Contents
Cover
A Selection of Recent Titles from Dolores Gordon-Smith
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Chapter Nine
Chapter Ten
Chapter Eleven
Chapter Twelve
Chapter Thirteen
Chapter Fourteen
Chapter Fifteen
Chapter Sixteen
Chapter Seventeen
Chapter Eighteen
Chapter Nineteen
Chapter Twenty
Chapter Twenty-One
Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter Twenty-Three
Chapter Twenty-Four
Chapter Twenty-Five
Chapter Twenty-Six
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Chapter Twenty-Eight
Chapter Twenty-Nine
Chapter Thirty
Author’s Note
A Selection of Recent Titles from Dolores Gordon-Smith
The Anthony Brooke Spy Series
FRANKIE’S LETTER *
THE PRICE OF SILENCE *
The Jack Haldean Mysteries
A FÊTE WORSE THAN DEATH
MAD ABOUT THE BOY?
AS IF BY MAGIC
A HUNDRED THOUSAND DRAGONS *
OFF THE RECORD *
TROUBLE BREWING *
BLOOD FROM A STONE *
AFTER THE EXHIBITION *
THE CHESSMAN *
* available from Severn House
THE PRICE OF SILENCE
An Anthony Brooke Espionage Thriller
Dolores Gordon-Smith
This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.
First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of
19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.
This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital
an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited
Trade paperback edition first published
in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by
SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD
Copyright © 2017 by Dolores Gordon-Smith.
The right of Dolores Gordon-Smith to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.
British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data
A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.
ISBN-13: 978-0-7278-8726-9 (cased)
ISBN-13: 978-1-84751-838-5 (trade paper)
ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-901-5 (e-book)
Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.
This ebook produced by
Palimpsest Book Production Limited,
Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland
Dedicated to Dr John Curran, author of Agatha Christie’s Secret Notebooks and a really ‘mint’ bloke!
ONE
Mrs Rachel Harrop stood at her sitting-room table, sorting out the bed linen that had arrived from the laundry that morning. Mrs Harrop, housekeeper to Mr and Mrs Jowett, of 4, Pettifer’s Court, Northumberland Avenue, believed in a strict hierarchy in all things. There was, in her opinion, a place for everything and everything in its place.
That applied equally to God, social class, the household and the laundry. The lower servants’ sheets and pillowcases of inexpensive American cotton went in the bottom of the basket, to be placed on the bottom shelves of the linen cupboard. Her own bedding and that of Mr Hawthorne, the butler, was made of hardwearing Irish linen and went in the middle, whereas Mr and Mrs Jowett’s sheets and pillowcases, made of fine Egyptian cotton, destined for the upper shelves of the cupboard, went on the top.
Mrs Harrop had been housekeeper to the Jowetts for nearly ten years. She had come to work for them when Mr Jowett, a bachelor in his early forties, had married Mary Knowle, a pretty young widow with a thirteen-year-old son, Maurice.
She liked the Jowetts. Mrs Jowett and her husband, Mr Jowett, the chief cashier of the Capital and Counties bank, were a nice, respectable couple to look after.
Mrs Jowett, in particular, always appreciated any little extra effort. Mrs Harrop smoothed the sheet on top of the laundry basket absently, her hands slowing. At least, Mrs Jowett had appreciated any little extra effort, but for the last few weeks she’d seemed too worried and abstracted to notice.
Maybe, thought Mrs Harrop, she was anxious about Maurice, and no wonder, poor boy. When Mr Maurice had called that morning he seemed worried to death. Young Mr Maurice usually had a friendly word for her, enquiring about her knee (Mrs Harrop always appreciated an enquiry about her rheumaticky knee) and listening to her lamentations about how difficult it was to furnish the table with the sort of foodstuffs a gentleman’s table should be furnished with in this dreadful war.
