by John Creasey
“Thanks,” Roger said, and opened the nearest gate.
The garden was at its spring loveliest, with clusters of daffodils beneath some of the trees and in the central lawn, where toddlers played and, even in this day and age, nursemaids sat with their charges, and gossiped. He walked more slowly, partly because of the quietness and the beauty of this sylvan oasis in the heart of Mayfair, partly because he had to decide what approach to make to Lady Fellowes. He was almost sorry when he reached the other side of the garden, squeezed between two parked cars, a Bentley and an M.G. – the M.G. reminding him of Professor Clayton.
Cars were moving much too fast beyond the parked cars; one came so close that he jumped the last two feet. He glowered round at the car but had no time to take its number, then crossed the pavement and entered Rexham Towers. A tall doorman in a dark blue uniform approached.
“I’m afraid Lady Fellowes isn’t seeing anybody, sir,” this man told him. “You can leave a message. I—oh, police … Well in that case, I’ll telephone and say you want to see her. Her daughter-in-law is with her,” he confided as he reached a wall telephone in two long strides.
He explained, and turned to Roger as he put the receiver down.
“It’s all right for you to go up, sir, the number’s 79, on the seventh floor. Mrs. Fellowes says please don’t keep her ladyship too long.”
“Not a moment longer than I must,” Roger promised as he stepped into a lift.
Before the doors closed, before he had any idea what was happening, there was a burst of activity and a young couple raced across the lobby and into the lift as the doorman bellowed: “No you don’t!” The automatic lift doors closed as the girl of the couple pulled the strap of her camera free, while the rather plump young man who had been in Mandeville Street stood breathless but beaming with triumph as he asked: “Do you think these two jobs are connected, Handsome?”
“If you make a nuisance of yourselves while I’m on a case I’ll find a way of making you wish you hadn’t,” Roger said gruffly. “Have you been questioned by my men?”
“Oh, yes, and satisfied them that we work for the Globe,” Tweed replied. “You wouldn’t threaten the freedom of the Press, Mr. West, would you?”
“If I had to I’d put you on a charge of loitering if I thought you were threatening the effectiveness of a police inquiry,” Roger replied sharply.
He knew that he might be over-reacting, but was far from sure, even when the young man said almost plaintively. “Oh, come, Handsome, you wouldn’t do that, would you?”
Chapter Eight
Lady Fellowes
It was never wise to be deliberately hostile to the Press, and Roger fought back irritation at being called by his nick name by this young pup. He schooled himself to show no reaction to the last question, and remarked: “I would do what I had to do. Meanwhile, be careful. That doorman could break your neck with one hand.”
“But he won’t,” the newspaperman said confidently.
“I shouldn’t be too sure.”
“You haven’t said whether you think the two jobs are connected,” the other said, accusingly.
“When you’ve been at this job a little longer, you’ll know that policemen never answer questions if they can avoid it, and certainly never express opinions. But they do make statements. Your premise is wrong.”
“Come again.”
“The attack on Professor Clayton might be classified as a ‘job’. The suicide of Sir Douglas Fellowes certainly couldn’t. I—”
The lift stopped, the doors opened, and the tall doorman, now looking both huge and menacing, appeared by some miracle at the widening gap. He eased to one side enough to allow Roger to pass, repeated: “No you don’t,” to the others and thrust the Globe reporter back into the lift car with great and deliberate vigour. Roger glanced round long enough to see the doorman disappearing into the lift, arms outspread to make sure the others did not get past them. The doors began to close.
This was a wide, carpeted passage, with elaborate light fittings, paintings or good facsimiles of paintings on the panelled walls, doors on either side with the number on each in black lettering on avocado green. The whole place had an air of opulence. He passed number 71, found the next was 73 and so knew he was heading in the right direction; he stopped for a moment outside number 79. A bell push was at one side. He was vividly aware of going to see Ida Spray, and as vividly aware of the newspaperman’s question. The two affairs couldn’t be connected, could they?
