She advanced into the room, closed the door and sat down opposite him on the chair he hurried to pull out for her.
“It’s being said on the hush-hush that they’re dead. My neighbour next door but one has a son who’s best friends with a copper. He says there was murder done in the graveyard. Drunken fight between vagrants is the word. But you wouldn’t come here asking me questions if it was just a scrap, would you? Are you here to tell me it was the eels that did for them? They both had the same things to eat. Eels and then apple pie. And Mr. Moneybags paid double for the privilege. He paid for them both, and then some. Seems a bit harsh to have paid to poison himself. And his mate.” She added thoughtfully, “We’ve had no other complaints about the eels. In fact, Jonas had some. He’s as fit as a flea.”
“Don’t be concerned, Mrs. Campion. The food was just splendid. Nothing to do with the matter at hand and, from personal experience of Bert’s cooking, I can say I’m sure they enjoyed their meal very much.”
Mollified, she began to unbend a little. “I had my eye on those two. Oh, not old Dickie! He’s a regular and he’s always an entertainment. Such lovely manners! Who’d have thought it! And his friend? Well, he was all that’s proper, you’d say. Well off? Oh yes. I’d say rolling in it. Gold watch and cuff links. Stuffed wallet.” She paused and gave Redfyre a shrewd look. “That’s not to say as the man was ever in any danger from Dickie!” she said sharply. “Dickie would never stoop to robbery or any other unkindness. I’ve seen him give his last sixpence to someone who needed it more. But I did wonder what those two were doing together, and so deep in conversation. You’d have taken them for best friends or even brothers, they were nattering on so freely. They finished their meal and went off together, Dickie laughing and booking a place for next Friday. He looked different. Cheerful. It’s surprising what a haircut can do for a man. And he’d gotten rid of that awful beard. He’s not so old, you know, under that thatch. And a fine figure of a man when he stands up straight.” She turned a reproachful look on Redfyre. “I do hope as how nothing dreadful has happened to him.”
The lady was scathing when he asked if she had any idea what his surname might be.
“Certainly not! He’s probably not even ‘Dickie.’ These are men who are on the run from someone or other, or something—sometimes just from themselves. More than a few have been in prison. They don’t want their identities known for any number of good reasons, police harassment being one of them. Why do you think we accept all this ‘Buster Keaton’ and ‘Kaiser Bill’ rubbish? We’re not a branch of law enforcement, you know. We just feed the starving and clothe the needy, whoever they are, wherever they come from. And we ask no questions. Except for, ‘Do you want vinegar on that?’”
The handsome young inspector took her by surprise by sticking to his word and leaving briskly. “Mrs. Campion, you’re an angel!” he announced, getting to his feet and picking up his hat. “Jonas is a lucky man. I’d better be off before he catches us together!” When at last she began to crack and giggle, he added in a more serious tone, “Your information has been of immense value. Thank you. And, er, I’ll keep you informed about the fate of your Dickie.”
“Madam! Wait!” Thoday yelled.
He pounded up the pavement in front of the entrance to the Regency Hotel as the taxi driver opened the door to help Mrs. Hardy inside with her luggage. The smart lady who turned upon hearing him looked as though she were off to Scotland to spend the season on the golf course or stalking some poor creature with a view to shooting it for the pot. She was wearing travelling clothes with brogues and a businesslike cloche hat with a jaunty grouse feather on the side. She certainly had no wish to be detained, and raised her head with the forcibly snooty stare of a woman whose hat was pulled stylishly down over her eyes. Those eyes were green and unwelcoming.
“Yes? Are you speaking to me, young man? Did I forget something?”
“Mrs. Edith Hardy? In that case, yes, madam, I think you’ve forgotten Mr. Hardy.” Thoday had checked inside the taxi and, as the manager had warned him, it certainly looked as though she was about to leave by herself.
She glared at him. “If only! Sonny, I’ve been trying for years! Who the heck are you? Does he owe you money?”
Thoday showed his warrant and introduced himself. “A minute of your time, if you please? It’s urgent. A local man has been found dead, and we believe your husband may have information as to his identity.”
