The Great Betrayal

by Pamela Oldfield

  ‘I suppose they must feel responsible. If you’re the manager of a jeweller’s shop and the valuables are in your care, you may fear that you will be blamed by the shop’s owner.’

  ‘But it’s all insured.’ Leonard sighed. ‘Gold watches, silver necklaces, a few diamond rings and a selection of valuable brooches, bracelets – the usual stuff which is easily disposed off illegally either in this country or in Europe. Probably all gone by now.’ He shrugged. ‘A sleight of hand! That’s the way I see it. We sent out a list of stolen articles, but we’re not hopeful.’

  ‘And they got clean away?’

  ‘Unfortunately. Escaped in a waiting car. And all we’ve got is a corpse who has now been identified. Married with young children.’

  ‘Poor wife!’

  ‘Indeed! A young family to bring up all on her own.’

  ‘And a very lonely life.’ Lydia reminded herself how lucky she was to have John even though he was away so much. Seeing that Mr Phipps now looked somewhat disconsolate she added, ‘Your work must be extremely frustrating at times.’

  He nodded, but then forced a smile. ‘But we haven’t given up yet. It’s early days in a case like this, and now that there’s a charge of murder likely the Met will put more resources at our disposal. We don’t have much to go on, but we do have a couple of fingerprints.’

  ‘Ah! I’ve heard of them.’

  ‘Fingerprinting is a real breakthrough and will be more important as time goes on. There’s been a department set up in New Scotland Yard, and it’s going to revolutionize the system of detection.’

  Amused by his earnest manner, Lydia smiled. ‘You love your work,’ she told him. ‘I can see how much it means to you.’

  He relaxed a little. ‘It does, that’s true, but my mother says I talk about it to the exclusion of everything else! Have I been boring you?’

  ‘Certainly not. Your passion has impressed me, Mr Phipps.’

  He rolled his eyes humorously. ‘I’ve never been called passionate before!’

  ‘Oh, but I think you are!’ she insisted. Suddenly, without any warning, she found herself wondering whether he was passionate in his ‘other life’ – when he was not a police officer – and felt herself blushing. Perhaps her comment had sounded too personal. ‘I didn’t mean . . .’

  Seeing her confusion he said, ‘I know what you meant, Mrs Daye.’

  Lydia struggled to change the subject. ‘So am I now the best informed “civilian” in London?’ She chanced a quick look at his face.

  ‘Probably.’ He laughed. ‘Mind you, we can’t only rely on the fingerprinting. We do have our informants, and sooner or later someone will let slip something. The fact that there were three of them makes it more likely that there’ll be a “falling out”. No honour among thieves! And when we get them they’ll go down – and the one responsible for the death will possibly hang! It’s not called the full might of the law for nothing.’

  Awed by his manner and obvious belief in the justice system, Lydia was inexplicably aware of a slight shiver down her spine. The full might of the law! The familiar phrase was being brought into sharp focus tonight in her own kitchen.

  George had been in bed for nearly two hours, but although he was exhausted by his fright earlier in the day, he could not sleep. The unfortunate episode had brought home to him the serious state of his mind – something he had been trying to ignore for weeks. Ironically, the confusion he had felt throughout the situation had now vanished, leaving him with an unpleasantly clear memory of the disaster. There had been a pretty young woman called Miss Ebdon who sold cosmetics . . . and an old woman called Cope – or was it Cape? And a young Mr Robbins had escorted him to the gentlemen’s lavatories. What on earth had they thought of him, he wondered despairingly. A pathetic old man losing his mind!

  Dr Wills had called in to see him and reassure Lydia, and that visit had further depressed him. Dr Wills was a familiar figure, but now, although he was not sixty, he was talking about giving up the practice because his wife’s health was causing concern. A new doctor by the name of Lampitt or Norbit . . . or was it Nesbit?

  ‘Something like that,’ he murmured. This Nesbit fellow would eventually take over. He would be what George thought of as ‘an unknown quantity’, and that was worrying him. In the past George had been able to talk to Dr Wills man to man, but a new doctor, young and with less experience, might prove less understanding of George’s particular problems.