This morning, however, Captain Maurice had hardly seemed to notice her. He’d rushed past her into the house, scarcely said ‘Hello’ even, and greeted his mother with the words, ‘It’s true!’.
Then Mr Maurice and his mother said something about chocolate. Mrs Harrop couldn’t quite hear what it was about chocolate, but whatever it was, they were unhappy. Mrs Harrop shrugged. Whatever it was, it’d all come out in the wash.
The wash. Mrs Harrop’s hands unconsciously twisted in the smooth sheets. Poor Mr Maurice. He had been so keen to be a soldier, too, just like his father.
Maurice Knowle’s father, Mrs Jowett’s first husband, had been Major-General Knowle of the Royal Artillery but poor Mr Maurice’s army career had been cruelly short-lived. He survived the nightmare known as the retreat from Mons, and stuck out a horrible winter in the trenches. Trenches! thought Mrs Harrop with a sniff. A hole in the ground, that’s all a trench was, and frozen solid, too. It seemed all wrong that gentlemen’s sons should be called on to live in holes. Then, after all that, he had been in a battle for somewhere called Aubers Ridge and been invalided home with a shattered left arm and a permanent limp.
A place for everything and everything in its place. But poor Mr Maurice, an officer, was in the wrong place, here in London, while his young lady, Miss Edith Wilson (and she was a real lady too, related to Sir Horace Wilson) was out in Belgium, nursing wounded soldiers.
It was, thought Mrs Harrop, obscurely but definitely, all wrong.
With a sigh she picked up the linen basket, came out of her sitting room, and, panting slightly with the effort, went up the back stairs to the top floor.
She opened the linen cupboard door, then paused, her head on one side, listening. The linen cupboard stood beside the door that separated the servants’ bedrooms from the main body of the house. From the other side of the door she could hear voices. With a jolt of indignation she recognized Eileen Chadderton, the parlourmaid, and the two housemaids, Winnie Bruce and Annie Colbeck. What on earth were they doing, upstairs at this time of day?
>
Frowning, she pushed open the door and gaped in amazement.
Outside Mr Jowett’s study – Mr Jowett’s study, mark you – the three women were unashamedly listening at the door. To Mrs Harrop’s amazement, there was a fourth listener at the door, none other than Hawthorne, the butler.
‘What’s …’ she began when Winnie Bruce turned, saw her, and put a finger to her lips.
It was only the astonishing presence of Hawthorne that kept Mrs Harrop quiet.
Mr Hawthorne, as he liked to remind the staff, had been with Mrs Jowett’s family since he was a boy and was, as he put it himself, proud to be one of the old school.
Unwillingly accepting retirement two years ago, he had insisted on taking up his post on the outbreak of war. Mrs Jowett, driven to near distraction by the patriotic, if inconvenient, urge that had possessed her young and energetic butler to join up, mentally crossed her fingers at the thought of Hawthorne’s dodgy heart and accepted his services gladly.
Arthritic, elderly and with an immense pride in the family, Hawthorne was the very last person who would stoop to listening outside doors.
Mrs Harrop might have believed in a place for everything and everything in its place, but she was only human. Impelled by curiosity, she joined the little knot of servants outside the study door.
The study door was solid, but she could distinguish Mr Jowett’s voice, sharp with anger. Whatever was the master doing here? He was never at home this time of day. Then she caught the name ‘Maurice’ followed by a shrill yelp of protest. That was the mistress.
Another few words reached them. ‘The police … law … disgrace.’
It was Mr Jowett speaking. Mrs Harrop drew in a horrified breath. What on earth did the police have to do with things?
Mr Hawthorne, alerted by Mrs Harrop’s gasp, turned and caught her eye. He suddenly seemed to become aware that he was not the only listener at the door. ‘We should all disperse,’ he said. Behind the door, Mr Jowett’s voice rose. Hawthorne drew himself up and, very much on his dignity, started to shoo the servants away like so many chickens.
