As if by Magic

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Jack glanced up, surprised. ‘I wasn’t expecting anyone. Were you?’ George shook his head and Jack went to answer it.

  David Lassiter was outside. His rather weary face lit up in a smile as Jack opened the door. ‘You’ll excuse me calling unannounced,’ he said, taking off his hat and stepping into the hall. ‘I was hoping to have a word with George.’ He hesitated, looking at Jack’s clothes. ‘Were you going out? I don’t want to hold you up.’

  ‘There’s no rush,’ said Jack, leading the way into his rooms. ‘I hadn’t any definite plans. George, you’ve got a visitor,’ he called. ‘Come in and sit down, Mr Lassiter. Can I offer you a drink?’

  ‘Whisky, if you’ve got it,’ said David. ‘Thanks.’ He looked at his nephew thoughtfully. ‘It’s about this idea of the guv’nor’s that you join the firm as my secretary. I wanted to talk to you.’ He gave a wry smile. ‘Today should have been ideal but it was difficult, wasn’t it? I had the impression you found it heavy going.’

  ‘I’ve just been saying as much to Jack,’ admitted George.

  David nodded. ‘I thought so.’ He sipped his whisky. ‘I’m glad to say it’s not always like that. Nigel’s a bit hard to take at the moment but, to be fair to him, he’s worried sick. Culverton’s death really has put the cat amongst the pigeons. Anyway, I thought I’d call in and see you here, where we could have some peace and quiet. Have you ever done any secretarial work before?’

  ‘No,’ said George. He spoke quickly. ‘Look, Uncle David, I feel as if I’ve been wished on you and that’s not what I want at all. If you’re not happy, say so.’

  David held up his hand. ‘Easy does it. Believe me, George, if you can’t do the job, I’ll tell you. But . . .’ He hesitated and smiled. ‘I thought the world of my brother, you know, and you remind me of him no end. Silly beggar,’ he added wistfully. ‘Burying himself in South Africa. I used to think of going to see him, but I got involved with the firm and then there was my family to think of.’ He bit his lip. ‘It’s too late now. I should have made the effort.’

  ‘Did any of the family ever get out there?’ asked Jack.

  David shook his head. ‘No, never. The guv’nor’s too old and it’s not the sort of thing that would occur to Nigel. He was a lot younger than Charles and they didn’t really know one another. Dad was too upset to talk about it much, so I’m afraid it all just got forgotten, more or less. I doubt Nigel really remembered he had another brother until you showed up, George. I should have tried, though.’

  ‘It was my father’s decision,’ said George awkwardly.

  ‘He was a stubborn devil,’ said David affectionately. ‘It’s a family failing. And he’d been hurt, you know. I’m not surprised he thought it was up to us to make the first move. Anyway, George, you’ll want to know what sort of thing I expect you to do. The first thing is to get acquainted with how the firm works . . .’

  George and David went into details while Jack, legs stretched out in front of him, lit a cigarette. If none of the Lassiters had been to South Africa that surely ruled out the possibility of any of them claiming the legacy – and yet who else could know there was a legacy to claim? The solicitors were the obvious answer. He’d just have to wait and see what Bill could dig out of them on Monday.

  George, he was pleased to see, seemed to be getting on well with his uncle. That should cheer him up after his uncomfortable afternoon. David Lassiter, he thought, was a very likeable man. He was clearly in reality, if not in name, the head of the firm and Jack admired the tact he showed in dealing with his father who was so reluctant to let go of the reins. In fact, what with old Mr Lassiter on the one hand and Nigel on the other, diplomacy seemed to be the virtue David chiefly required.

  The telephone jangled in the hall and, a few minutes later, he heard Mrs Pettycure’s tread up the stairs. He opened the door and looked over the banister.

  ‘Is it for me, Mrs Pettycure?’ he called.

  ‘No, Major. It’s a lady. She wants to know if a Mr David Lassiter is here,’ she said.

  ‘David Lassiter? Yes, he’s here.’

  David, with a puzzled frown, went down to the hall.

  He returned a few minutes later, looking grim. ‘That was Anne,’ he said without preamble. ‘Thank goodness I mentioned I was calling here. Something’s happened at the factory. Michael Walsh has been found dead.’