  ‘Not good news!’ he groaned aloud, but then stiffened as he caught the sound of footsteps along the landing and the flickering glimmer of a candle showed through the partly opened door. Possibly Lydia, coming to check up on him, he thought resentfully, to reassure herself that he had not made another dash for freedom. Closing his eyes, he pretended to be asleep as the door opened wider and she moved quietly towards the bed.

  ‘Father?’ she whispered. ‘Are you awake? Do you need anything?’

  Abruptly, he gave up the pretence. ‘Yes!’ he snapped. ‘I do need something! A sharp blow on the head with a large hammer! Put me out of my misery!’ He regretted the words as soon as they were uttered, but it was too late to retract them. Now she would be upset, he thought miserably. She was a tender plant and would take his careless words to heart.

  ‘Father! Don’t say such terrible things!’ She leaned over him, and he could clearly see the concern on her face and was ashamed of himself.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he told her. ‘Forgive me, dear. I’m not myself right now.’ Oh Lord. What a stupid thing to say, he thought, but he blundered on regardless. ‘I don’t know who I am, but . . .’

  Lydia took hold of his hand. ‘You’re my father and I love you.’

  ‘I’m a burden to you.’ His voice wavered.

  ‘Nonsense.’

  ‘I know I am. I’m a burden to myself!’

  ‘And if I were ill, would you call me a “burden”?’

  ‘Of course not, Lydia.’ He sighed. He rarely won an argument with his daughter.

  ‘Well, there you are, Father.’ She smiled, squeezing his hand. ‘I rest my case.’

  Oh dear. She was being flippant. Trying to humour him. He swallowed hard, forbidding any tears to run down his cheeks.

  ‘Mr Robbins,’ he cried, apropos of nothing. ‘He took me to the lavatory and waited outside the door as though I were a child! So humiliating.’

  ‘Don’t think about it, Father. It’s all over and forgotten.’

  He continued as though she had not spoken. ‘And the old biddy I knocked over. She had so many parcels and a really stupid hat . . . knitted with scraps of wool. All different colours. A small woman. Knee high to a grasshopper. That’s how my mother would have described her.’ He gave a shaky laugh. At least the tears had retreated.

  Lydia asked, ‘Did you take the sleeping pill the doctor gave you?’

  He nodded. ‘But it obviously didn’t work.’

  ‘Would you like another mug of Ovaltine and a biscuit? You may be hungry. You didn’t eat much at supper.’

  George felt tears pressing at his eyelids and blinked them back. ‘That would be nice. Thank you.’ Anything to get his daughter out of the room, he thought bitterly. He couldn’t stand her kindness a moment longer – it was undermining him.

  Suddenly, he recalled being bullied at that awful boarding school. He had suffered the bullying in silence without giving way, but as soon as the house matron found out and sympathized with him, he broke down and wept . . . Lord! How he had hated that school. His mother had promised him that if he wasn’t happy there he could leave, but how could he have faced his father? ‘Pull yourself together, boy!’ he’d have said. ‘I survived it, and so can you.’

  Survival. That was all he had left to look forward to before he died. Now all he needed, he told himself, was time to think. There must surely be a way out of a future which was looking so dreadfully bleak.

  Willis Burke’s dreary room looked smaller than ever with three of them in it. Willis sat on the be
d, which sagged alarmingly under his weight. Sidney stood by the window, keeping watch for any undesirables who might approach the house, and Don sat backwards on the single chair, his arms draped over the back of it. No one knew how to start the conversation which had now become inevitable.

  At last Don said, ‘So where is it?’

  Willis pointed to the bottom drawer of his cheap wardrobe. ‘Wrapped in a sack,’ he added.

  ‘I told you to hide it somewhere safe.’ Don glared at him. ‘Anyone could find it there!’

  ‘You didn’t say where. How do I know where to hide it? It’s your stupid gun, not mine!’

  ‘Christ, Burke, I trusted you to find somewhere better than the bottom of your ruddy wardrobe.’

  ‘Like where?’

  Don glanced round the room. ‘Like up the chimney, maybe. Or . . . inside a pillow. Use your imagination, can’t you?’

  Willis said, ‘I tell you, it’s not staying here. You take it when you go!’

  Sidney gazed fixedly out of the window. His face was set in sulky lines, and he said nothing. Disaster was staring them in the face, he thought with a sick feeling of despair. This time it had gone too far, and he, Sidney, was not to blame.

