The investigation was getting more complicated, as well as challenging.
He drove to Cheshire Street and located the building. It looked like a boarding house. There was a sign on one of the windows advertising rooms for rent. He knocked on the door and it was opened a few minutes later by an older woman holding a cleaning cloth.
“Yes, who is it?” she asked, eyeing him suspiciously.
“I’m Detective Carlyle from the Metropolitan Police. Are you the landlady?”
“Yes, what do you want?”
“I was wondering if I could talk to you about two former tenants of yours – Mrs. Ethel and David Northam?”
“Blimey, that was a while back. They left when the Great War started. Why do you want to know about them?”
“Their names came up during an investigation and I need any information you can provide about them.”
“All right, come in and I’ll put the kettle on. I knew those two would be trouble,” she said.
Dermot followed her into the parlour and sat next to a small circular table. The landlady introduced herself as Sylvia Henderson and a few minutes later she brought over two cups of hot tea. She added sugar and milk and handed the cup to Dermot. Dermot took a sip of the tea and felt better.
“What sort of tea is this?”
“Indian, I suppose; tastes much better than Chinese.” She sat down opposite him. “Now, about them Northams?”
He asked her to tell him anything she remembered about the Northams and she said that they were ideal tenants. They gave no trouble, paid their rent on time, and mostly kept to themselves. They arrived at her boarding house in 1903, because they had obtained employment at St. Cuthbert’s Hospital. They told her that they were displaced by the Boer War and had recently come to England. They left in 1914 and lived close to the London docks. The next she heard about them was when she read in the newspapers that they had been killed in an accident.
“Did they have any visitors?”
“Mr. Northam had a few lady visitors and that upset his mother…” She lowered her voice and came closer. “You know, he was the randy type.” She then spoke normally. “I heard them arguing once and he said that she shouldn’t be bothered since she weren’t his real mother.”
Dermot grimaced. “That’s strange. What else was out of the ordinary?”
“They had letters from Scotland, but they said they had never lived there when I asked.”
Dermot sat up straight when he heard the word ‘Scotland’. “From who? Do you know which part of Scotland?”
“Don’t remember. Ain’t my place to ask questions or pry into my boarders’ lives.”
“I’m sure… Any letters from South Africa?”
“No, but they did get a letter from France once, just after the Great War began.”
“Was this the first time they received a letter from France?” asked Dermot with surprise.
“I can’t say, but I remember Mr. Northam’s face when he took the letter. He just said, ‘It can’t be him, after all these years…’”
“Why did you say that they would be trouble when you asked me to come in?”
“Because of the way they died. The coppers and reporters questioned me, but told me nothing. I reckon there was more to it than what them newspapers were saying.”
Dermot finished his tea and thanked her. As he got up to leave, Sylvia held out a plate of biscuits.
“Here, Detective, have a biscuit. I baked them myself.”
Dermot took one, thanked her, and left.
Chapter 9: The Mystery Woman
It was just after midday when Dermot left Cheshire Street and thought it was best to drive to the Bank of England and find out more about Portia Hartford. He went up to the teller and asked to speak to the bank manager. Mr. Perkins came out and greeted Dermot. He was a short, pot-bellied man with a balding head and glasses. Dermot introduced himself and told him that he needed information on the account that used to belong to Portia Hartford.
“Certainly, Detective. Do you know when the account was opened?”
Dermot took out his writing pad. “I think in 1903. That’s when the first payment was made to Portia Hartford.”
Mr. Perkins rolled his eyes. “Detective, that is more than twenty years ago. I’ll try my best.”
Dermot nodded and smiled. “I expect nothing less.”
Mr. Perkins eyed him curiously and went to speak to his assistant. The assistant disappeared into a room. He directed Dermot into the office and they sat down. The assistant came in with a big book that looked like a ledger, which he deposited on the table.
After the assistant left, Mr. Perkins opened the ledger and looked at the records. He told Dermot that the account was opened on the third of September, 1903, and that ten pounds was deposited. When it was closed on the fourth of March, 1906, there was two hundred pounds in the account. The cheques were either mailed to the bank by Lord Fitzhugh or deposited by Miss Hartford, and she alone withdrew the money.
Dermot asked if he could see the ledger and Mr. Perkins handed it over to him. Dermot looked at his notes and also the recorded entries of the deposits.
“The amounts match. Now, was there an address listed on the account?”
Mr. Perkins turned to a page. “Yes, she lived at 34 Bishopsgate in East London. She must’ve been very poor to live there. I bet the money was a great help to her.”
Dermot agreed, thanked Mr. Perkins, and left.
— — —
The East End had improved since the previous century, but it was still poorer than the other areas of London. As he drove through, he wondered how the woman had come to know any of the expensive secrets that Lord Fitzhugh had paid to keep silent. He asked for directions and in a few minutes he pulled up outside a building that despite its dilapidated state still looked better than the others on the street. Dermot’s interest in the mystery was getting stronger.
He got out of the car and walked up the steps. He knocked and the door was opened by a plainly dressed woman.
“’Oo is it?” she asked in a cockney accent.
“Are you the landlady of this building?”
“Yes, what d’you want? I ain’t got no rooms.” She looked at Dermot’s car. “Fancy car you got there, mister. Wouldn’t catch me in a place like this if I ’ad a car like that.”
Dermot smiled. “Madam, I’m a detective and here on police business. I’m not looking for a room to rent.”
She stared at him. “S’pose you better come in then. Don’t know what you’d want from me though. If it’s about that robbery down the street, well Lord knows I ain’t got nothin’ to do with it.”
“No, Madam. Now, may I ask your name please?”
“Blimey, aren’t you full of them posh manners. Charmin’ too. Hard to find that around ’ere. Mrs. Enid Potter’s my name.”
Dermot followed her into her flat. She offered him tea, but he kindly refused. Dermot asked her if she remembered Portia Hartford and she shrugged her shoulders and said that she didn’t.
“She lived here probably from 1903 or earlier to 1906. Why don’t you check your records?”
“I don’t need t’l
ook at any records. I’ve them all in ’ere,” she said, pointing to her head.
“Mrs. Potter, this is a police investigation. I would urge you to check your records,” he said sternly.
She mumbled under her breath, went to a shelf, and took out a book. She opened the book and looked at it for a few minutes.
“No, Detective, none by that name. Only one lady and her daughter lived here and left in 1906. Her name was Mrs. Frida Wilson. She came in December 1898…” She showed Dermot the book. He saw the dates and nodded.
“She was a strange un.”
“Why do you say that?”
Enid told Dermot that when Frida Wilson came to live at her boarding house with a newborn baby, she was penniless. She had to work as a charwoman because her husband had died in an accident. Then, in 1903, she stopped working and started wearing nicer clothes. She even sent her daughter to a good school, saying that one day her daughter would be a lady. Frida even started talking ‘like one of them aristocrats’. She bought a typewriter and started taking secretarial classes by correspondence. She told Enid that her uncle had died and left her some money. Then, in 1906, she left in a hurry and without a forwarding address, after selling some furniture and clothes, saying that she was going to marry someone.
“What did the mother and daughter look like?”
“Frida had brown hair and Adele, the littlun, had red hair. She said the red hair came from the girl’s father. Frida was a looker though. Not surprised she got someone to marry her again.”
“Before she left, was she happy or upset?”
“Come t’think of it, she was upset when she read in the paper that some lord had died. She kept sayin’ that he was a good man. Methinks that she never met ’im but pretended like she ’ad. How could she, being lowly like us…”
A Bloody Hot Summer Page 8
