Murder in Belgravia

by Lynn Brittney

  “No,” Billy answered, “I haven’t moved all my stuff there yet. I’ve still got my civvies back at the station house in Pimlico.”

  “Then that is where we shall go,” Tollman announced, clearing the last morsel from his plate.

  “Tube train would be quicker, Mr Tollman.”

  “Oh no, lad!” he said firmly. “You won’t get me going down the Tube, no way.”

  “Claustrophobic?” volunteered Billy sympathetically.

  “No lad,” chuckled Tollman. “I never go down the Tube because it’s infested with pickpockets and if I see one in the act, I feel obliged to arrest him, which puts the noses of the Transport Division out, because they think it’s an implied criticism that they are not doing their job properly—which it is, of course—and then I get given the runaround as far as the paperwork is concerned and that puts me out of action for the rest of the day.” He slapped Billy on the arm. “Stick with me, son, and I will teach you more about policing than they ever could at some fancy police college!”

  And off they went to get Billy out of uniform before they went “up West” for some little “negotiations.”

  * * *

  Beech returned to the base in Mayfair, after he had lodged the firmly sealed tin of cocoa in the Evidence Department and filled in the necessary paperwork. Victoria was on her own, as Lady Maud, feeling the effects of the Grosvenor Hotel luncheon, had retired to have an afternoon nap. Beech found Victoria poring over legislation pertaining to factories and making copious notes.

  “What’s all this then?” he asked curiously and she explained to him their conversation with Miss Gardiner at the WSPP about the plight of the girls in the munitions factories.

  “You couldn’t resist a bit of campaigning I suppose?” he said with a slight tone of concern in his voice.

  “Caroline too!” she said defensively. “She’s hoping to persuade the Board of the Women’s Hospital to do something about regular health inspections.”

  “Mm. Just exactly when are you and Caroline going to find the time to do all these things?” he commented.

  “Oh, Peter, don’t fuss! I like being busy.” Victoria’s face set into a stubborn look that Beech knew only too well.

  “I’m only concerned about your health, Victoria,” he said. Momentarily covering her hand with his and giving it a squeeze. “You are still fragile.”

  Victoria pulled her hand away and said briskly, “Rubbish! I’ve never felt better in my life! You were absolutely right, Peter, to involve me in this work. I’ve never felt so useful and I haven’t had so much energy since … gosh! Has it really only been three days since we started?”

  Beech realized that she had been embarrassed by the touch of his hand and it depressed him somewhat. He rationalized that too much water had passed under the bridge for his relationship with Victoria to resume its previous closeness.

  She noticed his downcast look and said softly, “Be patient, Peter.” And she put her hand over his, where it still lay on the table. He looked at her hopefully but she continued, “Let’s just enjoy being friends and colleagues for the moment. Don’t let us spoil this splendid enterprise by letting confused emotions get in the way.”

  He squeezed her hand again and gave her a regretful smile. “You’re absolutely right, old thing,” he said sadly. “Friends and colleagues.” Then he took his hand away and walked over to the window to compose himself.

  “Of course, you don’t know about the drama we had at lunchtime,” he said breezily over his shoulder.

  “Oh?”

  “Yes. The policeman guarding the Murcheson house got poisoned … which reminds me—” he broke off hastily and strode for the door “—I must ring the hospital and get a progress report. I’ll be back in a tick and will fill you in on the details then.”

  As the door closed, Victoria sat quite still for a moment, thinking about what had just happened between them. She had just seen in Beech’s face a diluted version of the look he gave her when she rejected his marriage proposal all those years ago. She sighed. It seemed as though she was always rebuffing him, when she knew, deep down, that she cared very deeply about him.

  It’s just that poor Peter always seems to choose the wrong time to approach me, she thought with frustration. I don’t know how we are ever going to be able to get beyond this.

  Just then, Beech came back into the room with a relaxed smile on his face. “Constable Eastman is recovering, Hallelujah! He’s awake and feeling very nauseous but he is able to keep down some water and he looks to be on the mend. Thank God!” He flopped down in a chair.