  Chapter Six

  George started to his feet. ‘Dead?’

  ‘Yes, poor devil.’ David Lassiter’s face was grave. ‘It sounds as if his heart’s packed in. It was always on the cards but . . .’ He broke off. ‘I’ll have to leave. Fielding, the nightwatchman, found him and rang Eden Street. I’ve told Anne to get the doctor immediately and ask him to meet me at the factory. I’ll go down there as soon as I can.’ His brow furrowed. ‘I’d better get a cab. It’ll take far too long to fetch my car. I just hope I can find a taxi driver willing to make the trip.’

  ‘I’ll drive,’ offered Jack. ‘My car’s garaged in Wilson Street mews. It’s only round the corner. It’ll be much quicker than trying to find a cab.’

  David looked at him in relief. ‘Thanks. That solves one problem at least.’

  It was about twenty-six miles to Tilbury. That would, Jack thought as he drove out of the mews, take forty minutes or so at this time of night. David sat beside George in the back of the car.

  ‘I really appreciate this, Haldean,’ said David, leaning forward.

  ‘What on earth was Walsh doing at the factory?’ called back Jack over the noise of the engine.

  ‘I suppose I’ll have to say he was catching up on some work,’ said David wearily.

  ‘Wasn’t he?’ asked George.

  David didn’t answer for a few moments. Then he gave a heavy sigh. ‘Look, George, you might as well know what was behind it. You’re going to be working for us and you’re part of the family, after all.’ He leaned forward once more. ‘Can I ask you to keep it under your hat, though, Haldean? You’ve been so decent to George I feel I can trust you, but if Nigel found out what the real reason was, then the fat would be in the fire and no mistake.’ He shifted in his seat in irritation. ‘It’s so damn stupid. The worst of it is, it’s my fault, in a way. It all comes back to Culverton.’

  ‘Culverton?’ repeated Jack.

  ‘That’s right.’ David Lassiter’s voice was thin with frustration. ‘I was dead against the idea of the Pegasus. I thought it was ridiculously ambitious, far too big a task for us to undertake. Nigel argued that we had to produce a plane that was radically different and my father agreed. Now, Nigel’s got real creative talent and he’s a first-rate engineer but he hasn’t a clue about business. If only the firm was organized properly, then we wouldn’t have half the problems we do, but the guv’nor simply won’t let go. He thinks we can muddle along as we did years ago. Anyway, I said that if Nigel could arrange the funding, we’d match it. I thought that would scotch the idea, but it didn’t. Nigel teamed up with Culverton. There’s a couple of others, such as Ridgeway and Maguire, but what made the Pegasus possible was Nigel’s agreement with Culverton.’ He paused. ‘I don’t know how much you know about Culverton.’

  ‘Not much,’ said Jack cautiously, unwilling to betray too much knowledge.

  ‘He was a hard man. A very tough customer indeed. To be honest, I couldn’t stick him at any price but I’ll say this, he was a perfect investor. Too perfect, I thought. I couldn’t work it out. There didn’t seem to be any limit to what he would do and he became more generous as time went on. I didn’t like it. I discussed it with my father and we called Nigel in and asked him outright. The key to it all was the India route. Culverton was desperate to have that route established before this government-assisted airline comes into being next year. If Culverton could get on the board, he’d be in clover. This is where I blame myself.’

  Jack heard the bitterness in his voice. ‘Why?’

  ‘It had been a very heated discussion, as I’m sure you can imagine. When Nigel left, I rema
rked to my father that the India route was all very well, I just hoped there wasn’t more to it, something that would blow up and land us all in the cart.’

  ‘What sort of thing?’ asked George, puzzled.

  ‘Oh, damned if I know. Some secret agreement, some deal Nigel had worked out. It was the sort of comment Nigel invites, you know? You’ve got to dig information out of him. He acts as if he’s got something up his sleeve and there’s nothing to it, apart from the fact that he can’t be bothered explaining himself properly. Anyway, Walsh was in on the meeting, sitting there with his ears flapping. Walsh can’t stand Nigel and vice versa. Mind you, although Nigel could be absolutely foul to Walsh, I can see why Walsh annoyed him. He was a real old woman in some ways. He was clever enough and if it wasn’t for his wretched health he could have amounted to something, but as it was, he had far too much spare time. He always wanted to know what went on behind the scenes and this idea about Nigel got to him. No matter how much I said I hadn’t really meant it, Walsh was convinced I was on to something and managed to persuade my father that there was more to Culverton’s support than met the eye. Anyway, to cut a long story short, Walsh searched Nigel’s office.’