  After a brief hesitation, Willis walked to the wardrobe, pulled open the drawer and withdrew the bundle. He tossed it on to the bed. ‘You look after it since you’re so clever,’ he told Don shakily. ‘I don’t want it any more. You’re the one that did it. You’re the one that got us into this mess!’

  Sidney said, ‘He’s right, Don! He was only the driver.’

  ‘Only?’ Willis scowled. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d have got caught! If I wasn’t outside waiting for you in the motor . . . And all I get is a measly fifth of the take. Not that it was much this time. Less than half we got two years back. You two are slipping, if you want my opinion. A lot of effort and risk for not much dosh.’

  Sidney said, ‘Who are you to grumble, safely tucked away in the motor?’

  Don chimed in, his resentment growing. ‘Keep out of it, Sid. We’re all in this together. We all shared the money. Remember that!’

  Sidney snorted. ‘But you got more than your fair share. You remember that!’

  Willis said, ‘What? More than his fair share? How?’

  Sidney glanced at his brother and thought better of repeating the accusation. ‘Forget it,’ he mumbled.

  ‘Nobody killed that man.’ Don insisted. ‘He fell and hit his head on the floor! I didn’t shoot him.’

  Willis jutted his chin. ‘But why did he fall? Because you, Don, you stupid bugger, had whacked him on the head with the pistol! They’ll say it was the blow from the pistol that did for him. Likely it was, too!’

  Stunned by the enormity of the disaster that had overtaken them, they all fell silent, each one a prey to fearful thoughts.

  At last Willis said, ‘You’d better scarper, Don. They’ll be combing the streets for you. It’s only a matter of time.’

  ‘And if you get picked up it won’t be long before we all get nabbed. Make yourself scarce, Don, before it’s too late.’

  Don frowned. ‘Easy for you to say, but I’ve got responsibilities. You haven’t.’

  ‘What? The women? For God’s sake, Don, how is it going to help them if you go down? They’ll see you arrested, sent down and hanged! Strikes me they’d be better off not seeing all that. Do them a favour, for the love of God, and disappear. Disappear, and don’t come back . . . ever!’

  The words sent a prickle of fear into Don’s already burdened mind. Being a jewel thief was one thing – he had liked to think of himself as a daring, rather glamorous outlaw – but killing someone had never been on the cards. The death had shaken him more than he cared to admit. ‘Thanks a lot! What a miserable pair you are. All you think about is yourselves. And to think I trusted you!’ He glared at his brother. ‘If it wasn’t for me you’d be working for your living and the reverend here would be finding out what it means to do a full day’s work, scrimping and saving in a dead end job.’ He rubbed his eyes wearily and sighed.

  ‘I’m already in a dead end job,’ Willis reminded him. ‘I work all night for a pittance!’

  Pale-faced, Don shook his head. ‘And that’s all you’d have if it wasn’t for me.’ His eyes narrowed. ‘And don’t forget that you’re not squeaky clean either. A word from me and—’

  Sidney pricked up his ears. ‘Why, what’s he done?’

  ‘Impersonating a clergyman is a crime. Not to mention driving the getaway car. So before you decide to get rid of me, just remember that you two aren’t exactly fireproof!’

  There was an uneasy silence as each man considered these unwelcome truths. It was eventually broken by Sidney.

  ‘So what do we do now?’ he asked shakily.

  Nobody had an answer.

  Later that evening Willis Burke sat in his room with a blanket round his shoulders – not because he was cold but because he was frightened and had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach. The wrapped up gun was on the bed beside him. His meeting with the Wickham brothers had done nothing to reassure him and had ended in Don slipping away with a muttered excuse and Sidney stalking out later in a thoroughly bad temper, having told Willis his suspicions about the rings which Don had held back and given, for the time being, to his women.

  Now, nearly two hours later, Willis was still a state of utter dread, wondering what he should do to protect himself from any possible consequences. He could disappear by moving to another part of London, or he could stay and hope that the police never made the connection between Don and the victim, because Don had threatened to betray his two companions if he were ever arrested.

  ‘He’ll grass us up!’ he muttered.