  “I’m so pleased,” said Victoria enthusiastically, “but perhaps you could fill me in now on what transpired between him being poisoned and then recovering?”

  “Of course!” Beech then proceeded to tell her all about Eastman, the cocoa, Caroline, and the redoubtable pharmacist, Mabel. Victoria listened happily, watching and admiring Beech’s expressive face as he described the events of the day.

  Just be patient, my darling, she thought. Just be patient.

  * * *

  Billy Rigsby looked a swell in his “civvies”—brown trousers and jacket, shirt, waistcoat, cravat, and brown Derby hat.

  “Well, ain’t you the picture?” commented Tollman as Billy appeared. “I suppose these are the togs you wear out on the town, are they? Very smart. Right lady-killer you look.”

  Billy flushed a little. “Too posh?” he enquired anxiously. “Only I haven’t got nothing else.”

  “Well, you make me look a bit underdressed, lad—” Tollman looked down at his own dull gray overcoat, black trousers, and waistcoat “—but, I don’t mind. Nah, you’ll be fine. As long as you show off those muscles of yours, I don’t care what you’re wearing.”

  Out in the street, Tollman hailed a taxi and directed the driver to take them to Soho Square.

  “We’ll see if the McAusland boys are at their club.” He looked at his fob watch. “Four o’clock. Hmm. Might be a bit early but we’ll see.”

  When the taxi pulled up outside the Club Tango, everything seemed locked up. It was one of the more salubrious establishments on the street, in that it had a proper sign above the door, there were lights—not lit at the moment—around the frontage and pictures of tango dancers displayed in front of curtains in the windows. It was not, as Tollman observed, one of the usual disreputable basement or back alley clubs that had sprung up all over Soho, whose sole purpose was cheap liquor and prostitution. No, this was a pukka establishment. A fitting headquarters for a criminal gang with pretensions toward legitimate business.

  Before he rang the bell, Tollman turned to Billy and said, “This time, son, I really do want you to keep your mouth shut and your fists by your side. Understood?”

  Billy nodded.

  “These people are far more dangerous than the Sabinis,” Tollman continued. “We shall show them some unnatural respect when we get in here. So, whatever you see or hear inside this place—you don’t react, you don’t say or do anything. Just save it for my ears only, when we are back outside and away from here. Got it?”

  “I hear you, Mr Tollman. I won’t let you down.”

  “Good lad.” Tollman took a deep breath and rang the front bell. After a few minutes, a scowling, heavyset man opened the door.

  “We ain’t open yet,” he said gruffly.

  Tollman flashed his warrant card. “Just need a quick word with your bosses,” he said, with a casual air.

  The man glared, nodded, and opened the door wider, motioning Tollman and Billy inside.

  It was plush. Very plush. There were statues on tables in the foyer, mirrors, and red flock wallpaper. Tollman was impressed. The corridor opened on to a large club area, with a bar, tables, a dance area, and a small stage for the band. The barman gave them a glance but then continued to wipe and lay out trays of champagne glasses. A waiter was cleaning tables and a lone saxophonist was on the stage, cleaning and assembling his instrument.

  “Wait he
re,” the heavy said, as he shuffled off to a door beside the stage. Tollman looked around and muttered to Billy, “This is how the other half live, son. Who’d have thought there was a war on, eh?”

  Billy nodded, too overawed to even raise a smile.

  Just then, some girls came through the door. They were wearing scanty satin evening dresses and a great deal of make-up. One of them caught sight of Tollman and Billy, and sashayed across, expectantly.

  “Sorry, love,” said Tollman firmly, as the girl approached. “Here on business, not pleasure.”

  “Pity,” she said, flashing a smile at Billy. “Let me know if you change your mind,” and she winked as she moved off to the bar area.

  “Don’t even think about it, lad,” Tollman warned, under his breath. “Just to buy her one drink would cost you a week’s wages.”

  “I know,” Billy murmured in response, “I’m not stupid.”

  The door opened again and two suited men appeared. They were so similar that they could almost be twins. Both had the same curly ginger hair and the same freckled faces that only a mother could love.

