Sir Charles lent forward. ‘Before I say anything else, let me tell you that I’ve spoken to the War Office, and they’ve agreed to let me borrow you, so to speak, for an indefinite period.’
‘Borrow me?’ asked Anthony with a frown.
‘And an uphill job it was too, my dear fellow, to get them to agree.’ He smiled at Tara. ‘You’ll perhaps look at me a little kinder, Mrs Brooke, when I tell you that your husband is not going back to France. He’s very much needed here.’
‘Not going back?’ Tara repeated blankly. ‘Not going?’ There was a buzzing in her ears and her eyes seemed misty as she looked at Sir Charles. He nodded agreement and suddenly, through the mist, Charles Talbot looked like the most wonderful man in the world.
‘But why?’ demanded Anthony.
‘I’ve got a job for you. I can’t command, of course, only ask. It’s fortunate that you’re in London, but if you weren’t, I’d request your return.’
‘What on earth’s happened?’ asked Anthony in bewilderment.
‘I’m sure Mrs Brooke has heard of the Jowett family,’ said Sir Charles, turning to her. ‘Their deaths were reported in the papers, but you, Brooke, were in France when the tragedy occurred.’ He hitched closer to the table. ‘Let me tell you about the Jowetts and a certain Father Quinet.’
Sir Charles couldn’t complain about any lack of attention from his audience.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Tara slowly, when he’d finished. ‘Is this priest, this Father Quinet, certain he heard these people mention Sister Marie-Eugénie?’
Sir Charles nodded.
Tara stared at Anthony. ‘Anthony, this is incredible. The child they spoke about, the little girl who’s in danger – if she’s looked after in an orphanage by a Sister Marie-Eugénie – they just have to be talking about Milly.’
Anthony felt stunned. ‘I can hardly believe it, but you have to be right. The enemy must be planning to use Milly. They’ve used her before, as we know.’
Earlier in the year, in May, Anthony had brought the affair that in his own mind he labelled as Frankie’s Letter to a conclusion. Although the danger posed by Frankie had been averted, there were – there always were – unfinished elements and messy threads.
Perhaps the most unfinished and messiest element left unresolved was the little girl called Milly. Milly was about five years old, an orphan, who had been used by the enemy as a tool for blackmail. Anthony had never met her; he had only seen a photograph, but the picture of the child with her dark, solemn eyes had captured his imagination. He knew very little of her but what he did know was that she was behind German lines in the occupied territory and in an orphanage in the care of a nun, a Sister Marie-Eugénie. The trouble was, that was all he did know.
‘And so you see, Brooke,’ said Sir Charles, ‘once I’d heard what Douglas Lynton had to say, I knew you had to be involved.’
‘You’re absolutely right.’ Anthony still felt stunned. ‘Well, I suppose the first thing to do is to see Father Quinet. Which church is it again?’
‘St Mark the Evangelist, Hob Lane, Soho,’ said Sir Charles quickly. ‘But you must finish your lunch before we go.’ He grinned. ‘Otherwise I really will be in the doghouse with Mrs Brooke.’
Father Quinet didn’t know what to make of his visitors. He’d expected an official in uniform, but neither of his guests wore uniform. Mr Monks was an Irishman and had, apparently, been a policeman, for all that he looked like a well-to-do farmer with comfortable proportions, an infectious smile and a healthy out-of-doors complexion. Dr Anthony Brooke was taller and leaner, a thoughtful looking man in his early thirties, with fair hair and grey eyes.
Father Quinet started, at his guests’ request, by showing them the confessional in the church. Mr Monks immediately endeared himself to the old priest by genuflecting in front of the tabernacle. ‘I’m a Catholic, Father,’ Mr Monks explained. ‘If not, I’m afraid, a very good one.’
‘That can be said of most of us,’ said Father Quinet, feeling immeasurably reassured.
Anthony and Sir Charles examined the confessional from the sacristy.
This was where the priest sat. It was a small space containing a chair, a wooden prie-dieu or prayer desk with a sloping shelf, pinned to which were the words of absolution and holding various prayer cards and a set of rosary beads. The prie-dieu stood against the stone wall separating them from the other half of the confessional. The wall was pierced by a small unglazed window, masked by a black linen curtain.
Sir Charles went to sit in a pew in the church, beside the open door of the confessional.
