The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘I think I can fill in the gaps,’ said Sir Charles. ‘Jowett must’ve said something along the lines of, “I’m going to call the police. I’ll have the law on you.” And then he would’ve added to his wife something about how she’s brought disgrace on them all, by showing this crook Diefenbach’s confidential papers.’

  ‘That’s it, I think,’ agreed Anthony. ‘Which means, of course, our pal’s in an awkward situation. If the police are called, not only will he be arrested for blackmail, but whatever plan it is he’s concocting will be down the Swanee. So, not to beat about the bush, he pulls a gun, the Browning that was found at the scene, and shoots both Mr and Mrs Jowett.’

  Sir Charles drank his whisky grimly. ‘It must be big for him to resort to murder. So what then? Presumably he takes the Diefenbach file and hides in the cupboard. What makes you pick out Annie Colbeck as his accomplice, by the way?’

  ‘Of the three women there, Annie Colbeck positively identified the Browning as Mr Jowett’s gun, which we know is false. She was the one who was the least effective in trying to get the door open. After it was broken down, she was left alone in the room. She might not have known about the cupboard, but she knows or guesses her accomplice must be hidden somewhere. As soon as she’s alone, she would have called out, told him it was safe, and hurried him out of the room. The door to the servants’ quarters is next to the study. It would only take minutes to get the murderer through the door and away to safety.’

  ‘I can see a flaw,’ said Sir Charles after some thought. ‘The sequence of events you’ve described works because Hawthorne died and couldn’t tell us Mrs Jowett and the man were in the study. I grant you Hawthorne was old and frail, but Annie Colbeck and her partner couldn’t know he was going to die.’

  ‘Couldn’t they?’ said Anthony grimly. ‘I told you it was unfortunate that the butler died.’

  Sir Charles stared at him. ‘Hawthorne was murdered, you mean? But how?’

  ‘I think it was very simple,’ said Anthony. ‘I checked the medical evidence. Hawthorne was suffering from mitral disease, a condition which affects the valves of the heart. The thing about mitral disease is that a sufferer can live with it for years until, that is, they become elderly. It’s often only then the condition is diagnosed. There’s various stimulants and tonics, all of which contain either digitalis, strophanthus or strychnine. All these medicines, I need hardly tell you, have to be treated with caution. Hawthorne had been prescribed strophanthus, the medicinal dose of which is two to five minims, or drops. Annie Colbeck went to get Hawthorne’s drops and came back with both the bottle and a glass of water.’

  ‘I see,’ breathed Sir Charles.

  Anthony nodded. ‘It’s simple, isn’t it? Annie Colbeck probably didn’t know what the proper dose was, but she’d know that an overdose was dangerous. All she’d have to do, in the privacy of Hawthorne’s bedroom, was to shake a generous amount of the strophanthus into the water. She then gave it to Mrs Harrop, who’d shake even more strophanthus into the glass, before she helped Hawthorne drink it. The result?’ Anthony drew his forefinger across his throat.

  ‘Three murders,’ said Sir Charles quietly. ‘And one of them completely unsuspected.’

  ‘Untraceable, too, I imagine. There was no post-mortem carried out on Hawthorne, as it seemed obvious that he’d died of natural causes, but, even if it had been, the presence of strophanthus wouldn’t ring any alarm bells.’

  Sir Charles picked up his whisky and drank it sombrely. ‘So how do we get hold of this appalling woman? Did Mrs Harrop know where she’s got to?’

  ‘To the best of her knowledge, Mrs Harrop says that Annie Colbeck, along with the other two girls, have given up domestic service and gone into factories. It might be true of the other two girls but I doubt very much if it’ll be any help in tracing Annie Colbeck.’

  ‘So do I. Where did this Annie Colbeck come from? How did she get the post? Was it a personal recommendation or an agency or what?’

  ‘She came from a domestic service agency, but Mrs Harrop couldn’t recall which one. What’s more, her book of household notes, in which she kept a record of the domestic staff, was mysteriously missing.’

  Sir Charles breathed dangerously. ‘Damnit, there has to be some way of finding out about this woman! She’s colluded in two murders, committed another and, in some way we don’t understand, is a threat to Paul Diefenbach.’

  ‘And Milly,’ Anthony reminded him.

  ‘And Milly,’ repeated Sir Charles quietly. ‘I feel for that child, Brooke.’

