A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe twiddled his pencil for a moment and then added, “So you’ll think it a bit odd when I say: watch his back too. I’m not certain which side the sergeant’s playing for—or even which pitch he’s on. He may be a target himself and unaware of it. Who murders the murderer? And who guards the guards? Well, today it’s Cottingham of the Met. That’s who.”

  The men bustled off about their business and Joe lifted the telephone. On the third attempt, he raised Bacchus. “Drop whatever you’re doing and come here for a briefing, James. Bring everything you have on the Nine Men. Oh, and put on your best hat and a clean Burberry—I’m taking you on somewhere afterwards.”

  “WELL? WHAT ARE you thinking, James? Struck you dumb, have I?”

  “I’ll say! I’m trying to get used to the thought that I may well have served liqueurs and cigars to a consortium of the world’s power brokers. Bringers of War. Wreakers of Mayhem. When I think what I could have slipped into their beverages! The contents of the two capsules I always carry in my pocket could have saved the world from lord knows what. But two of these blokes are out of place. Minnows swimming in a shark tank. Kingstone and Armitage. Look, Joe, would it be an irrational thought … with all this economics stuff buzzing in our ears … we might have overlooked an even more alarming reason for their foregathering in London?”

  “The conference is just a useful cover, you mean, for something more dire than fiddling with the exchange rates?”

  “Could be. It is a good cover—a damn good one. We can be sure Kingstone is heavily involved … useful to them, but not indispensable, as they’ve shown they were quite prepared to dispense with him definitively. But he’s a recent acquirement—and Armitage is only there at his insistence. There must be a core of elder statesmen—say, five—and they co-opt others as and when they’re useful.”

  “I had thought as much. But the motive, James? An economic one?”

  “I’d have thought more—political, wouldn’t you?”

  “That’s what Kingstone himself hinted to me. The annoying chap has given me lots of hints as to the seriousness of his predicament and I’ve wondered why he can’t just come out with it straight. He’s a man who is by nature, I’d say, a straight-talker.”

  “Wants to warn you off—doesn’t like to see innocent strangers involved in his troubles?”

  “Yes. I do believe so. But there’s more to it than that. Have you noticed, James, when you’re doing interrogations—the people who make a show of clamming up but then go on to drop hints, start sentences and leave them tantalisingly unfinished—they are the ones who are encouraging you to press them harder. They want you to guess their secret or their guilt.”

  “So they can claim we beat it out of them! Not their fault, they never intended to give anything away? Know the type. I wouldn’t have thought Kingstone fitted that profile. He’s tough and he’s a gent. Don’t forget—I’ve listened in to his unbuttoned moments. I think I know the man by now.”

  “No. He’s made of sterner stuff, I agree. I’ve seen him grinning in full knowledge he has two revolvers trained on him. The swing in popularity of the gold standard wouldn’t freeze him like a rabbit in the headlights.”

  “Then we have to raise our eyes above the level of the economic shenanigans?”

  “Or below. Where the hell are we supposed to be looking? What’s happening in the world that some powerful people take exception to? That’s so unpalatable that men from various nations will gather together under the umbrella of transatlantic friendship to put a stop to? Let’s think in those basic terms.”

  “Discounting greed, world poverty, and starvation then …” Bacchus rolled his eyes and gulped. “Let’s see … It usually comes down to leadership, doesn’t it? Power. Now I’ll rule us out here in Britain. I know we can be damned annoying to anyone who doesn’t know the words to ‘Rule Britannia’ and have the recipe for strawberry jam by heart but … honestly, no. With our charming old sheep-farmer prime minister and our peace-loving monarch presiding over a war-weary nation, who would feel threatened? Apart from renegades like this old fart, Admiral Buchanan, we have no one who’s going about the world annoying other nations. Unless someone’s been unkind about the Japanese again.”

  Searching his memory, Joe presented Bacchus with the remark of Kingstone’s that had truly puzzled him. In his sphinx-like manner, the senator had declared that what these men valued was his military reputation and record.

