by Bill Kitson
‘Hang on, Adam, let me try something.’ Eve took hold of the book and walked across the hallway with it. I followed, curious as to what she was going to do. She held the open volume up in front of the mirror. ‘Got it!’ she exclaimed triumphantly.
She had indeed. Bennett had transposed each entry by reversing the order. At the very end was the date. I should have guessed that, even though the characters were not separated. Having lived in America, I ought to have spotted the way they write the date, with the month coming before the day. Similarly, the description of the article and the price were also inverted. A table was thus described by the letters E L B A T and so on. Prices looked odd, written in one instance as K V L. After checking others I pointed to it. ‘This is the price,’ I told Eve.
‘How do you work that out?’
‘By comparing it to other ones. That table is priced or valued at £5,000. The L represents a pound sign, the V is the Roman five, and K is the symbol for a thousand. The amount he paid for it is coded similarly, but written in red instead of blue.’
I pointed to another entry lower down the same page. ‘It looks as if that item was sold to someone in America. Instead of the pound there’s a dollar sign.’
‘I can see that now. Mark Bennett was far more than simply a museum curator. He seems to have been a highly active antiques and art dealer.’
‘Quite a successful one too, by the look of it. No wonder his house was mortgage-free.’
‘I don’t think Susan should have been too worried about the police getting hold of this book.’
‘Not unless some of the paintings were creations of Casper Harfleur, rather than the famous artists whose alleged signature is on them. If I were Susan, I’d be more concerned to ensure that it didn’t fall into the hands of the Inland Revenue.’
‘Would they still be able to claim tax even though Bennett is dead?’
‘I’m damned sure they would. They certainly can in America. Over there they have a joke. The question is, “What’s the difference between a taxman and a hooker”? To which the reply is, “A hooker stops screwing you after you’ve died”. By the look of this’ – I tapped the book – ‘Bennett owed the taxman well into five figures, possibly more, but luckily the taxman didn’t know it.’
‘Shouldn’t we do something about it?’
‘Certainly not. The question of a dead man’s possible tax evasion has nothing to do with us. Besides which, if locals got to hear about it, we’d probably be run out of town on a rail. They’re not fond of the Inland Revenue round here. And tax evasion has been a popular sport in Britain since the days of Robin Hood, possibly even earlier.’
‘I still can’t see this book holding a clue to Bennett’s murder though.’
I had this strange mental image of a man in pinstripe suit with briefcase and umbrella stalking his prey with murder in mind. ‘No,’ I agreed, reluctantly relinquishing the image, ‘even I can’t imagine a thwarted tax inspector as the killer.’
Having worked out Bennett’s code, we checked the entries closely, looking for some connection to either Andrew Kershaw or Casper Harfleur, but there seemed to be nothing linking either of them to any purchase or sale.
In our search, we concentrated on the sale transactions, which is why we missed the one set of numbers and letters that would have given us the clue.
Later that afternoon, driven by frustration rather than any real inspiration, I checked the book again. ‘Eve, come and look at this and see what you can make of it. I might be mistaken, but it could refer to Andrew Kershaw and possibly Casper Harfleur too.’
I pointed to their initials. ‘Yes, you could be right, Adam, but what does the rest of the entry refer to?’
‘Search me, I haven’t the remotest clue.’
The full entry, which read H C H T I W D E R O T S K A P P D M M 1, was still as much of a mystery to us when we retired to bed that night. Solution to the puzzle was to come from the most unlikely source. For the meantime, we lodged the book in the wall safe in the study.
‘We could do worse than try to find out more about Andrew Kershaw,’ Eve suggested over breakfast the next morning. ‘He sounds to have been a popular, well liked sort of bloke, so he must have had a lot of friends round here. Perhaps we should ask the locals.’
Eve’s last word gave me an idea. ‘We got a load of background material from Zeke Calvert when we went to the Admiral Nelson. Perhaps it would pay dividends if we ask about Kershaw at the Miners Arms in Elmfield. That would have been his local pub, and we know for a fact that he was far from being a teetotaller.’
