A tram – a number 35, not hers – clanked into the station and he turned his face to look at it. She didn’t like his mouth. No, she didn’t like his mouth, she thought with a sudden chill. It was sharp with a cruel twist to it, not kindly like Steve’s. Agnes had a faint sense of something wrong. Although the man was looking at the tram keenly, he didn’t seem to want to board it. He didn’t straighten his shoulders, readjust the coat over his arm and shuffle forward in the crowd. No; instead he stepped back, watching. That was it. Watching.
The crowd heaved round her, shuffling slowly forward towards the waiting tram. The man walked forward, not towards the tram, but diagonally across the platform. It was as if he was trying to catch up with a friend, but his face wasn’t friendly. He shouldered his way through to stand behind a bloke in a bowler hat and paused. Agnes half-expected him to tap the bloke on the shoulder, but he didn’t.
She saw his eyes narrow and focus, his lips flatten out to a thin line, then the arm carrying the coat raised up and, so quickly she couldn’t work out what was happening, there was a sharp crack.
The gent dropped his arm, turned away, back through the crowd and towards the steps leading up to the street. The bloke in the bowler seemed to stagger and jump forward, clutching at the woman in front of him, his arms round the shoulders of her navy blue coat. She screamed in fright, trying to free herself, to shake off the clutching arms. The crowd heaved and eddied and there was a swell of excited noise as a space appeared around her and the man in the bowler fell to the floor.
The conductor on the tram leaned forward on the lighted landing stage, his voice carrying over the din. ‘What’s going on?’ he demanded. ‘Here, stand clear of the car, will you,’ he added, getting down from the tram and pushing his way through the passengers. ‘What’s that lady screaming about?’
‘A geezer attacked her,’ said an eager-looking man in a cloth cap, over a rolling torrent of explanations. The woman continued to scream. ‘Disgraceful, I call it. Grabbed hold of her, he did. I seen it. Bold as brass.’
‘He’s been took ill,’ said a headscarfed woman. ‘’E collapsed. ’E must’ve had a stroke. Takes ’em like that, it does.’
The woman who had screamed was standing at the centre of a small circle, a man sprawled out on the platform in front of her. His hat, a bowler, was still jammed tight on his head, but Agnes caught a glimpse of an odd dark stain on the back of his neck.
The conductor broke through into the little circle and knelt on the ground. ‘Be hushed, mum,’ he said with rough sympathy to the woman who screamed. She was standing with her hand crammed to her mouth. ‘No harm done.’ He reached out, tentatively shook the fallen man, gasped and drew his hand away.
His voice broke. ‘Bloody hell! That’s blood. There’s blood all over his collar.’ He took his cap off and wiped his forehead with a trembling hand. ‘He’s been shot.’
Sir Charles was standing at the entrance to the Fennel Street mortuary when Anthony arrived. Anthony knew the Fennel Street mortuary from his time at the School of Tropical Medicine, an unobtrusive building tucked behind the imposing frontages of Gower Street. It was nearly three hours after the murder at Kingsway tram station.
‘I got your message,’ he said quickly. ‘What’s happened?’
‘You know you said we’d hear from Warren’s killer again? I think we have.’ Sir Charles quickly recounted what had happened on the tram platform. ‘I’m waiting for Superintendent Rothley. The description of the murderer matched Warren’s killer, so Scotland Yard got in touch with me right away.’
He looked up as a solid, well-scrubbed man holding a black briefcase, who looked, thought Anthony, every inch a plain-clothes policeman, approached. ‘Here he is now.’
The mortuary attendant led them into the clean, cold, depressing reception room. ‘This is the most peculiar murder I’ve ever come across, Mr Monks,’ said Superintendent Rothley lugubriously, putting the briefcase down on the table. ‘Can you really credit one man would shoot another in that way? It wasn’t a chance affair, either. We’ve got a very sharp-eyed young woman who swears our gunman was looking out for his victim. She was sure the killer was a gent. The real thing, I mean. She described him as a toff by the way he was dressed.’
Sir Charles and Anthony swapped glances. ‘A toff, eh?’ repeated Anthony. ‘A gentleman, you mean?’
Rothley nodded. ‘We can take her word for it. Gent’s clothes is something she knows about because she works in Hampson and Quinns, the gentlemen’s outfitters. I couldn’t shake her. She’ll be a good witness, which is just as well, because otherwise it beggars belief.’