  ‘What?’ said George incredulously. ‘He can’t do that.’

  ‘He shouldn’t have done,’ agreed David. ‘That was a few weeks ago. The first I knew of it was Nigel sounding off about Walsh snooping round his office. He caught him in the act. It’s virtually impossible to find a time when you can guarantee Nigel won’t be there. Even if he leaves, he’s liable to come back. He even sleeps there, sometimes. Walsh made some excuse but Nigel was furious. So was I. I knew exactly what Walsh was up to and had a fair old row with him and my father as a consequence. Apart from the ethics of the thing, it was crazy. If Nigel had a secret contract, he’d have it locked away in a safe somewhere, not lying around in an office drawer. The trouble is, once my father had the idea in his head, he was certain it was right and Walsh conspiring away like Machiavelli made it worse. I thought Walsh might try again, despite all I’d said. If Nigel guesses what Walsh was doing, there’ll be hell to pay. He was in my father’s room, but that’s next door to Nigel’s.’

  ‘Are you sure Walsh was intending to search your brother’s office?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Absolutely I am,’ agreed David. ‘There simply isn’t any other reason why he should be there at this time on a Saturday night. The stupid thing is, it’s completely unnecessary. I don’t believe there is a deal and, if there is, Peggy Culverton will let us know.’

  ‘I suppose your father could have wanted to know before she did,’ said Jack thoughtfully. ‘It’d make life very awkward for your brother if he was caught out in something secretive. It’d be better if you all knew about it.’

  ‘Not as awkward as it’ll be if Nigel guesses what Walsh was up to,’ said David grimly. ‘I can do without all this cloak-and-dagger stuff. Oh, damn Walsh! As I say, he was a clever man. Too clever to waste his time on the bits and pieces my father could find for him. He needed something to occupy his mind. I’m sorry he’s dead. I really am sorry, but he was living on borrowed time, you know. He caught a packet in the war and it’s nearly done for him a few times. Poor beggar,’ he added, more to himself than to George or Jack. ‘He had a pretty thin time of it. Anyway, that’s what’s behind it. Anne knows as much as I do, but I’d appreciate you keeping it quiet. The doctor’s meeting us there. It’s Moorhouse, who sees to any problems at the works. He’s a good man. He’s attended Walsh before now. It’s just as well, I suppose, that Walsh was one of his patients. It’ll probably make things easier and, just at the moment, I can do with all the help I can get.’

  Jack saw the great dark bulk of the factory stretching down towards the river as he drove through the lodge gates. David Lassiter directed him to the front and he pulled up outside a pillared entrance. The door was standing open, the light spilling down the flight of steps.

  Dr Moorhouse, who was obviously meant by nature to be a cheerful soul, was looking out for them. He was waiting for them in the lobby with Fielding, the nightwatchman. ‘This is a very sad turn of events,’ he said with professional sobriety.

  ‘Terrible, sir,’ put in Fielding sombrely. He looked really shaken, thought Jack. ‘When I found poor Mr Walsh, I hoped he might have just had a nasty turn, like, but he’d gone, poor young beggar.’

  ‘Have you moved him?’ David asked Dr Moorhouse, leading the way up the stairs.

  ‘Well, I had to move him to examine him, of course, but he’s still in the room where Fielding found him. I wanted your instructions before I took any further action.’

  They turned on to the upper corridor, a passageway lined with office doors. It was a rum thing, thought Jack, but places that should be full of people always seemed a bit creepy when they were empty, as if there were unseen ghosts and unheard echoes just beyond his senses. At least the lights were on. That was something.

  ‘When did you find him?’ asked David, turning to the nightwatchman.