I was the recipient of a disapproving stare. Eve has a wide variety of these. This one was tinged with suspicion, which, together with her question, gave me chance to explain. ‘Are you sure this isn’t simply an excuse for a booze-up?’
‘Certainly not. I’ll drink lemonade if you want.’
‘Hah! Give me plenty of notice when we’re going, so I can make sure my camera has plenty of film in it.’
We agreed that evening would be suitable for a visit to the pub, and it was then that I saw how serious Eve was. As we left Eden House I turned from locking the front door to see her sling the strap of her camera over her left shoulder. Eve doesn’t make idle threats.
Chapter Fourteen
The bar of the Miners Arms was much smaller than that of the Admiral Nelson, but was still no more than half full when we entered it. Elmfield is a tiny village, so the catchment area for drinkers was comparably small.
I recognised several of the patrons by sight, but there was only one I could put a name to. Appropriately enough, given the name of the pub, he turned out to be a mine of information. I greeted the councillor, who was sitting alone by the bay window, asked if we could join him and offered to buy him a pint.
Tom Fox smiled and gestured to the glass I was carrying. ‘As long as it isn’t one of those, thank you. But I’ll willingly accept a pint of bitter.’
‘Don’t blame me for drinking lemonade,’ I retorted, ‘it was your lot who brought in the breath test.’
‘That may be true, but it has been beneficial. Road casualties due to drinking and driving are down considerably.’
My motives in seeking to talk to Fox were simple. He was the only person in the pub I knew well enough to ask about Kershaw, and I had a shrewd idea he would provide at least some snippets of information. Fox was about the same age as Kershaw and had lived in the area most of his life. We chatted for a while about general matters, including the funeral we had so recently attended.
‘Susan Bennett came to see us yesterday. It’s obvious that although she and her husband were separated, she was still very fond of him. That says a lot. Unfortunately I never met him.’
‘It was impossible to dislike Mark Bennett,’ Fox told us. ‘Just as it was impossible to dislike Casper Harfleur, even though he was a rogue.’
‘Susan told us she had a visit from someone asking about Bennett and a connection to Harfleur and also Andrew Kershaw. That seemed odd, knowing that Kershaw has been dead for such a long time.’
‘It does seem strange,’ Fox agreed.
‘We were interested because we promised to try and help Kershaw’s daughter solve a problem she has,’ I told him, before outlining Chloe’s issue. ‘The snag we’ve run up against is that nobody around here seems to know much about either her father or her mother. If that’s not the case, they must have some good reason for not wanting to talk about them. Although it seemed weird that they were reluctant at first, we’re beginning to think that it might be connected to Kershaw’s line of work. However, such strictures would hardly apply to Chloe’s mother.’
Fox looked surprised by my bland statement. ‘You said you know what Andy’s line of work was. Is that true, or were you fishing for information?’
‘We worked out that he must have been a spy at one time, but that’s about all. What we find really puzzling is why the spooks are keen to keep Kershaw’s occupation secret so long after the event
.’
‘What makes you say that?’
I explained about Cooper’s visit, without going too deeply into it. Fox looked about as baffled as we had felt, and that sense of bewilderment caused him to open up. In the process we learned more about Kershaw in half an hour than we had in the previous week.
‘I knew Andy from the first day we both attended nursery school, then right through primary and grammar school. We were in the same classes throughout, and I can honestly say there wasn’t a nicer lad than Andy.’
‘I thought with his family connections he’d have gone to boarding school,’ Eve said.