“Can’t help you. Sorry. But if the deceased is a Cambridge man, why would you expect Abel to mark your card? We’re Londoners.”
With a charming smile but deadly intent, Thoday snatched the travelling case from her grasp and put it under his arm in a marked manner. He felt himself a figure of fun, standing there on the pavement with a lady’s dainty piece of Vuitton luggage, leather label dangling, held hostage under his armpit.
“Look here! I’m catching the five o’clock train to London, and the CID aren’t going to stop me without an arrest warrant. Got one? No? Right then, hop in, you can talk to me as we go.”
Thoday relaxed and calmly stowed the case away inside the taxi while the driver secured the larger cases at the rear. He held out a gallant hand and helped her to climb in, then duly hopped in after her. It was a five-minute drive to the station, and the road was reasonably clear. He’d have to work fast. Luckily, she seemed direct in her responses.
No, she had no idea where Abel Hardy was. Did she, then, wish to report her husband as a missing person?
“Missing? Never! He’s not even a person! More of a shadow.”
And no, she wasn’t worried. He was always doing this. Business trips. Hard worker. Successful. Mean as cat’s meat with the cash, but you can’t have everything. He took her out and about sometimes when he went somewhere interesting, just to keep her entertained. Sometimes for show, because he wanted her to play the little wifey for clients. Not often—she wasn’t very good at that. Never liked the clients much. Or their wives. Bath had been nice, and Bournemouth. Cambridge, not bad. She’d enjoyed the punt on the river.
“And how about the lunch at Aunty’s café on Friday?” Thoday asked.
She grinned. “Excellent! Worth every one of his pennies! That’s when he nipped off. I knew he was coming up here on a job. He did warn me, so I suppose I can’t complain. He was tracking somebody. Did you know he was a detective?” she added with pride. “Not like you, a state functionary. He’s more your Sherlock Holmes. Private. It’s one of his businesses. He specialises in finding people, for personal as well as legal reasons. At least, that’s how he got started. After the war, a lot of people had gone astray one way or another and needed to be caught up with.” She gave a mischievous smile. “Of course, some didn’t want to be found! That made the job harder and the fees bigger—in line with the effort expended. And the effort, I noticed, with Abel, was in direct proportion to the size of the client’s bank account. I help him with his books, so I know his secrets. Most of them. He’s got a staff of five working for him now, but he still likes to keep his hand in. You’ve no idea the number of people who need help with their problems on the quiet. He does divorce cases as well, if you’re ever interested. He’s very good at it. Catching the wrong people together at the wrong time. On camera, if you take my meaning. He’s been in and out of more bedrooms than Casanova.”
Thoday looked about him with a stagy show of alarm. “I’ll be sure to keep my name out of Mr. Hardy’s books!” He’d decided that the way to loosen Edith’s tongue was through humour and fellow feeling, and he added incautiously. “And my ugly mug away from his lens! Can you be sure he wasn’t lurking behind the laurels with his little Kodak vest-pocket camera just now, snapping us eloping together in a taxi?”
She gurgled attractively. “No, I can’t! I often wonder if he’s set me up for an indiscreet shot! Who’d be married to a professional divorce arranger? It’s like living on the slopes of a volcano.” Sh
e turned an admiring gaze on the tall, smiling sergeant. “Though I must say, if I were being entrapped myself, I’d be rather pleased to be snapped next to a good-looking young chap with a dangerous moustache.” She placed a gloved hand gently on his knee and leaned so close the straw fabric of her hat grazed his cheek and the scent of her exotic perfume tickled his nose. It wasn’t the eau de cologne or Yardley’s “Lavender” that his sisters favoured, and he found it unsettling. Disturbing also was the change in the tone of her voice as she murmured, “Now, if I were to choose this moment to say something incriminating and foolish in the hearing of our cabby—something like, ‘Darling, did you remember to tell them to put the champagne on ice at our hotel in Brighton?’—he would track us both down in no time. A quick but unpleasant court appearance, a write-up in the Times, and that’s the end of your career. For the rest of your existence, Sergeant Thoday, you’d be branded a cad and a professional gigolo. What’s my silence worth to you?”