  There was no doubting his sincerity. After all, Anthony reminded himself, Talbot had four grown-up daughters of his own and was a generous subscriber to at least one children’s charity.

  Sir Charles sat broodingly for a moment. ‘I could enquire about the other two servants,’ he said. ‘Winnie Bruce and Eileen Chadderton. They might know something useful. I’ll put an advert in the papers for them, asking them to contact Mayer and Galbraith, the solicitors. Stephen Mayer’s done the occasional job for me before. Servants are often left small legacies. If I say they’ll hear something to their advantage, that shouldn’t arouse anyone’s suspicions.’

  ‘That’d probably work,’ agreed Anthony.

  ‘Right,’ said Sir Charles, standing up. He glanced at his watch. ‘It’s half past six. I can probably catch Mayer at his club. I’ll have a word with him, then put the advert in the papers. In the meantime, Brooke, make it your business to meet Maurice Knowle. If you’re right, his mother was prepared to submit to blackmail on his behalf. I want to know who the blackmailer is and what he was threatening. If we can crack the Jowett murderers, we have a chance of getting to grips with what the conspirators in the church were planning. And remember – we haven’t got much time.’

  EIGHT

  At half seven that evening Anthony rang the bell of Maurice Knowle’s flat. Sixteen, Torpoint Mansions was a purpose-built, three-storey, smoke-blackened building on the corner of Gower Street and Pipewell Lane. He was wearing his colonel’s uniform. It gave him the authority to ask questions. Maybe Maurice Knowle would provide some answers.

  A square-faced manservant answered the door.

  ‘Good evening,’ said Anthony, reaching in his coat pocket for his card case. ‘Is Captain Knowle at home? My name’s Ralde, Colonel Ralde. I’d appreciate a word with him.’

  The valet eyed Anthony warily, then took the visiting card Anthony held out to him. ‘I’ll enquire if he is at home, sir.’

  His words were unremarkable and the valet was dressed conventionally enough, in pinstriped trousers and a black jacket, but his shoulders were broad and Anthony could see the bulge of muscles under his coat. His nose was out of true and his ears were oddly lumpy and flattened.

  One glance at the man’s ears told Anthony he had been affected by hematomas. The walls of the blood vessels had been damaged and blood had leaked into the tissues, resulting in the tissue becoming misshapen.

  The common name for the condition was cauliflower ear. Any footballer or rugby player was at risk from such an injury, but, in Anthony’s experience, the men most likely to carry such scars were boxers. The manservant may be a valet now, but sometime in the not too distant past, Anthony was prepared to bet he’d been a prizefighter.

  Leaving Anthony by the door, the man went into the room at the end of the hall. Anthony heard a brief buzz of conversation, then the man returned. ‘Captain Knowle is going out for the evening, but he can spare you a few minutes. Can I take your coat, sir?’

  It happened so quickly that Anthony nearly missed it, but as the valet took his coat, the hall light caught the green tabs of the Intelligence Corps on the shoulders of his uniform. For a fraction of a second, the man stiffened and his eyes narrowed as he opened the hall cupboard and hung up Anthony’s coat. ‘If you would follow me, sir, Mr Knowle will be with you in a few moments.’

  Anthony followed him into the sitting room. The first thing that struck him was how oddly untidy ev
erything was. The cushions were rumpled, there was a mess of pipes and glasses on the sideboard, the ashtrays were full and newspapers were scattered on the floor.

  As an employer, Maurice Knowle must be tolerant to a fault. The manservant was clearly not doing his job.

  He shot a glance at the valet, standing with arms crossed by the fireplace. Servant? Not ruddy likely, thought Anthony. The man was a professional thug.

  The door opened and Maurice Knowle came into the room, walking with the aid of a stick.

  He was a tall, fair-haired man in his early twenties. He was wearing evening dress, with the fresh appearance of someone who had just washed, but his face was lined and anxious, making him seem older than his twenty-three years. That could, thought Anthony, be a result of his injuries – he could see the empty left sleeve of his coat pinned close beneath the elbow – but Anthony was immediately struck by how tense he seemed. He held Anthony’s card in his hand. His hand trembled and he swallowed convulsively before speaking.

  ‘Colonel Ralde? It’s good of you to call.’ He gave a quick, nervous glance at his valet and said, with a little laugh, ‘I suppose this is to do with my application for a post at the War Office.’