‘Bruce, Chadderton, Colbeck, I believe you should be attending to afternoon tea …’
There was a sharp crack from the room.
‘That’s a gun!’ yelped Eileen Chadderton. ‘He’s shot her!’
Hawthorne turned slowly, gazing at the door in astonishment.
All four women screamed as another shot cracked out inside the study. Hawthorne groaned, blanched, clutched at his chest, and, falling against the door, slid to the floor.
For a moment Mrs Harrop thought that Hawthorne had been shot, but the door was undamaged. He couldn’t have been shot …
Then the truth hit her. Hawthorne’s heart, never strong, had given way under the strain. She quickly pushed past the girls. ‘Mr Hawthorne!’ she cried, putting an arm under the old man’s shoulders. She looked wildly at the other servants. ‘It’s his heart!’
Eileen Chadderton, torn between Hawthorne’s condition and what had happened in the study, banged on the door. ‘Open this door!’ she yelled. ‘Open it!’
‘Never mind that!’ cried Winnie Bruce. ‘What about Hawthorne?’
Eileen Chadderton ignored her, rattling the handle of the study door. The door was locked. Annie Colbeck did nothing, but, hanging back, repeated, ‘He’s shot her. He’s shot her.’
‘Open this door!’ yelled Eileen, banging on the woodwork. ‘Open this door, I say!’
‘Leave the door!’ said Mrs Harrop, her voice sharp with worry. ‘Mr Hawthorne needs help. He needs a chair.’
‘Eileen!’ shouted Winnie Bruce. ‘Help us!’ Then, driven to distraction by Annie’s constant wailing, yelled, ‘Annie! Help Eileen and shut up!’
Annie subsided into a series of sobs. Eileen Chadderton took one look at Annie, gave her up as a bad job, and ran down the corridor to the nearest bedroom. Seizing hold of a chair, she dragged it to where Mr Hawthorne was slumped.
Together they got the old man into a chair. They couldn’t have heard shots from Mr Jowett’s study, thought Mrs Harrop in terrified bewilderment. It was utterly incredible and Mr Hawthorne – poor Mr Hawthorne with his weak heart – was suffering. His face was paper white and his lips had a bluish tinge. He reached up and grasped her hand convulsively, trying to speak, but, with Annie’s wails rising to a new crescendo, Mrs Harrop couldn’t make out the words.
‘Quiet, girl!’
Annie gulped into stuttering sobs. In the brief moment of silence, Mrs Harrop made out what Hawthorne was saying.
‘My drops,’ he croaked. ‘I need my drops.’ He made a huge effort. ‘Drops … In my bedroom.’
‘I’ll get them,’ offered Annie, clearly anxious to get away.
‘Off you go, girl!’ snapped Mrs Harrop.
Annie, white-faced, nodded and, opening the door into the servants’ quarters, went to search.
It seemed a long time before she returned, holding a small bottle and a glass of water. The study door remained firmly closed. Hawthorne sprawled in the chair, his breath coming in fluttering gasps.
‘The bottle was in his dressing-table drawer,’ Annie explained as she handed the glass and the bottle to the housekeeper. She seemed on the verge of tears. ‘I couldn’t find it at first, then I thought as how they probably needed water, so I read the label and they do, so I had to go down to the kitchen for the water because we can’t use bathroom water, can we?’
Mrs Harrop took the bottle impatiently and, screwing up her eyes, read the label. ‘For once, you’re right.’ Annie whimpered at the sharpness of her voice. ‘Stop crying!’ commanded Mrs Harrop.
‘What about the door?’ asked Eileen Chadderton. She bent down and peered through the keyhole. ‘The key’s in the lock. We’ll have to break the door down.’
Mrs Harrop shrieked in protest. Already the noise they had heard from the study – surely it couldn’t really be shots? – had receded in her memory. There had to be some innocent explanation, of both that noise and the ominous silence from the study. To break down the door was utterly unthinkable. Normally she’d ask Mr Hawthorne what should be done, but poor Mr Hawthorne wasn’t capable of any decision.