Edith enjoyed the sergeant’s fleeting look of horror before digging him in the ribs with a peal of laughter. “It’s all right! It’s only me, Edith! Dutiful wife on her way home to the familial London hearth. Still, I have learned some surprising skills from that arsehole. And the best one? If I decided to disappear, I could. And he’d never find me. I’m probably the only person in the world who could say that. I have the skills and the means.”
Thoday shuddered. He didn’t doubt it. He had the uncomfortable feeling of one who had just offered a Friskies doggy treat to a wolf. He swallowed and pressed on. “His other businesses, Mrs. Hardy?”
“The others are property—buying and selling manufacturing premises, mostly. What with the war damage, there’s been a lot of cash churning about in London. And if money’s on the move, Abel usually manages to direct some of it his way. And there’s the secretarial services chain he’s just started. So many well-educated girls in the world looking for an opportunity to work! The unlucky ones run into Abel. He’s an excellent talent-spotter and ungenerous paymaster. Not so good at names. He wanted to call the business ‘Friday’s Girl.’ I made him change it to ‘Adsum!’ Seeing as all the bosses who want to snare these young ladies for their employ are public school educated, I thought they’d respond to a snappy Latin word for ‘Here I am! Present!’ A familiar word they’ve used all their formative years.”
“Yes, it sounds like someone reporting for duty,” Thoday said doubtfully. “And Man Friday . . . from Robinson Crusoe, I suppose? Changing it to Girl Friday . . . Friday’s Girl . . . and we all know what her attributes are, according to the rhyme . . .”
“Yup! ‘Friday’s child is loving and giving.’ And I see you agree—we want none of that on office premises!”
“Any more businesses we can rename?”
“No. That’s all he’s told me about.”
“And the gentleman he went off in pursuit of?”
“Eh? How do you know that? Is this why you’re searching for Abel? Well, he was no gentleman. A tramp. He was trying to get at Abel. Came into the tea shop, bold as brass, calling his name. Funny, that—he shouted ‘Lieutenant Hardy’ at him to get his attention. Lieutenant? Abe always told me he was a captain . . . so perhaps it was someone who knew him from way back? I guessed he must have been an old army contact, fallen on hard times. Hoping for a handout. Anyway, Abe wasn’t best pleased to see him and didn’t interfere when the fat old feller tried to chuck him out. But he was interested, all right—he went straight off after him. But in a detective sort of way, like . . .”
“Trailing him?”
“That’s right. And that was the last I saw of him this time round. Worried? No! He’s always doing it. He knows I’ll just get on and fend for myself . . . I find things to do, but with the boys away at school, I’m not so busy as I was. Well, here we are, Sergeant. Anything else?”
“One last thing,” Thoday asked on the off-chance, scarcely expecting an answer, “Did you happen to notice a gowned university man the tramp was talking to outside the tea shop?”
“Oh yes,” replied the detective’s wife. “Six foot two inches tall, dark hair, midthirties, shifty-looking cove. St. Jude’s College.”
Thoday began to burble. “But how . . . ?”
“He was wearing a college scarf. In May? Bit odd, I thought. Perhaps he was flaunting his credentials? Wanted to be noticed? Anyway, it was blue and green with a silver stripe. I had a lesson in college colours at Ede and Ravenscroft. Such charming gentlemen they have in there. Is that the man you’re interested in? The reason for all this palaver? I thought we’d get there. Well, good luck with that one! He’s not someone I’d like to tangle with, not without a blackjack in my hand.”
At his request, she gave him her telephone number and he gave her his card, asking that she should contact him to let him know of Abel’s safe arrival back home.
Thoday looked at his watch and decided to stay in the taxi, watching as she skipped in through the crowd towards the ticket office, followed by her porter and her luggage. Why had Edith Hardy fed him such an overflowing portion of codswallop? Did he really look that stupid? Perhaps it was the moustache that gave him an unserious air.
Confident that she was not doubling back, he turned to the cabby and redirected him back in to town. “Addenbrooke’s Hospital, please,” he said. There was just time for a quick survey of the tramp’s effects. Shouldn’t take long, he reasoned. Tramps travelled light.