‘No, the Kershaw family weren’t that sort. Neither Andy nor David went away to school. I don’t know David half as well, because he’s much younger, but Andy was great, full of fun and as mischievous and daring a lad as you could find. He wasn’t afraid of anything, even when he knew the danger involved. I reckon that disregard for his own safety was part of what made him ideal for the espionage business. We lost touch when we were called up. He went to Cyprus, the lucky dog, while I did my National Service at Aldershot and Catterick. I didn’t see him after he went overseas until he got a fortnight’s leave. That in itself was highly unusual, but he told me a bit about the reason. Strangely enough he was sitting just where you are’ – he gestured to Eve – ‘and he told me then he’d just completed his initiation course. He sat there with his pint, sipping it as if he was never going to get another. I remember what he said as clearly as if it was yesterday. He said, “Tom, I’ve been given the chance of a lifetime. Either that or a death sentence, I’m not sure which. I’ll be working for the grey men in suits from now on. No more soldiering. In fact, no more Andy Kershaw. From the minute I go back, Andy Kershaw will no longer exist, officially at least. That’s the way it must be when you’re going undercover. What I will be doing might be for the good of the country, but it will never become public, at least I hope not.”
‘It didn’t take much working out what he meant by “working for the grey men in suits”, because he was a natural choice. Andy spoke, read and wrote most European languages fluently enough to pass for a native of whatever country he was in. That, coupled with the fact that the threat from the Soviet Bloc was seen as immense back then, was all I needed to convince me of what he had been asked to do. It might have gone down badly with his superiors if they’d found out that Andy had been so open with me, but he knew he could trust me to keep my mouth shut.’
Fox smiled a trifle sadly, I thought, as he added, ‘And that’s what I did. I haven’t spoken about what Andy did from that day until now. I didn’t see him again until he returned to England. That would be about four or five years later, and by then he must have retired from the spying lark, because he spent all his time at Elmfield Grange along with his wife and their baby.’
‘When would that have been?’
‘Around 1961, I guess, or maybe 1962 because I remember I’d just heard that I was being seconded from CID to Special Branch and I was really chuffed about that.’
‘How was Kershaw?’
‘He’d changed a lot. It might not have been noticeable to others, but I knew the old Andy too well not to spot the difference. He and Debbie were obviously very happy and deeply in love, but a lot of the fun seemed to have been knocked out of him. It took a while before I worked out what it was that had brought about the change.’
Fox stopped speaking and stared moodily into his glass. I guessed he was mulling over the past, and I left it to Eve to prompt him. ‘What did you think it was that caused Kershaw to change so much?’
‘I can’t say for certain, and I could be completely wrong, but I thought it was fear, but fear of who or what I have absolutely no idea.’
‘What was it that made you think fear had changed him? Was there something specific?’
‘Not really, it was more of a hunch. Call it copper’s instinct if you like. I was convinced I was right, and he almost admitted it too, or as good as.’
‘How did he do that?’
‘It was soon after he and Debbie returned to Elmfield Grange. I asked him if he was on leave, or if not, what he was planning to do if he was home for good. He told me he was home permanently and I said, “Does that mean you’ve finished with the grey men in suits?” Andy said, “Oh yes, I’ve finished with them all right, but I’m not sure they’ve finished with me.” I asked him what he meant by that and he told me something I’ve never forgotten. Now that I think about it, what Andy said all those years ago might be a clue as to why the spooks are still touchy about him.’
‘What was it?’
Fox smiled. ‘I got so wrapped up in it I forgot to tell you. Andy said, “A secret doesn’t die until you release it from its cage. It isn’t meant to survive in the wild; it should be kept in captivity, always. Not only that, but some secrets are too dangerous to be released.” I thought then that it was a really odd thing to say, so I asked him if he had a secret that he was keeping in a cage. He looked at me for a few seconds and then told me, “Tom, I have a whole bloody zoo full of secrets, and if just one of them got free it would cause mayhem. The problem is, all my secrets are man-eaters.” That was it, he shut up then and wouldn’t explain, wouldn’t say another word.’
‘Like you said, if the secrets were really bad ones, that might explain why the spooks are still interested in him.’