The entrance to the confessional was the only door in the solid stone wall. A glance inside the confessional showed it was empty. From this side, the confessional was a small stone room with a place to kneel in front of a black linen curtain. To anyone unacquainted with Catholic practice or architecture it would seem impossible that there was anyone there to overhear what was said in the church.
Anthony, behind the curtain in the sacristy, drew the curtain aside and put his head through. ‘Can you say something, Mr Monks?’ he called to Sir Charles in the pew. ‘A poem or a nursery rhyme, perhaps? I want to see how the sound carries to someone behind the curtain.’
‘I can think of something more suitable than a nursery rhyme,’ said Sir Charles. ‘“Hail Mary, full of grace …”’
He completed the prayer, speaking clearly but quietly.
Anthony came out of the sacristy and into the church. ‘I could hear every word,’ he said. ‘It’s an odd effect. I think the sound is amplified by the stone.’
‘You can hear nothing when the door is shut,’ said Father Quinet rather defensively. ‘The secrecy of the confessional is absolute, you understand?’
‘You don’t feel bound by secrecy in this case, Father?’ asked Sir Charles.
The old priest shook his head gravely. ‘No, indeed. They were not seeking absolution. Nor were they – how shall I say it? – seeking aggrandizement, to impress each other.’ He shuddered. ‘It was a cold-blooded plan to murder a man and to harm a child. I am certain they mean to harm a child, a little girl, you understand?’
‘Harm a little girl,’ Anthony repeated. ‘That must not be allowed to happen.’ He spoke quietly but there was a steely glint in his grey eyes. Father Quinet glanced at him sharply. This English doctor was angry but Father Quinet felt warmed by the emotion. Father Quinet was used to discerning emotions and this was a righteous anger.
‘You said part of the conversation was in French,’ asked Sir Charles. ‘They weren’t French, were they?’
Father Quinet shook his head vigorously. ‘The man, I think, was American. I have heard Americans speak before. The woman was English. She spoke as people from London speak, you understand? The second man, the client, as they called him, I do not think was French, but not English either.’ He shrugged helplessly. ‘I wanted to see them!’ he added desperately. ‘I would have stopped them, challenged them, confronted them with their crime.’
It was just as well, thought Anthony, that the fearless old man had been unable to do any such thing, otherwise they would have his actual murder rather than a hypothetical crime on their hands.
‘I searched the church,’ Father Quinet went on. ‘I thought perhaps they might have left a glove or a notebook or something to say who they were, but there was nothing. I wrote everything they said down as soon as I could, so I would not forget.’
‘That was very far-sighted of you,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Now, Father, you have a study, yes? Perhaps we could sit down in there and you can tell us everything you can remember. Then Dr Brooke and myself are going to do our level best to see that these people are stopped.’
FIVE
It was probably extreme circumspection on Anthony’s part, but he didn’t want to discuss Father Quinet’s story until he and Sir Charles were safely behind closed doors in Sir Charles’ office in Angel Alley.
‘Are you happy to talk about the matter now?’
asked Sir Charles with an ironic twist to his voice.
Anthony laughed. ‘I’m not going to apologize for being cautious, Talbot,’ he said, picking up his cup of tea from the tray that Sir Charles had sent for.
Sir Charles winced. ‘Monks, m’lad, if you please, although we’re safe enough in here.’ Sir Charles had made sure the door to his private office was firmly shut. ‘Remember I’m known in the office as Mr Monks.’
‘That’s exactly what I mean,’ said Anthony. ‘The wrong word out of place can be dangerous. We don’t know much about the scheme Father Quinet overheard, but one thing we do know is that our precious trio must’ve had some reason for picking St Mark’s. The most obvious reason is that it’s near at hand for either one, both, or all of them. There was a dickens of a crowd on Charing Cross Road. We could’ve been easily overheard and we’d never know.’
‘That’s true,’ agreed Sir Charles, stretching back in his chair. ‘On the face of it, the fact that at least one of them has to be near St Mark’s seems like a clue, but Soho is one of the most densely populated areas of the globe. Still,’ he added with a shrug, ‘it might lead us somewhere eventually. What d’you make of the whole thing? Is the child they’re after really Milly?’
‘I think so,’ agreed Anthony. ‘It just has to be Milly. “We have used this particular child before”,’ he quoted thoughtfully.