  Anthony’s denial stuck in his throat. He’d been about to explain that he’d called on quite another matter, a private matter, when he suddenly caught the expression in Knowle’s eyes.

  The pitch of Knowle’s voice rose slightly. ‘My post.’ Anthony could almost feel the man’s anxiety. Knowle swallowed once more, and gave an almost imperceptible nod, willing him to agree.

  Anthony decided to back him up. He wanted to see how this would work out. ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  He could see the tension ebb out of the man. ‘If I could just have a few minutes with you alone …?’

  The manservant didn’t move.

  Knowle turned to him. ‘Thank you, Blatchford, that will be all.’

  Anthony could see the man was reluctant to go, but he really didn’t have any choice. ‘Very good, sir.’ He cleared his throat. ‘I’ll be close at hand if you need me.’

  It sounded like a threat.

  Blatchford walked to the door but before he left he turned. ‘Don’t forget the chocolate, sir.’

  Knowle flinched as if he’d been struck.

  Apparently satisfied, Blatchford left the room.

  Anthony stared at Knowle. ‘Chocolate?’ he mouthed.

  Knowle raised his hand instinctively, fending off the question, then shook his head vigorously. When he spoke, his voice was so quiet, Anthony could scarcely hear him. ‘I can’t tell you.’

  It was obviously useless to press for more information. ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’ asked Anthony, in an ordinary voice.

  Grasping at the mantelpiece, Knowle took a deep breath. ‘Yes, please do.’ He shook himself then looked up. ‘Play along,’ he mouthed, adding out loud, ‘help yourself to a cigarette, Colonel. The box is on the table.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Anthony, walking over to the table. ‘There’s just a few points we need to clear up before we proceed any further with your application.’

  ‘Nothing too tedious, I hope,’ Knowle replied in a strained voice. He had taken a pencil from the sideboard and scribbled on the back of Anthony’s card. He put the card back on the sideboard and indicated Anthony should pick it up.

  ‘Nothing to bother about particularly,’ said Anthony, taking a cigarette from the box. ‘Are the matches on the sideboard?’ He strolled across the room and, picking up the matchbox, lit his cigarette.

  His card was face down on the wooden surface. The note consisted of three words.

  Help. He’s listening.

  Anthony looked quickly at Knowle. The man was quaking with nerves. Anthony nodded, mouthed the word ‘OK’ and gave him a silent thumbs-up sign. ‘Would it be possible for you to pop along with me to the War Office now? I realize it’s a beastly nuisance, but the quicker we get these details sorted out, the quicker we’ll be able to get you back into harness.’

  Maurice Knowle looked horrified. He shook his head, mouthed the word ‘No’ and jerked his head in the direction of the door. The implication was obvious. The valet wouldn’t let him go. ‘I’m sorry, Colonel, but I’ve got an appointment for this evening.’

  Anthony bit his lip. The easiest solution would be to simply walk out of the flat with Knowle in tow. He weighed up the odds.

  Knowle, poor devil, wouldn’t be much use in a fight against a professional bruiser like the valet, but Anthony reckoned he could take him on if necessary. However, judging by the state of Maurice Knowle’s nerves, his own fear was a more effective imprisonment than anything Blatchford could devise.

  ‘Perhaps tomorrow?’ suggested Knowle. ‘I could call at the War Office tomorrow.’

  So he was allowed out of the flat then. Presumably after the valet had given him his instructions as to what he could and couldn’t say.

  Picking up a newspaper from the floor, he took a pencil from his pocket and wrote in the margin, Why are you afraid?

  Knowle took the pencil. With trembling fingers he wrote Edith, then, his eyes wide, ran his finger across his throat.

  Anthony understood. Edith Wilson, Maurice Knowle’s fiancée, had been threatened.

  Knowle added another note. Protect her.

  Anthony nodded and then, for the benefit of the listening Blatchford, said, ‘Can I trouble you for a drink, Knowle?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Knowle. ‘Help yourself, Colonel. All the fixings are on the sideboard.’

  ‘Thanks.’ Anthony stood up. ‘Shall I pour one for you?’ He scribbled another note on the margin of the newspaper. She’s safe in Belgium.

