A Spider in the Cup

by Barbara Cleverly

  Joe paused and watched the bluff features puff up in outrage. Joe congratulated himself on having guessed one of the man’s secrets.

  “Your mother might have approved too. I’m sure we need look no further for the inspiration for all that witchery about the beetle and the unkind cuts. A Shakespearean actress, I understand? Friend of Ellen Terry? You were raised in a lively theatrical household until your militaristic father sent you off to be schooled.”

  Another glower dismissed this effort at understanding.

  “But your burial party didn’t go unobserved. Your men—Onslow and Cummings, would that be?—caught a destitute seaman watching their activities. He had a name too. Absalom Hope. Absalom it was who took the trouble to get close to your Maybach and make a note of its registration number. Did you have to break his neck?”

  “A destitute man? One of the thousands littering the streets and the riverbanks. He probably died in a fight. They’re always at it. Feeble-minded perhaps? Still collecting numbers of cars that take his interest. He could have recorded the Maybach on one of its many trips through the West End. Matron will confirm she drove a patient home along the Chelsea Reach a fortnight ago. The men probably misunderstood their instructions regarding conveyance of the body to the undertaker’s. I’ll have enquiries made. Look, I’m getting pretty fed up with doing your work for you.”

  He looked at his watch.

  “I’m sure Matron will back you to the hilt. But even Matron cannot rearrange the fingerprints we have taken from the coin found in Marie’s mouth.”

  “As you say—there are many such in London. Not all declared as they were not legitimately acquired. You know this! You know also that my prints were bound to be found on it as I handled it on the morning of the discovery. I put it into my handkerchief for safe keeping. Everyone is aware of the dangers of contamination.”

  “But not all are aware of the stickiness and tenacity of the secretions from the human finger when it comes into contact with a flat metal surface. We discussed that, if you remember, at the time.”

  Joe took a large brown envelope and extracted the sheets from it. “The results from our forensic evidence laboratory. Wonderful work! Are you familiar with the terms ‘whorl,’ and ‘loop’ and ‘arch?’ No? In order to ascribe a print to its owner we must establish in a scientifically acceptable way that it could belong to none other. We require a high number of matching whorls and arches and bifurcations before we allow ourselves to announce an identification and present the evidence in court. Though, I have to say, once such scientific demonstration of guilt is put before them, juries always seize on it as utterly reliable. As it is.”

  Joe selected a sheet and pointed at it with his pencil.

  “Now, this is where the lab has something fascinating to say. Two people, as you point out, handled the coin after discovery. Professor Stone has left some beauties. Here and here, for example. Your prints are less easy to identify as you carefully took and held the coin by its rim. So truncated are they that we wouldn’t use them in evidence even if we needed to, which—and again, I’ll allow—we don’t. So far, so dull. But according to Sam and Joel and everyone else present on the riverbank, the professor it was who extracted it”—Joe waited for the slight nod—“and you after that. It follows that, had you, by chance, put your fingers anywhere on the surface, your prints would have obscured—overlaid—the professor’s.”

  Another nod.

  “So, tell me why, Colonel, our scientists found two clear examples of your prints under-lying the professor’s? Here and here. Partials, because the professor’s dabs almost obliterate them, but you can make it out if you look carefully. I must ask for enlargements to present to the jury. Do you see—the lab has marked up two corresponding arches, a whorl, a bifurcation …”

  There was no response as Joe waited for his thin ice to crack.

  “Only one explanation, really. You had your hands on this coin before the dowsing brought it back to the light. Because you are the owner or you are the man who inserted it into the dead girl’s mouth. Probably one and the same.”

  This was the pivot of his argument. If his reasoning was rejected, he could take it no further.

  “Bravo! What a performance!”

  “Don’t applaud yet—I haven’t finished. I was puzzled, Swinton, but I got there in the end, as to how you’d got hold of my telephone number. Alerted by Julia that I’d made off into the blue with Kingstone, Natalia consulted you. You got my Chelsea number from Hermione on some pretext or other. She wouldn’t have objected to telling you in the interests of furthering the case. Matron was it? The lady who pretended to be my secretary on the telephone? You sent Natalia to her death, you know. I don’t suppose you’ve ever—since the war—fired a shot at a man in anger, let alone broken a neck with your own hands but, in my book, you’re the guilty party.”

  Wearily, Swinton looked at his watch. “How long does it take to brew tea in the Yard?” He sighed. “At last a mistake. Wrong, Sandilands, in the detail. Not that it matters. I was given your number by Natalia who had it from Julia herself. She got it from Kingstone’s bodyguard. Armiger? I’m quite certain that the Yard will sign Natalia’s death off as a suicide. Temperamental, these dancers. Crossed in love? Victim of blackmail? So many hazards encountered in a life led in the spotlight. Much less paperwork involved with a case of suicide. We can help you with that. If you’d like a useful second medical opinion, we have some excellent professionals on our books. So what have you got to charge me with? A burial? For sending an unknown girl off in some style? Generosity of spirit? Paganism perhaps? You’ll get laughed out of court, man. Thank goodness you’ve told me all this in confidence. There’s still time to save you from humiliation.”

  Swinton tilted his large head and looked at Joe steadily for a few moments. “They tell me you’re a patriot,” he said, surprisingly.

  “As much as the next man or woman,” Joe said, killing off the comment.

  “A Scotsman, I understand? Ah! The Scots! Backbone of the Empire!”

  “Would you say backbone? Many would say—head. My father is Scottish, my mother English. Can it possibly signify?”

  “A British patriot, then?”

  Joe was puzzled and annoyed by his insistence on the use of the outmoded word and he replied briskly. “Actions, to me, speak louder than words. I will simply say: I fought in the war for four years and I have spent the remainder working to uphold British law and order. The world, if it needs to, may draw its own inferences. My emotions and morals can be of no interest to you.”