Minutes later, he was at the morgue, being welcomed by an assistant. Dr. Beaufort wasn’t available, but he’d left all the effects at Thoday’s disposal, and the corpse itself was still in the cold room, should the sergeant need to inspect it, or indeed have someone identify it. “Oh, and the doc said to tell you to give the label a whirl . . .”
Thoday emptied the bags out onto the bench provided and sorted them into piles. Very little here. Every garment had a pathologist’s label pinned on it with an identifying number and the occasional comment in Beaufort’s writing. Some of these were perceptive to the point of pernickety, Thoday judged. Look at this one here. Sock found on left foot: hole in toe. Favours left foot? Not so with shoes. Right foot shows heavier wear. Worth checking? Thoday sighed. So he’d forgotten to trim his left toenail. That, or the socks—or could it be the shoes?—were secondhand. And that went for every other bit of clothing. The greatcoat and the suit were both good quality. Bought at a market stall? Donated by some generous and well-off person to one of the many charities for the homeless in town? No way of knowing. This was hopeless.
He reached for the greatcoat. This was the most significant item, he felt. Everyone he’d interviewed had referred to “Dickie” as wearing a greatcoat like this. He looked at the label. Label? There was one sewn firmly into the inner right-hand side of the garment. It had been specially tailored in Jermyn Street, London, by “Somerton & Snape,” who had thoughtfully added a serial number. 204. Customer number? Garment number? Small business, probably—all the top tailors he knew were located in Savile Row—and the number was a low one. Worth trying, he thought. Show your bosses you’ve covered all bases.
He was allowed to use the telephone to contact the tailoring firm in London. An assistant told him he was very happy to oblige and was quite confident that he could retrieve the information requested if the officer would care to ring back in ten minutes.
Thoday gave it twelve and rang back. “Ah yes, Sergeant. We have identified the coat. It was tailored for an officer involved in the recent unpleasantness in France. In fact, it was the second such garment he commissioned from us—in 1916—the first one having been unfortunately—er, rendered beyond repair by enemy action. It was made for a Major Richard Dunne of the King’s Own Yorkshire Light Infantry. We do not hold a current private address for the gentleman as, like most military men, he is—was—stationed abroad for much of his time. We have always communicated with him at the HQ of his regiment in Pontefract, Yorkshire.”
&nbs
p; Thoday broke off with effusive thanks, unable quite to hide his excitement even on the telephone. Could it really be this smooth, this easy?
He brought his notebook up to date and went back to stare again at the worldly goods of Major Richard (Dickie?) Dunne.
He turned his attention before leaving with his prize information to the region of the feet, which had raised a question in Dr. Beaufort’s mind. He thought back to his own appearance at the strange scene in the graveyard. He hadn’t managed to get a very close look at the corpse, what with Redfyre and the pathologist hogging the space, but he had noted, and been rather taken aback by, the state of the feet. He remembered the pathetic V shape they’d made, with one white big toe exposed for all to see. And below, neatly lined up, the stout walking shoes.
Why the hell? Thoday found himself asking. The bloke had been strangled. Everyone was sure of that much. So some bugger had killed him, laid him out on a tombstone—oh, very entertaining, that!—and calmly taken off his shoes before pushing off. It made no sense. Thoday thought some more. It had to make sense. Killers were not raving lunatics as a rule. They thought about what they were doing, unless it was a spur-of-the-moment rush of blood to the head, in which case they usually confessed straightaway. This was not one of those cases.
No. Someone quite deliberately, and with much malice aforethought, had decided to kill off Major Richard Dunne, KOYLI. He’d done for old Dickie in a neat military way and left the body lying to attention. Was this a misplaced gesture of respect for an old soldier—an old comrade, possibly—on the killer’s part? Or was it a derisive two-fingered salute to the forces of law and order?
The feet? The shoes? There was a message there for him, if he could just—
Gradually, a dark thought began to form, a burgeoning thundercloud. Thoday attempted to reason it away. It grew larger and more ominous. It was staring him in the face. Glowering at him.
He scooped up both socks and both shoes in his hands and went to find the morgue assistant.
Invitation to Die Page 19