  ‘It was eight o’clock or so, sir,’ said Fielding. ‘I got here at seven thirty, as I always do on Saturdays, and started my rounds. I looked round downstairs first, then I came up here. I saw there was a light on in Mr Lassiter Senior’s room. I thought it was Mr Nigel’s room at first, and didn’t think much of it, because he’s often here, sir, as you know. Anyway, when I realized it was Mr Lassiter’s room, I had a look in, and there was poor Mr Walsh, stretched out on the floor. I tried to wake him up, hoping I could help, but he was past saving. I tell you, sir, I had to sit down and pull myself together before I could telephone, then I spoke to Mrs Lassiter. She was very good.’

  ‘I came as soon as I got the message,’ said Moorhouse. ‘I’ve examined Mr Walsh before, of course, and, to be truthful, this has come as no great surprise. He had a marked disordered action of the heart. His own doctor prescribed bromide of sodium for him, which would have been beneficial, but there was very little anyone could have done. He had to be careful not to overdo it and to beware of sudden exertion and shock, but I’m afraid time caught up with him in the end.’

  They came to the office. The light was on, left by Dr Moorhouse after his previous examination. Walsh’s body lay in the middle of the room.

  Jack drew his breath in, aware that his reactions were mirrored by both the Lassiters. Walsh was lying with his face turned towards them, his hands by his side and his face showing the waxy pallor of death.

  ‘He was very much like that when I saw him first,’ said the doctor. ‘I moved his arms, of course. There’s not much doubt what he died of, poor devil. The symptoms are pretty clear. It’s his heart, all right. Among other things, he suffered from auricular fibrillation, if that means anything to you.’

  ‘Not an awful lot, no,’ confessed Jack. He dropped down on one knee beside Walsh. His eyes were closed and his jaw had fallen open. ‘Poor devil,’ he said softly. ‘When did he die, doctor?’

  ‘About seven o’clock or thereabouts.’

  David nodded. ‘He can’t have been here long. He left Eden Street about five, as I recall, and he would have got the train down. Why did it happen now, doctor? Any particular reason?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘Not really. If he was nervous or apprehensive it wouldn’t have helped. Any sudden shock, such as a door banging or so on, might have done it. He was in a bad way, you know. It was mustard gas that caused his condition, I understand. I intend to say as much on my certificate.’

  Jack stood up and looked at David. ‘Is your brother’s office next door?’ he asked. David nodded. ‘I’ll just see if it’s undisturbed.’ He was back in a couple of minutes. ‘All clear,’ he said quietly. ‘I don’t think he went in there.’

  David heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I suppose that’s something.’

  Jack stood back, looking round the room, his hands in his pockets. ‘These offices would have been cleaned last night, I suppose?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. The charwomen come in the evening.’ />
  Jack looked at the ashtray on the desk. There were two cigarette stubs in it. They both looked as if they’d been smoked using a holder. ‘Do they empty the ashtrays?’ he asked.

  David looked at the ashtray in surprise. ‘Yes, of course they do.’ He shrugged. ‘Walsh must have smoked those. Except . . .’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘He hardly ever smoked. Only on social occasions and not often then. He didn’t carry a cigarette case, I know.’

  ‘Did he use a cigarette holder?’

  David shrugged. ‘He might have done. Yes, I think he did.’

  Jack flipped open a silver box on the desk. ‘There are cigarettes in here.’

  ‘That’s probably where he got them from,’ said the doctor. ‘You’re quite right about him being a very occasional smoker though, Mr Lassiter. I remember asking him about it when I treated him last.’

  Jack frowned. ‘Mr Lassiter, are you thinking of calling the police?’

  ‘The police?’ David looked at him in astonishment.

  ‘There’s no need for the police, Major Haldean,’ said Dr Moorhouse. ‘No need whatsoever. What on earth makes you suggest such a thing?’

  ‘Those cigarette ends.’ Jack was still frowning. ‘I don’t like them.’

  ‘But . . .’ Dr Moorhouse stared at him. ‘Major Haldean, we can’t possibly call the police because of two cigarette stubs. I can assure you there’s no possibility of foul play. It’s my duty to report to the coroner any cases of violent, unexplained or unnatural death, but nothing of the sort has occurred. Mr Walsh died as a result of a pre-existing heart condition. There’s no question of anything but purely natural causes and I can testify to that. If we did call in the police, Major, I would be reprimanded by the coroner for wasting police time.’

  ‘That’s true enough, isn’t it, Haldean?’ said David Lassiter. ‘I mean, there’s nothing for them to investigate, is there?’