‘How come no one tried to stop the killer getting away?’ asked Anthony.
Rothley gave a depressed shrug. ‘No one realized what had happened. I mean, I ask you! People were jammed on that platform like sardines in a tin. You don’t expect them to start shooting each other. Our witness, Miss Prenderville, saw what she saw, but she didn’t believe it. I don’t blame her, either. We’ve identified the dead man. His name was Cedric Chapman. I don’t suppose that means anything to you, gentlemen?’
Both Sir Charles and Anthony shook their heads.
‘Ah well. It was just a thought. Anyway, Chapman seemed to fling himself forward and make a grab at a woman, a Mrs Ollerenshaw, who screamed fit to bust. She thought she was being assaulted and so did a good few others. When he collapsed, everyone thought he’d been taken ill, Mrs Ollerenshaw wouldn’t stop screaming, the conductor was bellowing at everyone to clear the car and the platform and so on and, what with one thing and another, our man calmly turned on his heel and walked away without anyone lifting a finger to stop him. I’ve never come across anything like it. If he really is the same bloke who killed your Lieutenant Warren, the sooner we get our hands on him the better, but it’s going to be hard.’
‘Why?’ asked Anthony. ‘Why should it be especially hard, I mean?’
Superintendent Rothley looked at him morosely. ‘Think about it, sir. A man who can stand on a tram platform, gun down another and stroll away as cool as kiss-your-hand isn’t going to go shouting his mouth off in the pub about it or come and own up, which is how we usually get on the right track.’
The superintendent pulled a long face. ‘Add to that, I presume, because you gentlemen are involved, there’s something hush-hush about the whole affair.’ He tapped the briefcase. ‘I’ve brought all the evidence with me, as you requested. Do you want to look at it now?’
‘I’d rather see the body first,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Just as you like, Mr Monks.’
The attendant ushered them into the mortuary. They were silent as the sheet was pulled back from the body on the slab, then Anthony gave a gasp of surprise. ‘Good Lord, it’s the Weasel.’
Sir Charles looked at him sharply. ‘Are you sure?’
‘Certain.’
The bullet had gone through the back of his head but the face was unharmed. Anthony stared at the dead man. The jaw had fallen open and the upper lip curled away from his teeth in a weaselly snarl. He was unmistakable.
‘So you recognize him, Colonel?’ asked the superintendent, brightening.
‘He broke into my rooms.’
The superintendent nodded. ‘That ties in. He was a thief, all right, a real pro. He had a record as long as your arm.’ He stared at the figure on the slab. ‘I don’t know why he was mixed up with the likes of Lieutenant Warren’s killer. I wouldn’t have thought that was his cup of tea at all. He’s been found in possession of a firearm before now, but he’s never used one, to the best of our knowledge. Like most professional crooks, he avoided violence if he could.’
‘A lovable rogue, Superintendent?’ asked Anthony with a lift of his eyebrows.
Superintendent Rothley gave a snort of disagreement. ‘There was nothing lovable about Chapman, sir. Not on your life. He avoided violence because he was a sight too fond of his own skin. He’d do down a pal if he thought he’d get something out of it. He’s no
great loss, that’s for sure.’
They went back into the anti room where they pulled up chairs to the table. The superintendent opened his briefcase and handed a cardboard folder to Sir Charles. ‘That’s a copy of Chapman’s record, sir, with a note of his last known address and associates.’
‘Did he have anything on him?’ Anthony asked. ‘Money, papers, that sort of thing?’
‘He had a few bits and pieces, including a watch, a box of matches and a packet of Woodbines and nearly five pounds in notes and loose change. That wasn’t much to shout about, but this was a bit out of the way.’ The superintendent reached in the briefcase once more and took out a cardboard-backed envelope.
Sir Charles opened it, took a photograph from the envelope. He stared at the photograph for a moment, then handed it to Anthony.
Anthony felt the hairs on the back of his neck stand up as he recognized the photo.
It was a studio portrait of a little girl about five years old, the same child whose picture they’d found in Veronica O’Bryan’s room. Then she’d been holding a toy cat; now she had a doll. Anthony took the photograph and once again looked into the child’s solemn eyes. As before, an adult had written across the bottom of the picture. ‘To Mummy’.