‘There are thousands of children in occupied France and Belgium, poor little devils,’ said Sir Charles.
‘Yes, but not looked after by a nun called Marie-Eugénie. But why on earth should Milly be worth a couple of thousand quid to anyone?’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘On the face of it, there isn’t any reason. What I am going to assume, though, is that this isn’t an ordinary criminal enterprise. Like you, I’m going to take an educated guess that the child involved is Milly. It’s a fair presumption that Milly can’t speak English, which explains why it’s important the woman speaks French.’
Anthony nodded. ‘That would account for it, yes.’ He gave a quick, frustrated sigh. ‘Dammit, Talbot, I wish we had more facts! I don’t suppose the name of this other woman, Jane Fleet, means anything to you, does it?’
‘No, it doesn’t. More to the point, it didn’t mean anything to Douglas Lynton either. There’s no mention of her in the records department at the Yard.’
Anthony clicked his tongue. ‘If we knew where Milly was, the simplest thing to do would be to go and get her. That’d spike their guns sure enough, but I can hardly wander round behind enemy lines looking for a Sister Marie-Eugénie.’
‘No, you can’t,’ said Sir Charles firmly. ‘However, we’ve got to do something and, what’s more, do it quickly. It’s two days since Father Quinet overheard our precious trio. The woman was told she had a fortnight, which doesn’t give us long. In the time we’ve got, I think it’s hopeless to imagine we’ll find out where Milly is. On the other hand, we do know about the Jowetts.’
‘Judging from what Father Quinet overheard, it’s obvious there’s more to that business than meets the eye.’
‘Indeed it does. I may say that Douglas Lynton, who’s a very sound man, is perfectly happy to believe that the police were forced to accept the wrong conclusion about the Jowett case.’
Anthony nodded. ‘The wrong conclusion being that Edward Jowett shot his wife then shot himself. In fact, we’re saying the Jowetts were murdered.’
Sir Charles lit a cigarette. ‘That’s the size of it, yes.’
Again, Anthony nodded. ‘OK … So why kill the Jowetts? All I’ve gleaned from the police report is that they were a devoted couple who lived quiet lives. There doesn’t seem any reason to kill them.’
‘That’s just it,’ said Sir Charles in frustration. ‘Nevertheless, there must be a reason and a pretty urgent one at that.’ He shook his head impatiently. ‘I wish I knew why the butler said “Maurice” before he died.’
Anthony drummed his fingers on the table. ‘It’s unfortunate that the butler died.’
Sir Charles raised his eyebrows. ‘I’ll say this for you, Brooke, you don’t go in for hyperbole. You wouldn’t like to use a stronger word than unfortunate, perhaps?’
‘All right, it’s very unfortunate,’ said Anthony with a quick smile. ‘And tragic for the butler, poor beggar. He obviously felt guilty about something. I think I need to talk to the servants.’
‘Very well.’ Sir Charles picked up the Scotland Yard report. ‘Here we are. There’s a list of the servants’ names. The housekeeper is a Mrs Harrop. She’s the woman who collapsed at the scene.’
‘Right-oh. Do I use my own name?’
‘No,’ said Sir Charles after a couple of moment’s hesitation. ‘We don’t know who she might talk to.’ He smiled. ‘I think this is a job for Colonel Ralde.’
Anthony grinned. There was no such person as Colonel Ralde, but, all the same, the colonel was known to the War Office.
Talbot had dreamed up the name. His office was in Angel Alley. Sir Charles liked an angelic touch to his choice of pseudonyms, so Colonel H.E. Ralde was born. He was, as Sir Charles explained, with a laugh, a ‘Heralde’ angel. Puns aside, if anyone left a message for, or wanted to get in touch with, Colonel Ralde, the War Office knew to refer them to Talbot. It was a device that had been very useful in the past.
‘Colonel Ralde it is,’ said Anthony, pushing back his chair. ‘I’ve got his visiting cards.’
Number 4, Pettifer’s Court, was a typical London town house, tall and thin and guarded by iron railings. A short flight of steps over the basement below led up to a blue-painted front door. The lion’s head brass door knocker had a length of black ribbon wrapped around it, bearing mute witness to the recent tragedy.