Almost as soon as he pressed the bell, the door opened.
A young woman, little more than a girl, appeared, looking at him soberly. She had long hair, golden-coloured, brushed straight down to her shoulders, and wore a mini-skirted dress. In her way she was beautifully turned out, and her grey eyes were quite lovely.
“Are you Superintendent West?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
“Please do come in.” She stood aside. “You won’t harass my mother too much, will you?”
Was this daughter or daughter-in-law? Was she old enough to be married?
“I shall try not to,” he said.
“She is so terribly upset.”
“I’m sure she is. Are you—”
“I’m Helen Fellowes.”
“Mrs. Fellowes?”
“Yes.”
“Would you care to be present while I’m with your mother?”
“Very much,” Helen Fellowes said in her most assured manner. “Thank you.” He found her protracted gaze a little disconcerting; it was almost as if she were looking for some special message in his expression, but at last she turned away.
There was a large, square hallway with doors leading off on both sides and at the far end; just one, at the end, opposite the front door. Helen Fellowes went straight to this, which stood ajar, and announced quietly to whoever was beyond: “It’s Superintendent West, Mummy.”
She stood aside for Roger to enter and find Lady Fellowes alone in a long, beautiful room. The decor was blue and dove grey, with wide windows overlooking the Square; Roger’s feet sank into luxurious carpet, but it was the woman who caught and held his attention. She was in pale grey; her hair was grey, and fell about her shoulders, like the girl’s. She had an absolutely colourless but startlingly beautiful face. He did not know why the word occurred to him but he thought she was a tragic Madonna.
She moved towards him from an open writing desk, a French escritoire with painted panels.
“Superintendent,” she said, “how can I help you?”
My God, what eyes!
“Lady Fellowes,” he replied, “I have had an early notice of the post mortem report on your husband, and I wanted to come and tell you the result myself.” He paused deliberately for a few moments, and then went on: “There was no indication of cancer whatsoever.”
She didn’t respond; did not speak or move. But the girl moved past Roger to the older woman’s side.
“And since your husband held a position of such importance I have been assigned to the task of finding out if there was any other different reason for his action.” He felt positive that plain words, without frills, were necessary here. Both of these women would see through any kind of pretence on the instant.
Neither of them spoke.
“Clearly, there could be a strong personal and emotional reason,” Roger went on. “As clearly, there is the possibility that some pressure was brought to bear on him over the Common Market, some—”
Lady Fellowes said: “Please don’t go on.”
“Lady Fellowes,” said Roger. “Sooner or later I have to go on. Isn’t it better sooner than later?” When she didn’t answer, he asked. “Have you seen this morning’s Daily Globe?”
“That rag!” exclaimed Helen.
“Yes,” Lady Fellowes answered. “Our friends made sure that we saw the newspaper.” She seemed to unfreeze, moved, and indicated a chair. “Please sit down, Mr. West. Helen, I’m sure Mr. West would like some coffee, and I think perha
ps I would, too.”
Roger sat down, aware of the crossed glances of the two women; the younger one, hesitant, doubtful; the other, commanding. It was only a brief conflict, ending when Helen smiled, turned and said: “Of course.” What had that been about? Roger wondered. He settled back in a Regency winged armchair, a trifle too narrow for him at the shoulders. Was the woman going to stand? To his surprise, she pulled up a brocade-covered pouffe and sat on that, crossing her hands in her lap. She moved beautifully. As she did these things she looked out of the window, at some photographs on a Bechstein grand piano in a corner, in which the keys and music rest had good window light, but finally at Roger.
“Mr. West,” she said, “I suppose it is no use asking you to treat what I am going to say in confidence?”
“It will depend on what it is,” Roger said, and after a pause added with obvious feeling: “I didn’t like the article in the Globe either. No one at the Yard likes rumour, gossip or scandal, and anything you say would only be made public if it were clearly in the public interest.”