  “A military leader, eh? He’s young enough and fiery enough to play Mars to his friend Roosevelt’s Jupiter, I’d say, wouldn’t you? Those two men in harness would be very impressive.”

  Joe pointed out the drawbacks to this notion. Kingstone’s military career, though impressive, had been short-lived. He was never a professional soldier. Conscripted. In and out of the war within a year. Joe voiced the objection that the US had already got an army general with a reputation in the picture.

  “That would be MacArthur you’re thinking of? But since last summer his reputation is pretty well a stinking one. Blotted his copy book in no uncertain terms.”

  Joe had to admit mystification.

  “It happened in July. I think you were up in Scotland, miles away from a newspaper. Rather shocking event! After months of strikes and disorder which nearly brought the country to its knees, the protest to end all protests broke out. The ‘Death March’ around Washington, staged by the Bonus Expeditionary Force. The B.E.N. Old soldiers. Veterans down on their luck. Ten thousand of them gathered to march and demand an instant payment of their ‘bonus.’ The promised veterans’ endowment policy which hadn’t been paid. Worth about a thousand dollars a man. They set up camp outside the capital and called their collection of shacks ‘Hooverville’ after President Herbert Hoover. Being soldiers, they dug latrines, kept the place clean and orderly. Denied use of their assembly to communists and fascists alike. There was no rise in the crime rate. They were unarmed. Some brought their families with them. Planted vegetables. A skirmish with the police left two officers dead and several injured and federal intervention was called for. Unfortunately it was the army’s chief of staff, General Douglas MacArthur, who answered the call.”

  “Oh, dear! Heavy fist shaken?”

  “Four troops of cavalry, four companies of infantry with machine guns and bayonets, city police in support—oh, and four tanks. Heavy enough for you? The general routed the veterans and chased them across the river. Ordered not to pursue them, he disobeyed the order and set fire to their camp. President Hoover became the first American president to make war on his own citizens. And in their own streets in sight of the White House. Many of them had voted for him. Of course he was not re-elected and in stepped Franklin D. Roosevelt that following autumn.”

  A worrying picture was emerging. Joe knew that those soldiers had very likely not disappeared. And it was unlikely they had ever been paid. Men with a double grudge. A man with Kingstone’s record and soldierliness, his feeling for the common man, a Doughboy like them, would be seen as a leader they could admire, not revile. With the press behind him—and who owned the press?—such a man could be built up as one whose talents complemented those of Roosevelt. A worthy sword arm for a democratic president?

  He said as much to Bacchus.

  “Sounds good to me. Many might think that a winning combination.”

  “But what struggle would they be winning? Who do they see as their potential enemy, James?”

  Joe didn’t quite like the look of pity for such political innocence that flitted across Bacchus’s handsome features.

  “We could start with the usual: communists and fascists. Each faction has its supporters in the States but the government fears these extremists even more when they’re in their native lands, amassing armed forces. I’d discount the Russians and the Italians for various reasons involving preparedness and resolve and look at Japan and Germany. Yes, Germany. I often disagree with Churchill but here I think he’s got it right. Unless, of course, we can respond to the placat
ory tone of this bloke in your lineup: Heimdallr Ackermann. Question is: whom would you prefer to take on, if it came to a fight against national extremism—a plebeian thug or a patrician schemer? Is this what’s happening, Joe? Class warfare? Takes us right back to the Battle of Crécy when the English were branded cheats and undeserving victors by the aristocratic French knights on account of their use of a company of lower-class yeoman archers. The lads of the village, standing on their own two feet and not a scrap of armour between them, scrupled not to shoot nine thousand arrows in a minute, straight at the French horses. Not very sporting!”

  “Low-down trick!” Joe’s chuckle was short. “Just the kind of story I like. Are we out of our depth, James? Any hope that MI6 would be able to make sense of all this?”

