by Jack Murray
He thought about his own upcoming posting to Ireland. Dealing with a bunch of Irish rebels seemed a more enticing task than facing a combination of the British press and the aristocracy up in arms over the theft of a few trinkets. Expensive trinkets, admittedly.
There was a brief knock at the door. Macready looked up as Jellicoe entered his office. With some embarrassment they went through the usual formal greetings before Macready wanted to hear of their progress.
‘Any good news, Jellicoe? I could really do with some. I think you could also.’
Even if Jellicoe had good news, it wouldn’t have been evident from the mournful expression on the Chief Inspector’s face. However, even by Jellicoe’s exceptional standards of solemnity, Macready could see that little or no progress had been made. Jellicoe made his report, which was as succinct as it was bereft of new news.
Macready nodded wearily. Then he shook his head. Jellicoe had done, or was doing, everything humanly possible. But it was clear the current situation was untenable.
‘Look, Jellicoe, you know that I trust you and more importantly, I have confidence in you. But we need to shake things up a little. This stasis can’t continue. The wolves are howling. At me I might add. That means either we change our approach or, regrettably, our personnel.’
Jellicoe was surprised that matters had moved to this point and said as much. It would be professionally embarrassing to be removed from such a high-profile case.
‘I need a little more time, sir. The few leads we have we’ve followed up. We are literally treading sand.’
‘We no longer have time. I’ve a few angry ‘nobs raising merry hell in the chamber. They want action.’
‘I wouldn’t advise mentioning the Phantom, sir. That would make things worse.’ This applied as much to the Commissioner as it did for him. Both knew any revelation about the calling cards would exacerbate the situation further without any material gain.
‘You have forty-eight hours, but in the meantime, I’m briefing a backup team.’
‘Not Bulstrode, sir.’
‘Bulstrode.’
‘You know my views on Bulstrode, sir,’ said Jellicoe. His face took on, if possible, an even an even more dejected mien.
In fact, Jellicoe had never actually stated any view about the Detective Inspector, but Macready didn’t need to be a psychic to know what his opinion would be.
‘You probably deplore his methods,’ responded Macready.
‘He’s a thug, sir.’
This was as precise as it was difficult to argue against. The high correlation between Bulstrode’s successful convictions and confessions obtained by vicious beatings, had anyone bothered to check, and Jellicoe had, was certainly not due to chance.
‘I’m afraid I’ve made my decision,’ said Macready. This was clearly not a happy choice for him, either.
‘Can we at least delay until the forty-eight hours have elapsed?’
‘He started this morning. I suspect he’ll be in your office now.’
-
Kit took a seat at his usual dinner table by the window. He looked outside and thought of Olly Lake. The two of them had often lunched together at Sheldon’s. The gradual decline of Olly into alcoholism had been so cleverly staged, it had taken him in completely. His mood sank as he thought of his former friend. As wonderful as the last few weeks had been with Mary, his mind sometimes returned to his youth, school, and his life before the War. He knew he and Olly would meet again. The prospect of this left a sickening feeling in the pit of his stomach.
Rather than dwell on Olly, he thought about Mary. Her manner had been evasive, certainly, but was he being paranoid? Thinking along these lines was also dispiriting. He badly wanted her back. It had only been a day since her departure.
His mood was lowered further by the arrival of the same loud group as yesterday. They set up camp near Kit’s table which meant he could enjoy the breadth of their erudition and repartee. It was going to be a long afternoon. He thought for a moment about getting up but was halted by the arrival of the waiter with one of Kit’s favourite dishes, asparagus soup. There was no choice but to endure, with fortitude, a situation that was, otherwise, unendurable: loud Americans eating nearby.
Kit glanced at the four men. Two of the young men were English and were swivel-eyed bleaters of the first rank. One of them was familiar to Kit, the son of a Viscount, like himself. He was likely to be a member. It was possible the Americans were also members as Kit had noticed, recently, an increase in fellows from the New World amongst the hallowed ranks of Sheldon’s.
The volume of their conversation was inversely related to its quality. Each of the group, intent in outdoing one another in their stories related to success with the opposite sex, succeeded only in proving how insubstantial they were. One member of the group caught Kit’s attention. He was the leader. Well made, and clearly wealthy, he was as loud as the others but seemed less eager to please. Kit suspected an underlying contempt for the people he was with.
At a certain point it was his turn to share with the party his tale of success in the mating game. He leaned forward rather needlessly as his voice carried across the dining room like a scream at midnight.
‘Guys, we have a new maid in the house.’
This brought guffaws from the others. One of the Englishmen said, ‘Is the previous one off to have the sprog?’
The American waved his hands downward, ‘Hear me out guys. Anyway, I think you’d have to ask my uncle about the other one, but anyway.’ This created more chortling from his listeners.
‘What’s she like?’ asked the other American.
‘Most gorgeous looking dame I’ve seen in England so far.’
The party began to clap at this pronouncement. By this stage a few of the other diners were beginning to grow impatient with the young men. Finally, a waiter came over to them and requested they lower their voices. Apologies, sincere or otherwise, followed.
‘Go on then,’ said the young lord, after the waiter had departed.