‘We never discussed his work again, and he seemed to have settled down to a career in farming and domestic bliss with the lovely Debbie, leaving the past well and truly behind him, but then everything started to go wrong. Debbie became gradually sicker and sicker, and, although Andy nursed her and cared for her throughout, right from the beginning he seemed to know that it was a lost cause. Don’t ask me to explain how he was so certain, or what ailed her, because I’ve no idea, but I remember bumping into him in Dinsdale. He looked terrible, and admitted that it was hopeless, and there was nothing that could be done for her. I asked him if he’d taken Debbie to hospital, and he told me there would be no point, as they knew it wouldn’t do any good. They both knew what was wrong with her, and that it was terminal.’
‘He must have been terribly upset to have unburdened himself like that,’ Eve suggested.
Fox laughed, which seemed a strange reaction, until he explained. ‘He had to tell me something, if only to account for his odd behaviour, given that I’d just seen him in a ladies hairdressing salon buying a wig.’
‘A wig, whatever did he want that for?’
‘He said it was for Debbie.’
We chatted for a while longer, during which he said something that I failed to pick up on at the time. ‘This neck of the woods is home to more than one person with a previous alter ego, and for the same reason.’ I assumed at the time that he might have been referring to Chloe’s mother, because of what he’d just told us about her illness, and it was some days later that I revised my earlier impression. I bought another round of drinks, and we talked for a while about the recent murders, before Eve and I returned home, leaving Fox to brood over the past and the loss of his good friend. As we drove back to Laithbrigg, I told Eve, ‘Well, one good thing to come out of tonight is that as a result of what Tom Fox said, we now know what killed Debbie Kershaw, and we can reassure Chloe that it isn’t hereditary.’
I sensed Eve staring at me. ‘Have I missed something? If so, I must have dozed off during the conversation, either that or you and Fox were using some secret “men only” code, because I don’t recall him telling us what killed Debbie Kershaw.’
I grinned. It isn’t often I get the chance to get one up on Eve, so I was determined to make the most of it. ‘He didn’t tell us what killed her, not in so many words, but it seemed obvious to me that he had a shrewd idea.’
‘Go on then, clever clogs, explain it to those of us too dense to have worked it out. Bear in mind that not all of us are geniuses.’
‘The clues were all there, Eve. The time that it happened, plus Kershaw’s occupation, the fact that
he knew Debbie was dying without troubling the hospital for a diagnosis, and the fact that he bought her a wig. They all add up to one thing.’
‘What?’
‘Remember we’re talking late fifties to early sixties. Spies on both sides were keen to discover the other’s nuclear capability, and if that involved getting into nuclear installations, it was simply part of the risks of the job. I think Debbie Kershaw died of radiation poisoning. Back then, precautions against contamination from things like uranium or strontium-90 and radioactive fallout were much less sophisticated, we didn’t have the knowledge. One of the prime symptoms of radiation sickness is hair loss. My best guess would be that Debbie worked close to or on a nuclear site, one that was on the opposite side of the Iron Curtain, which would be where Kershaw had been sent by the “grey men in suits”, and probably where he met her.’
We were still arguing over the merits or otherwise of my theory the following day when we received a phone call from Marjorie Phillips. Eve answered it and reported the gist of their conversation. ‘Marjorie says she’s found something she thinks we ought to see. Apparently Michael asked her to clear out a couple of the spare rooms. He told her it was in case visitors came, but Marjorie is hoping that the real reason is because Michael and Chloe are planning to start a family regardless of whether they can get married or not. By the sound of it, Marjorie is desperate to become a grandmother. She said it would be nice to have some grandchildren while she was still fit enough to spoil them. I told her we would call in at the vicarage this afternoon when we go shopping.’
‘Are we going shopping? It’s news to me.’
I received a pained look, by which I deduced that I was being both obtuse and unreasonable. It was just one of the vast array of meaningful glances Eve has in her armoury. I lacked the nerve to mention the words ‘publisher’ and ‘deadline’ because I knew that would merely be increasing the felony.
Marjorie’s opening sentence, after greeting us when we arrived at the vicarage, made little sense until later. ‘Do you enjoy reading other peoples’ diaries?’