  “We’re in business,” muttered Tollman. “Meet the McAusland brothers.”

  The brothers looked affable and the first brother extended a hand for Tollman and Billy to shake. The second brother did likewise.

  “Detective Sergeant Tollman, and this is Constable Rigsby,” Tollman affected introductions.

  “I’m Matt and this is my brother Mike,” the first brother said genially. His voice was a curious hybrid accent of London and Ireland. “Take a seat, gentlemen,” he added, motioning to the nearest table and they all sat. Matt McAusland raised his arm and clicked his fingers and the barman came over. “Aidan, bring a pot of coffee and four cups, there’s a good lad.” The barman nodded and disappeared. Matt looked at Tollman and raised his eyebrows. “What can we do for you, gentlemen?” he enquired.

  Tollman produced two pictures from his pocket and laid the first on the table. “Would you happen to know this man, sir?” he enquired casually.

  Both brothers made a great play of scrutinizing the photograph carefully. Tollman caught a brief look that passed between them.

  “Why are the police interested in him?” asked Matt, looking directly at Tollman.

  Tollman stirred and took his time to answer. “He’s wanted in connection with the abduction of a young girl and, possibly, a murder.”

  Matt tutted. “Murdering a young girl, is it?” Tollman sensed McAusland was fishing for more information and decided to give it to him.

  “No. Just abduction as regards the girl. The murder is of …” he paused and leant forward, lowering his voice confidentially “… a titled gentleman who could possibly be one of your customers.”

  Tollman watched as the two brothers digested this piece of information, looked at each other uneasily, and looked back at the policemen.

  “I would need the name of this titled gentleman, if I were to verify that he was one of our customers,” replied Matt, warily.

  Tollman shook his head. “I’m sorry, sir, I can’t give you that because it is a matter of national security.” He felt Billy stir at this piece of fiction and pressed the toe of his boot over Billy’s by way of warning. “You see, the titled gentleman was involved in work for the Government. There may or may not be state secrets involved. Either way, the murder, and anyone remotely involved in it, will be looking at a capital offence for both murder and treason. Of course, all of this is confidential, gentlemen, you understand.”

  The two brothers nodded. Tollman could see that they were weighing up their options and he decided to give them some more information to digest. “There was also a large—very large—quantity of drugs involved in this case. It’s possible that someone was supplying either this man—” he pointed at the photograph “—or the titled gentleman himself with this large quantity of drugs, which may have been instrumental in his death.” Tollman fancied that he saw some of the color drain from Matt McAusland’s face and Mike McAusland looked down at his hands intently.

  Just then, the barman appeared with a tray of coffee, set it down and began to pour out four cups. There was silence while this was done, which suited Tollman, watching, as he did, the brothers silently communicate a concerned look.

  I’ll be getting some co-operation in a minute, he thought, nothing puts the frighteners up a couple of villains more than the thought of being involved with a hanging offence.

  The barman left and, finally, the second brother, with a nod of encouragement from the other, spoke.

  “We know this man,” Mike said, tapping the photograph, “and we don’t like him. He doesn’t work for us. He’s a small-time pimp who makes it his business to recruit amateurs into prostitution. He’s tried to muscle in on some of our girls but they just tell him to get lost. He’s even offered them drugs but our girls are not into that sort of thing. We make it clear to our girls that they have to stay clean if they want to work with high-class punters. We don’t deal in drugs. Why would we, DS Tollman? We make more money with booze and the girls. We don’t need the trouble that drugs bring.”

  “Besides,” added Matt, in the spirit of further co-operation, “our customers tend to bring their own drugs into this establishment. We don’t like it, do we, Mike?” His brother shook his head. “But what can you do? You’d be surprised how many lords and ladies are partial to their cocaine. Even judges,” he added mischievously.

  Tollman gave a thin smile. “I have no doubt, sir. I don’t suppose you would know the popular source of these drugs for the upper classes, would you?” he asked hopefully.