‘She’s young, very slim and so pretty she’d make one of these old generals in here turn German with the flutter of an eye. She’s pretending to play hard to get but I think she’s game.’
‘What’s her name?’
It came out of the blue. As much as Kit did not want to listen to the conversation, it was unavoidable. And then he had heard the name.
‘Mary Tanner.’
Three thoughts raced through Kit’s mind in an instant. The first one was that Mary Cavendish and Mary Tanner were two different people. This was discounted quickly as the second thought hit Kit: was this Mary and if so, what was she playing at? A final thought followed. Why had she misled him?
Reluctantly Kit listened to the rest of the American’s story. The maid had arrived the previous day. This tallied with Mary’s trip to Sussex. The description matched Mary, save for the blonde hair, which could easily be explained by a wig. The narration by Rosling veered off into territory that almost had Kit marching over to the table and handing out a thrashing to the young man there and then.
Kit quickly finished his meal and went to the head waiter. Rather than complain directly, he asked for the names of the men at the table. The head waiter would draw his own conclusions from this. Next, he went to the General Manager at Sheldon’s and obtained the address of the young man he now knew to be Rosling. He also found out a little bit more of the background of the young man following a few calls to friends in commerce and the civil service.
An hour after overhearing the conversation between the young men, Kit and Harry Miller were sat in a car near the house in Sloane Gardens. Miller was apprised of the situation. It seemed to Kit this made sense practically as well as from the point of view of trust: they were potentially going to be embarking on a long watch. Over the next few hours, each took turns sitting in the car while the other took a break.
Night fell like black ink on wet paper, weeping gradually downwards from a sad sky. The Rosling family
returned at different times over the course of early evening. Yet there was no sign of Mary. If Mary was, indeed, acting in the capacity of a maid, she would not be free until near ten o’clock. This would mark the end of dinner freeing servants either to relax, go to bed or, as Kit hoped, take a walk.
In fact, there was one other option which Kit had not considered until it happened.
Chapter 17
The Commissioner’s prediction that Bulstrode would be waiting for Jellicoe when he returned to his office was a little way off the mark. It was early evening before Bulstrode descended on the office like a black cloud. He did so in tandem with his sergeant, Wellbeloved, who wasn’t, never had been and cared not a jot if he ever would be.
The timing of the arrival, just as the Chief Inspector was about to leave, seemed deliberately aimed at irritating Jellicoe. In this regard, Jellicoe’s instincts were more acute than the Commissioner’s. Unlike Jellicoe, neither Bulstrode nor Wellbeloved had families, therefore they were more likely to work late into the night. The benefits of this were twofold, and readily appreciated by the minority of senior officers who had facilitated Bulstrode’s rapid rise through the ranks to the current glass ceiling.
Firstly, crime was an activity that tended to be executed at night rather than during the day, if only for the desire of criminals to avoid being detected in the act. Less obviously, but of equal if not greater importance, the reduction in manpower during the evenings gave the detective duo free rein to employ their robust interrogative techniques to the full.
The greeting between the two policemen had a polar quality: low in temperature, bereft of life and unlikely to witness either warmth or life anytime soon. There was no handshake only a nod and a brief introduction of the two men to Ryan.
Ryan looked at Bulstrode. They’d never met but his reputation not only preceded him, it was manifest in the short, squat, bull-necked man before him. His red face suggested, accurately, a temperament that was as unruffled as an Italian facing a German who has insulted his mother.
Bulstrode’s partner in crime detection, Wellbeloved, was of middling height, leaner with a sharp face and an eye that was closer to beady than bright. Ryan didn’t need to pick up on the body language of Jellicoe to form an instant dislike and distrust of these men. This was consolidated by Bulstrode’s first comment accompanied, as it was, by the bronchial cackle of Wellbeloved.
‘Macready wants us to hold your hand, then.’
‘So, it would seem,’ responded Jellicoe neutrally. This appeared to have more of an effect on Bulstrode than his original comment had on Jellicoe. Ryan noted this and realised the way to play Bulstrode was not to rise to the man’s needling manner. A glance between him and Jellicoe was sufficient for master and protégé to understand this.
Bulstrode turned his attention to Ryan, hoping for more purchase from his brand of wit. ‘Shouldn’t you be at school, son?’
‘I left school to join the army, sir,’ replied Ryan with a smile. ‘I’ll go and retrieve for you the case file and would you gentlemen like a tea?’
Jellicoe allowed himself a smile, not that anyone would have known.
-
It wasn’t a falling out exactly. They stood in front of one another and glared their disagreement. In the scheme things it was nothing but there was a lesson in there had he chosen to see it. But he was desperate.
‘I still think it’s too big a risk,’ said Ryan sulkily.
‘You saw the way they searched the coats they’d never look where you’ve put them. They won’t even search, anyway. See if they do.’
‘It’s me that’s taking the risk, not you,’ pointed out Ryan though gritted teeth. He glanced up to see if anyone could see their contretemps. Thankfully the sound in the factory meant no one could hear, and they appeared to be out of the eyeline of anyone working on the factory floor. Johnny Mac and Rusk were in the office.