Her eyes held a brighter light.
“You are very understanding. Mr. West, I did not for one moment think that my husband had, or feared that he had, cancer. I know, or I believe I know, why he killed himself. His note of explanation was an attempt to save me and our family from scandal and perhaps humiliation. My husband killed himself because he was being blackmailed. He had been, for some time. I didn’t know until after his death.” She was speaking in short sentences and pausing noticeably between each one, as asthmatics did sometimes, and some under great emotional stress. “My son and his wife knew. I heard them discussing it not long after I was told of his – my husband’s – death. I am sure they would not have told me, otherwise. But I was insistent. I had to be told all. My husband had been blackmailed because he kept the fact that he had a mistress unknown to me. He committed suicide because he could no longer go on paying for silence. And because …” Now she gulped, as if the words choked her. “And because he was afraid of what I would do if I found out.”
She sat on the pouffe, ankles crossed, legs at one side, hands still in her lap. Her eyes burned – as Ida Spray’s had, only an hour or so ago. Roger was acutely aware of the intensity of her gaze, but that was not all. He was suffering from the shock of learning that the cause had been blackmail. The plump face of the Globe man hovered in front of Roger’s mind’s eye, and his voice seemed to echo in Roger’s ears.
“Do you think these two jobs are connected, Handsome?”
Blackmail of a man who had been deceiving his wife for years and was afraid of being found out.
He fought back the dozens of questions which sprang to his mind as he looked into Lady Fellowes’s eyes. Their brilliance was such that they looked like silver; silver, caught by the sun.
She said: “So you see, in a way I killed him.”
Roger started.
She went on with weariness: “But you don’t see, do you? I thought for a moment that you would.” The silvery light faded, the eyes became dull.
Roger exploded: “Nonsense!”
“I beg your pardon?” She was startled.
“Absolute nonsense,” Roger insisted. “Convention may have killed him. Fear of what his friends and colleagues might think, but – he killed himself, Lady Fellowes. There isn’t a shadow of doubt about that. A man is responsible for his own actions, no one else is responsible for them.”
She looked astounded.
“No part of my job to moralise,” Roger went on gruffly. “But – it is true, you know. Will you answer me one question?”
Still astonished, almost dazed, she answered: “If I can.”
“If your husband had told you the truth what would you have done?”
She closed her eyes.
He wondered if he had gone too far, whether he could justify his attitude or his actions. He could, to himself. He wanted to get her to talk fully and freely, and believed that if she continued with the belief that she was responsible, she would keep her mind half-closed. He was aware of a faint sound at the door but did not glance round, and Lady Fellowes seemed unaware of it.
Her eyes were still closed.
If her answer was that she would have left her husband; divorced him; caused the scandal he had so feared, then obviously she did carry a share of the responsibility and she would never refuse to admit it. What was going on in her mind? What tormented thoughts?
She opened her eyes.
“I would have told him that for years past I also have had a lover,” she said.
He saw the tears fill her eyes; saw them spill slowly down her cheeks. Then the door opened wider and Helen came in with a laden tray, a bright-eyed Helen. He felt sure she had been at the door during those few minutes of ‘confession’. She placed the tray on a table between Roger and her mother-in-law, and looked at Roger so that the older woman could not see her. Her eyes glowed, and her lips formed words he could not mistake: “Thank you. Oh, thank you.”
Then, quite matter-of-factly, she began to pour out. There were biscuits and sandwiches on the tray, and she placed some on a small plate and put the plate in the other’s hands.
“Cream and sugar, Mr. West?”
“A little of each, please … Thank you.” He saw Lady Fellowes put a delicate-looking sandwich to her lips, and begin to eat, mechanically; drank coffee and had a biscuit before the older woman said: “So you are not shocked, Mr. West?”