‘Veronica O’Bryan,’ said Sir Charles softly. ‘It’s a link to Veronica O’Bryan.’
Superintendent Rothley looked at him enquiringly but Sir Charles didn’t explain. ‘It’s a puzzler, isn’t it?’ he said, putting the photograph back in the envelope. ‘I couldn’t figure out why Chapman had it on him. It was in that envelope in his breast pocket and it’s obviously fairly new. There’s no photographer’s name on it, worse luck, so we can’t trace it that way. Chapman didn’t have any family and besides that, I’d say that little girl was a different class altogether from Chapman and his sort.’ He looked hopefully at Sir Charles. ‘You can’t give me a hint, Mr Monks? It obviously means something to you.’
Sir Charles clicked his tongue in irritation. ‘You’re quite right, Superintendent. It means something but I don’t know what.’
‘Well, sir, I know better than to ask too many questions, but if it does start making sense, perhaps you could let us know,’ said Rothley, standing up.
‘I will, Superintendent,’ said Sir Charles absently. He shook himself and got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your cooperation. It’s saved a great deal of unnecessary work. I’m much obliged.’
They all left the mortuary together. As Superintendent Rothley departed down the street, Sir Charles tucked the cardboard folder under his arm and fell into step with Anthony as they rounded the corner of Fennel Street.
‘What the devil,’ said Anthony, as soon as they were alone, ‘was Chapman doing with a photograph of that kid?’
‘Blackmail, perhaps?’ said Sir Charles. ‘Maybe Veronica O’Bryan was blackmailed into cooperating.’
Anthony drew his breath in. ‘That’s a filthy trick.’ He scratched his ear thoughtfully. ‘Can it be blackmail, though? Mrs O’Bryan didn’t seem an unwilling partner.’
‘Maybe it isn’t blackmail,’ said Sir Charles with a shrug. ‘Maybe they, whoever they are, are looking after the child and send Mrs O’Bryan photos of her from time to time to keep her sweet. That’d fit the facts. What I’d like to know is why Chapman was killed. We can take it as read that Warren and Chapman were killed by the same man, but why kill Chapman? Was he threatening to blow the gaff, as they say, about Warren’s murder? Chapman might have drawn the line there. Most thieves are squeamish about murder.’
‘I don’t think Chapman was squeamish,’ said Anthony, remembering that weaselly face. ‘As the superintendent said, as long as he could get away with it, I don’t think there’s much he’d have blinked at. I think Chapman tried to pinch the diamonds but it didn’t come off. It seems as if this organization won’t tolerate failure.’
‘My God,’ breathed Sir Charles. ‘We have to get to the bottom of this. I’d give a dickens of a lot to haul Sherston over the coals, but I can’t.’
He paused, sunk in thought. ‘Miss Holt, the editor of the Beau Monde, thinks Frankie’s a member of Sherston’s household, so, for the time being, I’m going to work on the premise that Veronica O’Bryan is Frankie, with or without Sherston’s knowledge. I think there’s a good chance she’ll get in touch with someone at Starhanger. It might be her daughter or it might be Sherston. If Sherston is involved, he’ll want to know what’s going on. If he comes back to town, I’ll make sure he’s kept under observation but I want you at Starhanger.’
‘How do I get myself invited back to Starhanger?’ asked Anthony.
‘You’d better telephone. You can ask to speak to Tara O’Bryan.’ A slightly cynical smile curved Sir Charles’s mouth. ‘You made quite an impression on her, if I’m not mistaken.’
Anthony was about to deny it, then, with a little jolt, realized that Sir Charles might be right. All sorts of little pointers fell into place, such as the way she had sought him out in the garden and the easy familiarity with which she’d talked to him. Yes, she probably did like him, the poor kid. The idea made him uncomfortable and he tried to pass it off with a dismissive laugh. ‘I don’t think so, Talbot.’
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows disbelievingly. ‘Have it your own way,’ he muttered. ‘Anyway, you can express your concern and so on, and ask if you can come back and help search for her mother. Unless I’m much mistaken, she’ll invite you like a shot.’
Like a shot? That was an unhappy choice of phrase.