  “Doubt it. I can ask. Who knows? They may have been given some direction from above regarding the acceptability and trustworthiness of Herr this or Signor that.”

  “We mongrels would find it a bit hard to know what to do with our allegiance if we didn’t have a wise government to tell us,” Joe murmured.

  “That’s better! A bit of bite-them-in-the-bum cynicism.”

  “We’ve rambled too far, James. Let’s stick to facts. And let’s ask ourselves why we’re gnawing at this bone.”

  “Are you sure it’s our business? I don’t see a plot against our king or a member of our government looming.”

  “I see a sailor with a broken neck and a girl with a bullet in her head. Victims, both, of some overriding ambition I haven’t yet got to grips with. They are my prime concerns. But they’re linked in a way I’m going to understand with the survival—physical and mental—of a man who’s been assigned to my care. A man I’ve grown to admire and like.” Joe allowed himself an evil grin. “And if I can make things uncomfortable, however briefly, for this lineup of arrogant tosspots—so much the better.”

  “So we’re saying that this organisation is setting up an unwilling ex-Doughboy to bite the ankles of the opposition. But what exactly is the opposition?”

  “We’re not near them yet, James. Tell you what—come with me and stir up the mud a bit more this morning. I may not be able to get near enough to our Morris Men to worry them but I can have a go at their lieutenants. The lower echelon that gets its hands dirty in their service. In so far as they have a centre for their clandestine activities in London, I think we’ve tracked it down. Thanks to the quick thinking and public spirit of a homeless sailor. Absalom Hope. I say his name again because no one else, I fear, will remember him since he sank below the horizon. I’ll tell you about him in the taxi. Now … Can you wait for a moment while I slip into some smart navy suiting with gold frogging? There’s a matron I’m planning to put the wind up!”

  CHAPTER 25

  The Matron’s office was equipped in the very latest style. Chrome and glass, black leather and silver, by turns dazzled and soothed the eye. A shining expanse of desk, clear but for three white lilies in a Lalique vase, made Joe sigh with envy. How much more efficiently would his own professional life run, he wondered, if he could exchange his ancient mahogany, worn axminster and overflowing onyx ashtrays for such an uncluttered haven. It would have the same predictable effect on anyone visiting. Reassuring. Comforting. If the medical skills were of the same order as the décor, then all would be well, and worth whatever it cost.

  The matron herself was of the same style. Pin neat. Navy silk dress with white pleated trimmings at the neck. Though her head-dress was all that formality required, it had been pared down to essentials, shorn of the over-lavish folds and ruches of the traditional confection. It framed an oval face in which the most striking feature was a large pair of hazel eyes. She was a woman in her forties, Joe guessed, who’d had her training during or before the war. She had about her the stillness and economy of gesture of a nun but her eyes—or was it the laughter lines around them?—spoke of a deeper experience than the walls of a convent. Joe reminded himself that this was the woman who had been meticulous enough to descend to the basement kitchen to check the credentials of two unannounced Health Department inspectors and join them in a discussion on the state of the drains. Orford had thought he’d got away with it but Joe wondered about that.

  She smiled and indicated that they should sit down in the chairs on the opposite side of the desk. She kept them waiting while she examined their warrants with care. “Commissioner. Superintendent. I’m so pleased to welcome you to the front office. I’m Ellen Frobisher. I usually have a cup of coffee at this hour, will you join me?”

  She rang a bell and a female secretary appeared in the doorway. “Susannah, coffee for three this morning please.” She turned again to her two visitors. “It will be here directly. Susannah makes it in her room across the corridor. We won’t have to wait for it to come up from the kitchens, you’ll be glad to hear. Now, do tell me what I may do for you? We’re not accustomed to helping out gentlemen in our ladies’ clinic, so I’m preparing for a surprise.”

  “A surprise, I’m sure, but a sad one,” Joe began. “We’re bearers of news—bad news, I’m afraid. Concerning Miss Natalia Kirilovna who was here as a patient, we have been led to believe. At any rate, on the premises from last Tuesday until Saturday.”