‘He needs a doctor,’ said Eileen.
Mrs Harrop nodded. There was no scandal in calling for the doctor. ‘Go and do it, Eileen,’ adding in a worried way, ‘you’d better use the telephone in the hall.’ The telephone was usually off limits to the housemaids, but the circumstances were anything but usual.
Eileen went downstairs, leaving the three women alone with Hawthorne.
It suddenly seemed very quiet. The only noise was that of Hawthorne’s laboured breathing and Annie’s sniffles.
From down below, they could faintly hear Eileen’s voice, then there was silence. That seemed to last for a long time when suddenly, from downstairs, came the low rumble of a man’s voice, followed by the heavy tread of feet on the stairs.
Eileen came up the stairs, followed by a burly policeman.
Mrs Harrop was shocked. ‘Eileen! What is the meaning of this?’
The policeman cleared his throat. ‘This young woman tells me you heard shots, missus.’
‘Nonsense!’ snapped Mrs Harrop. She glared at Eileen. ‘You were sent to summon the doctor.’
‘The doctor’s on his way,’ said Eileen. ‘I telephoned him first but then I went outside and saw this policeman, so asked him to come in. What else could I do?’
‘Consulted me,’ said Mrs Harrop stiffly.
Ignoring her, the policeman eyed up the door, rapped smartly on the panel, rattled the handle, then looked through the keyhole. ‘The key’s in the lock,’ he said stepping back.
‘As I said,’ murmured Eileen.
‘We need this door open,’ said the policeman ponderously. Annie’s sniffles increased in volume. ‘Now, my girl, be quiet! We’ll have to break the door down.’
Hawthorne spoke for the first time. ‘No!’ he protested feebly. ‘We can’t damage the propert
y.’
‘Needs must, sir,’ said the policeman. Retreating down the hall, he sized up the door and ran at it.
Mrs Harrop cried out and Hawthorne gave a convulsive shudder as the door shook.
The policeman retreated once more. ‘This should do it,’ he said and, lowering his shoulder, charged the door once more. The lock gave way with a splintering crash.
The policeman, carried forward by the momentum of his charge, burst into the study.
Everyone crowded into the doorway, then Annie let fly with an ear-piercing shriek. Mrs Harrop clapped her hand to her mouth, feeling sick.
Mrs Jowett, the mistress, lay on the carpet. Mr Jowett, gun held loosely in his hand, was sprawled by the hearth.
The policeman drew a deep breath. ‘They’re goners. He must’ve shot her, then shot himself.’
Hawthorne appeared in the doorway, clutching onto the frame for support. ‘Oh, dear God,’ he muttered. ‘No!’ Stumbling forward, he fell into the room.
Mrs Harrop went to his side. Lying on the floor, with Mrs Harrop kneeling beside him, he groped feebly for her hand. ‘It’s my fault,’ he muttered. She could see the immense effort the words cost him. ‘My fault … Maurice.’
Mrs Harrop felt his hand tighten, then relax. His eyes rolled up, then fluttered shut and he slumped back on the floor. He was dead. She tried to get him to wake up but she knew he was dead.
Mrs Harrop felt the policeman’s hands on her shoulders as, with rough kindness, he helped her to stand. She saw Eileen Chadderton, Winnie Bruce and the policeman stooped over Hawthorne, heard Annie’s wails of shock and grief as something very far away. Then there was a buzzing in her ears and everything went black.
TWO
Sir Douglas Lynton, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, pushed the cigarette box across the desk to Inspector Tanner. It was six days after the deaths in Pettifer’s Court.
‘Help yourself,’ said Sir Douglas absently, as he read through the inspector’s report.
He finished reading, sat back and lit a cigarette. ‘So your conclusion is that Edward Jowett argued with his wife, shot her and then shot himself?’
The Price of Silence Page 1