  The McAusland brothers laughed. “Doctors and chemists, Mr Tollman! There’s no deception about it!” Matt McAusland clearly found it amusing that Tollman should be so naïve.

  Tollman allowed him his little moment of superiority.

  “You know you can buy all sorts of potions from any chemist shop. The purer stuff is given freely by the doctors up and down Harley Street for ladies’ headaches, m’lords’ wheezy chest—you name it. We don’t compete with that. What’s the point?”

  Tollman nodded in appreciation, then said, “The trouble is, we have in our possession some quantities of heroin that we know is the sort of stuff supplied by gangs …”

  Matt McAusland knitted his eyebrows together in concern. “How would you know that then, Detective Sergeant?”

  “The quality of it and the way it’s packaged. We’ve had it examined and it’s definitely street stuff. Very dangerous in our opinion.”

  Mike McAusland looked angry. “If that weasel Sumpter has been giving our customers dodgy stuff, then I’ll …”

  “You’ll what, sir?” Tollman prompted.

  “I’ll have to have a word with him …” Mike replied, subsiding into an angry mutter “… when I see him …”

  Tollman put the photograph of Polly on the table. “This is the girl that Dodds aka Sumpter has abducted. Well, she’s more of a child, really …” he decided to throw that into the mix. “So I suppose we’re talking about trafficking a minor, white slavery etc.”

  The McAusland brothers looked at the photograph cursorily. Tollman could see that Matt McAusland was losing his patience now, clearly uneasy that the possible charges against Dodds were mounting up and that they were being associated with them.

  “Mr Tollman, we haven’t seen Sumpter, or whatever his name is, in a very long time. We don’t traffic drugs or children and we don’t approve of murdering titled gentlemen … even if they owed us money or made us very angry. It’s bad for business. But …” he paused for effect “… we will now make it our business to look for this piece of rubbish and we will hand him over to you.”

  “Thank you, Mr McAusland,” Tollman replied.

  “Course—we might give him a good kicking first, for causing us so much grief, but I don’t suppose you would care about that, would you, Detective Sergeant?”

  “I’ll take him in any condition, Mr McAusland, as long a
s he’s capable of talking.”

  “Right, well, if you’ll excuse us, gentlemen, we have business to conduct.”

  The brothers stood and extended their hands.

  Mike McAusland caught sight of the girl at the bar, who was still eyeing up Billy, and grinned. “What did you say your name was, Constable?” he asked.

  “Er … Rigsby … sir,” answered Billy uncertainly.

  “Well, Rigsby, judging by the looks that one of our girls over there is giving you, I would bet that you are very popular with the ladies, yes?”

  Billy was flustered. “I couldn’t say, sir,” he mumbled.

  Mike McAusland nodded and said conspiratorially, “Well, if you get tired of being a policeman any time soon, I know a few titled ladies that you could amuse, if you get my drift.”

  Billy flushed and the McAusland brothers laughed.

  “Let’s be going, son,” said Tollman, steering Billy toward the exit.

  When they were out in the street, Tollman turned to him and said, with some amazement, “That’s two jobs you’ve been offered in one day—and both of them crooked!”

  Billy looked embarrassed. “It’s not my fault, Mr Tollman.”

  Tollman shook his head in disbelief. “I revise my lesson of earlier in the day. When it comes to bent coppers—there’s the criminal bent copper who’s in it for the take, there’s the desperate bent copper, who’s involved ’cos his nearest and dearest have been threatened, and there’s the enticed bent copper, who’s offered a better-paying opportunity!”

  Billy was annoyed. “Well, I’m not any of those, Mr Tollman!”

  “No, lad, and see you keep it that way, an’ all.”

  * * *

  Back at Mayfair, Beech, Victoria, Tollman, and Billy gathered over dinner to share their news of the day. Billy and Tollman were shocked to learn that PC Eastman had been poisoned and that it was with the “special” cocoa powder Dodds had been feeding the staff at the Murcheson house.

  “So I’m sorry, Rigsby,” said Beech apologetically, “but I promised the Murcheson staff that you would spend the night there while I sort out a replacement for Eastman.”