“I feel partly vindicated,” Roger said, soberly. “The suicide isn’t conceivably your fault. You must surely see that.”
“I—I am beginning to. Helen has been trying to make me believe what you say, also.” She smiled at her daughterin-law. “How does this affect your inquiry, Mr. West?”
“Very much,” he said. “I need to know everything I can about the blackmail, the amount paid, the method of collection …”
“Hubert – that is, my husband – knows more about that than anybody,” Helen broke in. Her face was positively radiant. “And I know he’ll give you all the help he can.”
“Where is he?” asked Roger.
“He’s at his office, in the City,” Helen answered. “Would you like me to telephone him?”
“I’d like him to come and see me at Scotland Yard as soon as he can,” Roger said, standing up. “Lady Fellowes, at this stage I don’t see any reason at all for the facts to be made public, but you may find that some of the Press are difficult and persistent, and not above presenting rumour and guesswork in the guise of facts. One or two may come in here and worry you once the report on the autopsy is known, and it may be known before the inquest.”
“Have you any advice for me?” asked Lady Fellowes. She both looked and sounded more relaxed than at any time since Roger had arrived.
“It is not unknown for human beings to be convinced they have an incurable disease when in fact they are quite healthy,” Roger said. He backed a pace, looking down on the beautiful face, aware of Helen studying him, and then he went on in a stronger, sterner voice: “There isn’t the slightest possibility that there was a political cause, is there? You have not invented this story in an effort to make quite sure we don’t probe into his official activities, have you, Lady Fellowes?”
It seemed a long time before Helen gasped: “What an awful thing to say!”
“I am simply trying to get at the truth,” Roger replied, “and I am sorry if it causes you distress or pain. But your husband was deeply involved in political aspects of the Common Market, wasn’t he? He travelled widely in Britain’s interest, and – I simply have to be sure there is no hidden motive.”
Chapter Nine
Truth?
It was some time after Helen’s protest and Roger’s comments before Lady Fellowes replied; then it was quietly, the words accompanied by a smile which seemed to play about the corners of her lips. She looked at him steadily.
“No,” she said. “I have told you the truth, Mr. West. I am sure my son will confirm it, and wi
ll give you all the help he can. And” – the smile deepened – “that was the kind of question my husband would have asked. I don’t mind how deeply you probe, provided you find the blackmailers.”
“There we really have the men responsible for the suicide,” Roger said. “Thank you very much.” He turned and went towards the door, catching Helen unawares, but she sprang forward and opened it, stepping out into the hallway just behind him.
“Superintendent,” she said.
“Yes, Mrs. Fellowes?”
“You won’t—you won’t harass Lady Fellowes more than you must, will you?”
Roger said, with the hard note in his voice: “Only as much as is necessary to find out the whole truth.”
“You know the truth where my father-in-law is concerned,” Helen assured him. “The absolute truth. There was never a more upright man, no one with greater integrity in his work.”
“That’s what I’ve been given to understand,” Roger said.
“Goodbye.”
“I’ll call my husband at once.”
Husband! She was absurdly young to be married. The thought brought a smile to his eyes and, although she could not know what caused his, an answering smile to hers. She put out her hand; her grip was firm, her hand cool. He went out into the passage and to the lift. It would not have surprised him to find the Globe man and his girl photographer hovering, but they were not, although the doorman wasn’t there. Roger walked across the garden again. The nursemaids had gone, with their prams and charges; some older people walked dogs, and two girls sat amid daffodils, eating sandwiches from cellophane wrapping. As he stepped out of the far gate, Roger looked at his watch – it was twelve twenty. As he glanced up the policeman with whom he had left the car came hurrying.
Trouble?
“Will you call your office at once, sir, please?”
“Yes,” Roger said.
He guessed what Venables had to say; that Coppell was screaming for him. With the news he had, however, Coppell would soon calm down. He sat at the wheel and lifted the radio-telephone; in a moment he was talking to Venables.