  ‘Please do,’ said Knowle, with an attempted laugh. ‘I find the soda siphon a bit tricky. I always manage to splash it.’ He read the note and shook his head vigorously. Seizing the pencil, he wrote No!

  Anthony took the pencil back. They killed your mother?

  Knowle read the note and gazed at Anthony. He swallowed hard then, seeming to come to a decision, mouthed the word, ‘Yes’ .

  There was a creak outside the door. Anthony picked up the newspaper. ‘Do you mind if I keep this newspaper, Captain? There’s an article in it I wanted to read.’

  ‘Please do,’ said Knowle, as the door opened and Blatchford came back into the room.

  The manservant looked at him suspiciously, then turned his attention to Maurice Knowle. ‘It’s about time you were leaving, sir.’

  ‘I’d better be off,’ said Anthony, draining his whisky. ‘Shall we say ten o’ clock at the War Office, Captain?’

  Knowle swallowed hard and glanced at Blatchford. ‘That’ll be fine.’

  The valet cleared his throat. ‘I don’t think that’s going to be possible,’ adding, as a seeming afterthought, ‘sir. You’re going to the country tomorrow. You’re going to be away for some time.’

  Maurice Knowle looked like a hunted animal. ‘I … I can go to the country after I’ve been to the War Office.’

  ‘That would be best,’ agreed Anthony smoothly.

  The valet hunched his shoulders. ‘That will be very inconvenient.’

  Anthony put down his glass with a click. ‘Nevertheless, I expect to see you there. That’s an order, Captain.’ He stood up. ‘Until tomorrow, then.’ He strolled over to the sideboard, picked up the visiting card that Knowle had written on and pocketed it.

  Blatchford escorted him into the hall and helped him on with his coat. Opening the door, he watched Anthony walk along the hallway to the stairs.

  Short of attacking the valet, there was nothing for it but to leave, but Anthony hated going. Should he take action? Violent action?

  On the street outside he hesitated. Blatchford might be armed. That was one consideration but another, far greater, worry was that by attacking the valet he would send an unmistakable warning to the gang that they had been discovered.

  If only he had more to go on! At the moment he and Talbot knew nothing apart f
rom the stark fact that Milly, far away in an orphanage under enemy control, was threatened by a gang who had already murdered the Jowetts and an innocent old man. Who the gang were and what they intended was still a complete mystery.

  And yet … The sight of Maurice Knowle’s pale, anxious face worried him. The poor devil, with his shattered arm and lame leg, was clearly on the edge of a nervous breakdown. What were the chances of him being allowed to come to the War Office tomorrow? Slight.

  Anthony grimaced. Blatchford had, in effect, not only forbidden the meeting but made a point of saying that Maurice would be away for the foreseeable future. Maurice Knowle needed rescuing, rescuing in a way that wouldn’t alarm the gang.

  If they only had time, they could ensure Knowle’s fiancée, Edith Wilson, was safe, but they didn’t have time. Come tomorrow, Maurice Knowle would be gone.

  NINE

  At twenty minutes to midnight, Anthony swung himself over the wall at the back of Torpoint Mansions in Pipewell Lane, and dropped into the deep shadow of the yard. Above him loomed the bulk of the building, a few dim lights picking out the occasional window. As his eyes got used to the darkness, he could see the outline of the metal fire escape, zigzagging upwards, between the lights. As usual, the last flight of steps was raised up and chained underneath the platform of the first floor. He picked out the unlit rectangle of glass that was the kitchen window of number sixteen. Deep silence reigned. He just hoped they weren’t too late.

  In the shadows of the yard, Anthony raised his head and called softly, ‘Travis! All clear.’

  Lieutenant Travis of the Intelligence Corps quietly climbed the wall and dropped down beside Anthony. ‘Any signs of life?’ he whispered.

  ‘Not yet,’ Anthony breathed back. He indicated a darkened window. ‘We’re looking at the third floor, second window from the right.’

  Anthony’s first idea had been to arrest Blatchford, but that simply wasn’t practical. For one thing, however dubious Blatchford’s behaviour might be, he wasn’t known to have committed any offence. There was nothing to charge him with. Even if he could’ve persuaded the police to arrest Blatchford, he would be freed virtually as soon as he’d been taken into custody. They might, in Blatchford’s absence, be able to liberate Maurice Knowle, but in doing so they’d send a clear warning to the gang they were being watched.