Anthony liked Tara O’Bryan. He felt a tender protectiveness towards her, an elder brotherly sort of feeling. He loathed the idea of using her, of pretending to be a friend because – he couldn’t pretend otherwise – there was no happy ending for Tara.
Her mother had vanished without trace. Either she would stay lost or be found. If she stayed lost, Tara would never be really at peace again. If she was found, those papers in her room were enough to strap Veronica O’Bryan blindfolded to a wooden Windsor chair in the Tower of London where she would be executed. Shot.
That was the brutal simplicity of war. If Sherston was part of the conspiracy, Tara would lose her home as well. She was innocent and she was going to suffer. He didn’t want to be part of it. And then there was Josette . . . The thought of her haunted him and the only cure he could see was to stay away.
Sir Charles looked at him. ‘You have to go,’ he said with unexpected sympathy. ‘We’ve had too many deaths, Brooke. We have to get to the truth before the fourteenth of June. There’s something very nasty planned and we’ve got to stop it.’
Anthony braced himself. ‘If you say so,’ he said unhappily.
The next morning, Tara O’Bryan met Anthony on the little platform of Swayling Halt. It was unexpectedly touching to see her there, in her pretty green jacket and green and white hat.
At a guess, she had dressed with especial care to defy the anxiety she so clearly felt. She was putting, thought Anthony as he stepped off the train, a very consciously brave face on it all. The look of relief she gave, as he hefted his bag and stepped down from the train, hurt. After all, he was her mother’s enemy and she thought he was a friend.
She stretched out her hand to him. ‘I’m so glad you came back, Colonel.’ She paused, then added, her voice cracking, ‘I’m trying to bear up, but I’m off my head with worry.’
And that, thought Anthony, as he looked at her strained face and the shadows under her eyes, was true. ‘Kindred’s outside with the pony and trap,’ she said, in an attempt at her usual manner.
To see Tara, who was so courageous and – well, so downright sensible – so close to tears, moved Anthony more than he could say. He didn’t think Veronica O’Bryan had been a very kind or loving mother, but she was the only mother the girl had.
He was about to reply, but the train huffed, sending a whoosh of sooty smoke into the clear air. There was a slamming of doors and shouts of, ‘Dover train! Foxley Heath next stop!’ which made conversation impossib
le.
The train gave a deafening whistle and chugged out of the station. The sound of clanking wheels and snorting steam gradually died away.
There was one other passenger who had alighted at Swayling Halt, a stout woman in a pepper-and-salt tweed coat and a hat with berries on it. She was fussing with her bags and looked round impatiently for the porter. Her eyes lit up as she saw Tara and Anthony.
‘Good morning, Tara, my dear,’ she said cheerfully.
It was Mrs Moulton, who Anthony had sat beside at dinner on Friday night. ‘I didn’t realize we were fellow-passengers, Colonel,’ she added. ‘I’ve been away for a few days, visiting Cynthia,’ she went on chattily, looking at Tara. ‘My married daughter,’ she explained in an aside to Anthony. ‘She lives in London. I should have come back last night, but the trains are so bad she persuaded me to stop another night. I’m glad I did, too. Did you see this awful news in the paper this morning about the poor man murdered at the tram station? It’s not safe to be out any more. It’s the war that’s done it. It’s unsettled everyone so. Cynthia asked after you, Tara. She’d love to have you to stay.’ She looked at Tara critically. ‘Why don’t you consider it, my dear? You’re looking a bit peaky. A little holiday might do you good.’
‘Haven’t you heard the news, Mrs Moulton?’ blurted out Tara. ‘About my mother, I mean?’
Mrs Moulton stood riveted to the spot as Tara told her about Veronica O’Bryan’s disappearance. ‘We’ve searched the entire Slough,’ said Tara, despairingly, ‘and there’s no trace. We’ve gone over every inch of the ground between here and Carson’s Water, but no one’s seen her.’
‘You poor child,’ said Mrs Moulton, deeply moved. She glared at Anthony. ‘What are you doing about it?
‘I don’t . . .’ began Anthony.
‘You should do something,’ said Mrs Moulton firmly. ‘You’re a man! When did she disappear, Tara? Saturday? Saturday evening?’ Her face fell with disappointment. ‘I saw your mother on Saturday afternoon, but I don’t suppose that’s much use.’
Frankie's Letter Page 16