The door was opened by a plump, middle-aged woman with a worried, kindly face. She eyed Anthony’s uniform with respect and a certain amount of caution.
Anthony had very mixed feelings about his uniform. He wasn’t a soldier; he was a doctor. He had his doctor’s uniform, of course, but Talbot had arranged a commission for him, complete with a uniform with a colonel’s insignia from the Intelligence Corps, to go with it. It gave him, said Talbot, a right to ask questions.
‘Can I help you, sir?’ asked the woman.
‘I hope so,’ said Anthony, raising his cap. ‘I was hoping to speak to Mrs Harrop.’
The woman looked surprised. ‘Why, that’s me, sir. Did you want to ask about the poor master and the mistress? I seem to have answered no end of questions about it, but I thought all that had stopped now.’
‘I can only apologize,’ said Anthony. ‘I realize you must be very busy, but I really would appreciate a few minutes of your time.’
The housekeeper eyed his uniform once more and nodded. Talbot had been right about the uniform. ‘I suppose you’d better come in, sir,’ she said reluctantly. She stood aside for him to enter the hall, a cheerless passage with the furniture swathed in brown holland covers.
‘You’ll excuse the state of the house, I’m sure, but with the master and mistress gone, Captain Knowle – he owns the house now, of course – asked me to stay on, until we can find a nice tenant, and, of course, the covers help to keep the dust off.’
‘It must be very difficult for you,’ murmured Anthony.
She warmed to his sympathy. ‘Indeed it is, sir. The thing is, I’m not sure where to ask you to sit down. The master and mistress always entertained their visitors in the drawing room but everything’s boxed up and packed away.’ She looked at him, perplexed, then said dubiously, ‘I usually have visitors in my own sitting room, but that doesn’t seem quite right, somehow, for a gentleman like you. I wouldn’t suggest it, but I don’t see where else we can sit, and that’s a fact.’
‘I’m sure that’ll be fine,’ said Anthony easily. ‘I’m very much obliged to you for sparing the time.’
Inwardly he was very pleased with the suggestion. In her own room, Mrs Harrop would probably feel a lot more forthcoming than in the cold formality of the d
rawing room surrounded by shrouded furniture.
Mrs Harrop was unconvinced but willing to be persuaded. ‘Well, if you’re sure.’ She led the way down the hall, through the green baize door and into a pleasant, bright room with a fire in the grate, a brass kettle on the hob, oilcloth-covered table and chairs, and a well-worn but comfortable looking sofa.
‘Please sit down,’ she said, shooing the cat off the sofa and moving the kettle onto the hob, where it started to whistle almost immediately. ‘The kettle was just on the boil when you rang the bell. You’ll have a cup of tea, won’t you? I always have one about this time in the afternoon.’
Anthony, mindful of cat hairs on his uniform, chose one of the kitchen chairs in preference to the sofa. ‘The day of the tragedy must have been very sad for all of you,’ he said, as she poured the boiling water into a stout brown teapot. ‘I understand that as well as poor Mr and Mrs Jowett, you lost the butler as well.’
She turned to him, blinking back tears. ‘That was shocking,’ she said, taking two cups from the dresser. ‘Poor Mr Hawthorne. He was that pleased to be back in service – not that he could do as much as he liked because he really was very frail – but he insisted on coming back.’ She sighed and dabbed the corner of her eye. ‘I remember the mistress saying to me, as how she hoped as how it wouldn’t be the death of him.’ She gulped. ‘I suppose you could say it was, not that she had any idea of what was going to happen.’
‘You heard the shots, I understand.’
She nodded vigorously. ‘We all heard them, sir, not that we knew what they were. I mean, you don’t expect shooting, do you? Not in a respectable house.’
‘Certainly not,’ agreed Anthony. ‘It must’ve been a terrible shock.’
‘It was! You mustn’t think that we usually listened at doors,’ she added defensively. ‘I wouldn’t dream of it, and Mr Hawthorne, he’d never tolerate such a thing, but we could hear an argument, and I couldn’t believe my ears. I must say, I was surprised to hear the master. He was never at home at that time of day but we heard afterwards that he’d felt seedy, so he’d come home early. I suppose that was what made him tetchy-like, because in all the time I’ve been here, I’ve never heard the master raise his voice, nor the mistress either, but they were going at it hammer and tongs.’
The Price of Silence Page 4