  “Was? What has happened to her?”

  “She’s dead. She died from a gunshot to the head on Saturday morning. Murder or suicide? The autopsy is at present being done at Scotland Yard and I expect to have further information for you in good time.”

  The lady appeared stunned but, quickly establishing control, she asked, “Do you suspect anyone of her murder, Commissioner?”

  “One or two suspects come to mind. Perhaps you can help us?” She nodded and Joe pressed on. “She is believed to have driven down to Surrey in a Maybach Zeppelin, registered to this establishment, in the company of two gentlemen named Onslow and Cummings. Are they known to you?”

  “Yes. Employees—though on a sporadic and temporary basis. They are chauffeurs. If a client is signing out of our care but feeling a little wobbly and doesn’t wish to travel by taxi or have transport of her own, we ring up Kerry Onslow and ask him to deliver her home in the Maybach. Our other vehicle is a Hispano-Suiza. We do not run an ambulance service for reasons of discretion and anonymity but the two large cars suffice. If, for reasons of delicacy, a woman driver is required, I perform that service myself.”

  Noting their silent puzzlement, she went on with a challenge in her tone: “For example—we had a case of rape so serious it required the very best surgery to effect a repair and the young victim could not bear to see a man in her orbit for months after the event.”

  Joe knew she was trying to shock them. Test them out.

  “Natalia was feeling better and wished for some country air, she told me. She told me she’d be back by tea time. She knows the two drivers well and I trust them. We’ve never had a complaint about them. Not the slightest problem. I think you must look elsewhere for her killer, if indeed, it was not herself. She had been having emotional problems recently. With an overpowering and demanding man who fancied himself her fiançé. He was in the disconcerting habit of trailing after her all over the world. Finally, after an unsuccessful attempt to dissuade him, she fled here for a few days rest. Emotionally distraught. We have supplied her with accommodation in the annexe on several occasions when she’s been in London. She is, after all, a shareholder of some consequence in the business. We give her every consideration.”

  “Her emotional balance, naturally, is in the forefront of our minds. It would be of interest to us to know if she had a visitor—perhaps even this man you mention—before she took off. Something clearly triggered the flight by Maybach … or someone. May I see your visitors’ book? That might help.”

  Her response was instant. “Of course you may.” She opened a drawer and took out a large red leather notebook. Joe noted two further ones alongside—one blue, the other black.

  “The writing is Susannah’s. She keeps the records. She is available to answe
r any further questions you still have.”

  Joe opened the book using the red ribbon page marker provided and turned back to the week beginning the previous Monday.

  “May I ask you, gentlemen, to confirm your discretion? This is a private health clinic and we guarantee absolute anonymity for our clients. I would not be showing you this, were the circumstances less disturbing.”

  “Of course, Matron.” Joe ran a finger down the list. The patients were discreetly referred to by what Joe presumed to be their room number. The signatures were either illegible or clearly pseudonyms. Florence Nightingale appeared to have visited twice. Annoyed by the smug confidence that accompanied his perusal of the list, Joe raised his eyebrows and chortled. “Aha! Lucky for some! I see the lady occupant of room twenty three enjoyed the attentions of Rudolph Valentino for half an hour last Tuesday!”

  Her flare of surprise was replaced with an indulgent grimace at his little joke but the starch in Miss Frobisher’s smile was slightly wilted as she hurried to point out: “Natalia’s number is two-B. It refers to the suite she occupied.”

  “A VISIT ON Wednesday evening. Lasting for a half hour. From her maid, Miss Ivanova. And that’s all. That’s all?”

  “That is a complete record. Her maid was delivering a small case containing personal possessions.”

  “No visits after Wednesday …”

  “That is the whole point, Commissioner. She needed privacy and rest. No one but her maid knew her whereabouts and, having seen her mistress settled, no further attention from the outside world was required or advised.”