By continuing to argue the point rather than refuse point blank meant, as Ryan slowly realised, he was merely delaying the moment when he took the risk. The noise of the factory and the heat inside felt oppressive and Ryan’s head began to swim with the fear he was feeling. Facing the Germans was one thing: you expected to catch one. If he was never exactly inured to the feeling of going up top he had, at least, found an accommodation with his maker.
Now the stakes had changed. He had family now. It was no longer just him. To lose his job would be a disaster. But they needed the money. The new job wasn’t enough. The two men remained silent for another few minutes, each left to their own thoughts. Finally, Ryan relented.
‘All right.’
A few yards away in the office, Johnny Mac and Rusk were having a conversation along similar lines.
‘You’re sure you saw them?’ asked Johnny Mac doubtfully.
‘I did, they must’ve had wind of it. I’ll search their coats again tonight,’ replied Rusk.
Johnny Mac was silent for a few moments. He was amused by the idea of the two men thinking they could pull a fast one on him. Didn’t they know who he was? Clearly not. A lesson might have to be handed out to them.
‘Leave them.’
‘Leave them?’
‘You heard,’ said Johnny Mac irritably, ‘Give them a day or two, don’t go near them, don’t even look at them. Ignore them when they leave, don’t acknowledge them when they arrive. Let them think the coast is clear. Let’s see what happens then.’
‘Then,’ said Rusk smacking his fist. He didn’t need to add anything else.
‘One other thing,’ added the big Ulsterman as Rusk turned to leave. ‘Have them followed. I want to know more about them. Where they live, what they do. They’ll have to sell them sometime. Find out where. Ask around if you must. Who’s buying?’
Rusk nodded in agreement, not that he had any choice but to agree. There were few men that Rusk was afraid of. Johnny Mac was one.
-
If Harry Miller was surprised to see Mary emerge from the basement steps wearing a blonde wig, he was too discreet to draw attention to it. Whatever the colour of her hair, she was striking. However, the blonde hair, in Harry’s humble opinion, made her quite a head turner.
‘Sir’
Kit, who was reading a paper glanced up and saw what Miller saw.
‘Interesting,’ was Kit’s only comment. They both watched as Mary crossed the street. She appeared to be heading towards a big car. ‘That’s Aunt Agatha’s car if I’m not mistaken. Harry, do you think you could take us back to Grosvenor Square before Mary?’
Harry had already started the car and moments later they were on their way. Miller risked a glance in the mirror and saw Kit was smiling.
‘This should be fun,’ said Kit enigmatically.
They arrived, as Kit had directed, well before Mary. Kit got out of the car and went up the steps while Miller moved the car away from the front. Fish appeared a few moments later. He looked surprised at seeing Kit.
‘Hello, Fish old chap,’ said Kit moving inside before the old butler could make any excuse for the lady of the house. ‘I’ll just pop in to see Lady Frost.’
In the entrance hall, Kit could hear his aunt’s voice and that of another lady. He made straight for the drawing room, with Fish trying to keep up behind him. A knock of the door and in he went. Agatha and Betty looked up at Kit standing in the doorway.
‘Hello, Aunt Agatha,’ said Kit disingenuously and then he walked over to Betty and kissed her on the cheek. ‘Good to see you, too, Betty. Now what are you ladies cooking up?’
‘Christopher,’ said Agatha regaining her composure, ‘what are you doing here?’
‘Can’t a chap visit his favourite aunt out of the blue?’
This raised Agatha’s suspicions immediately. She realised the game was partly up and said, ‘Well, as it happens, it’s fortunate you’re here, because Mary is on her way back to us as we speak.’
‘Indeed, how fortunate,’ said Kit. He seemed anything but surprised.
‘Young man,’
said Agatha, now completely in command of her senses if not exactly the situation, fell back on her default tone of voice in situations such as this: righteous indignation. She didn’t for a second think it would work but it was worth a try. ‘I will not be spoken to in that tone of voice.’
‘Aunt Agatha, I’m not sure I know what you mean.’
At this point the door opened and into the room walked a de-wigged Mary Cavendish.
‘You’re back, darling,’ said Kit rising from his seat.
Mary’s eyes narrowed, ‘And you’re here too, darling.’ She looked at Agatha and Betty, but they were clearly as shocked as she was. Rather than take the high hand, she adopted a tactic, even less subtle, used by the distaff side of the species, through the aeons to avoid either the censure or the wrath of the less intelligent sex. She put her arms around his neck, looked him in the eye and kissed him gently on the lips.
If Kit had been truly angry, forgiveness would have been immediate and sincere. In fact, he was highly amused by the turn of events and happily reassured by Mary’s first instinct in avoiding reproach. It augured well for the future, he noted.
‘Sit down, my love,’ said Kit, finally disengaging himself. ‘I think you ladies owe me an explanation.’
Mary now looked more amused than shocked. She looked at the other ladies and said, ‘Who wants to begin?’
Agatha recognised that it was for her to enlighten Kit on what they had been up to. She reached down to the newspaper and held it up for her nephew to see. The article on the recent spate of robberies was circled.
‘We’ve cracked the case, Christopher,’ announced Agatha.
‘Possibly,’ added Mary.