  It also grieved him that he now knew that Don had certainly cheated him and Sidney by hanging on to a couple of diamond rings. ‘Bastard!’ he muttered. After all the things he’d done for that man! He shivered and pulled the blanket closer round his shoulders.

  At that moment he heard the front door knocker and he froze. Was it the police? Desperately, he looked round for somewhere to hide. Beneath the bed was too obvious, but what about the wardrobe drawer? Could he fit in there? He rushed to the drawer and pulled it open, but then, remembering the gun, he paused and glanced back at the bed. ‘Hell’s bells!’

  Footsteps sounded on the stairs.

  ‘Mr Burke?’ There was tap on his door.

  He called, ‘Just a minute!’ and prepared to climb into the drawer before realizing two things – that he had given himself away by saying ‘Just a minute’, and that the drawer was too small. Also common sense told him that if he did climb into the drawer he would never be able to then push it shut and that anyway the whole wardrobe would probably topple over. Or was that three things? Or four? He uttered a small squeak of fright then closed the drawer. He must brazen it out.

  Two minutes later, with a rapidly beating heart, he gave up, walked to the door and opened it about two inches. ‘Yes?’

  ‘A visitor for you, Mr Burke,’ said the landlady and to his intense relief he recognized the newly ‘married’ Dolly Wickham standing behind her.

  Willis closed his eyes, uttered a prayer of thanks and smiled broadly. At that precise moment the devil incarnate, complete with horns and tail, would have been preferable to a police sergeant.

  The landlady said, ‘Another one of your sisters, Mr Burke?’ and turned away, with a sly grin on her face.

  Dolly came into the room. ‘What’s she sniggering about?’ she asked. ‘Does she think I’m your sister?’

  ‘No, no! Er . . . Take no notice, Mrs Wickham. The poor soul’s a bit . . . !’ He tapped his forehead.

  ‘How sad!’

  ‘How can I help you?’

  ‘I’ve come for my marriage lines, Reverend. Last time I came you were out.’

  ‘Marriage lines?’ Shocked, he somehow managed a light laugh. ‘Dear Lord! I clean forgot, but I’ll do it now. It’s no problem. Do sit down.’ He indicated
the bed. Marriage lines? What on earth did they look like? ‘So how are things going with you and Don?’ He began to search for a notebook and, having found it, a pencil.

  ‘Don’t you have to fill in a form?’ Dolly prompted. ‘My ma’s marriage lines is a form, and there are squares, and the man filled it in with ink. Name and address. Witness’s signature. Things like that.’

  ‘Ah!’ He thought quickly. ‘But this, my dear young lady, is a private affair, and we do things differently.’ He found his penknife and began to sharpen the pencil. ‘And there need be no witnesses to a private ceremony.’

  Dolly eyed the pencil with surprise. ‘It’ll have to be ink, surely,’ she protested, ‘because it’ll have to last all my life and . . . Well, it could be rubbed out if you do it in pencil. Not that Don would ever rub it out, but what I mean is . . .’ She held out her hands in a gesture of helplessness.’ What I mean is, ink looks more proper, don’t you think? More official.’

  ‘You’re right,’ he said, deciding not to argue with her because that would inevitably lengthen the proceedings and he desperately needed to satisfy Dolly Wickham and get her out of the way before his landlady could ask any awkward questions. ‘I’ll do it in ink, Mrs Wickham. Anything to please a lady!’

  ‘A lady? Me? Go on with you!’ she protested, but she looked pleased by the compliment.

  He hoped he had successfully distracted her. ‘You’ll have to forgive me today. I’m all at sixes and sevens. Family matters.’

  ‘Oh dear! I am sorry. Not a death, I hope. I do hate funerals, especially if it rains. Even snow is better than rain. I’d rather be cold than wet, wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Er . . . yes. I mean no – it’s not a funeral.’ He found a pen and an inkwell containing dried up ink which he resuscitated with a little water from the tap in the corner.

  ‘Now please don’t talk to me,’ he warned. ‘I don’t want to make a mistake.’

  ‘Then don’t write me as Dolly,’ she reminded him. ‘It’s really Jenny.’

  He nodded.

  Dolly pressed two fingers to her lips and that was when Sidney caught sight of her ring and was reminded of Sidney’s suspicions. A question sprang to his lips, but before he could utter it Dolly gave him a smile of considerable sweetness.