  Swinton was unabashed by Joe’s pomposity. Probably a style he admired and he was still intent on pursuing his point. “I should like to have your reaction to a story … piece of history, more like … Perhaps you know it?”

  He sat forward in his chair, elbows on knees, a kindly uncle entertaining his nephews on a wet Saturday afternoon.

  “The Second Opium War with China was a bloody business. One of my ancestors was a naval officer aboard a gunboat—the Plover—along with several others trying to get access to the mouth of the Hai River. In eighteen fifty-nine, Great Uncle Gerald’s fleet came under severe fire from the Chinese troops manning a shore fort and those of our boats that weren’t sunk were stranded, disabled, in a narrow channel. Turkey shoot! They were being pounded to bits. There sailed onto the scene an American steamer. Not much use to our Admiral since the United States had signed a treaty of neutrality with China. All the Toey-Wan was allowed to do was watch from a distance. But that’s not what happened, Sandilands. In sailed Commodore Josiah Tattnall of the US Pacific Squadron, guns blazing. With reckless bravery, he put himself between the Chinese guns and the British ships and towed our sailors to safety.

  “When he was hauled up and charged with violating neutrality, he had one sentence to say in his defence. I’m wondering whether you know it.”

  “ ‘Blood is thicker than water.’ ” Joe repeated the famous phrase to the colonel’s evident satisfa
ction. “I believe that’s what he said. Stirring tale! What concept are you trying to sell me, Swinton? I warn you, I’m not the kind of man who breaks down under pressure and buys the full set of encyclopedias.”

  “We live in troubled times, Sandilands. And they’re getting worse. Men are not for much longer going to have the luxury of remaining unaligned. Neutrality, as Commodore Tattnall demonstrated, can never be binding. In these islands we could well find ourselves caught between two Bolshevik blocks: Russia, certainly, and this may surprise you—potentially, the United States, if steps are not taken, the right alliances made.”

  “Alliances?” Joe was not sure he wanted to hear the answer.

  “Alliances of the blood,” Swinton said with a clear uplifted eye and not the slightest trace of embarrassment. “Many Englishmen in the war questioned why we were turning our guns on the Germans. So like us as to be indistinguishable, apart from the uniform. Our boys played football with theirs that first Christmas Eve, you know. They tried to hush it up but it went on. Jokes were exchanged across No Man’s Land, cigarettes changed hands. Prisoners were taken when they should have been bayonetted on the battlefield. Our captured officers played chess with theirs. Brothers, you know, under the helmets. The menace to our society comes from a different direction. I work, Sandilands, with men of foresight to keep the disasters of poor political decisions at bay.”

  He looked at Joe with speculation and decided to lob another whizz-bang. “There are those—men of standing—who see universal suffrage as a symptom of disease and decay in a nation. ‘Why?’ the Duke of Wellington might ask, ‘Why does the vote of a drunken, illiterate wife of a Glasgow fish-seller carry the same weight as my own?’ ”

  “Ah! The Duke’s met my aunt Kirsty?” Joe thought that if he didn’t laugh at the colonel, he’d reach over and strangle him.

  A weary sigh brushed his facetiousness aside. “The men I work with are men of influence and integrity. Patriots. Your presence amongst us might be welcome.”

  Joe laughed. “I’ve had more persuasive approaches in my time. I find champagne and oysters at the Ritz works best for me when it comes to seduction. Look—if we’re talking patriotics, I’ll lay down my cards. I’m with G.K. Chesterton. ‘My country, right or wrong,’ is a thing that no patriot would think of saying except in a desperate case. It is like saying: ‘my mother, drunk or sober.’ I love her but I hope I would always have the courage to tell the old bag when she was sozzled and snatch the gin bottle from her hand. I’d give my life for my land but I’d always want to know it wasn’t being thrown away in a bad cause.”

  Joe picked up the sound of shuffling at the door and with relief called out to Orford to come in.

  “Here comes the inspector. No, Orford, Colonel Swinton won’t be taking tea after all. Perhaps they’ll be able to oblige him down at Vine Street. I’ll be along later to charge him and take his statement. Remind the sergeant down there that the prisoner is to be kept incommunicado. Whistle up your lads, will you? No need for cuffs. The colonel knows what the rules are.”

  The moment the door closed behind the prisoner and his escort, Joe sank back into his seat and put his head in his hands. For good or ill, he’d fulfilled his promise to Kingstone to attack the roots. With Swinton out of the picture for a time—probably all too short a time—the mainspring of the organisation was disabled. He wouldn’t be able to order Kingstone’s killing from the depths of Vine Street nick. Well, he’d managed a breathing space for the American at last.

  At Kingstone’s request, Joe had asked Miss Snow to book two first-class cabins aboard the Naiad for him, sailing on Wednesday. He’d wave him off with relief, but relief mixed with regret for all the conversations they would never have, the arguments they would never settle. One short weekend in the senator’s company had made him his friend for life, Joe decided with no guilty twinge of sentimentality. He’d admired the way the man had dealt with the assassination attempt, he’d enjoyed the long talks they’d had, driving between London and Surrey. The president, in his troubles, was fortunate to have a steady man at his side, Joe reckoned. A man now forewarned about the clandestine forces intent on influencing the world’s affairs.

  And Armitage, the occupant of the second cabin? Damned lucky to be getting away once more. Joe was not comfortable with the idea that the FBI man was watching Kingstone’s back but the two seemed to have an understanding that suited them both. What had Julia told him about her friendship with Natalia? As young things, they’d clung together, swiftly learning how much stronger a pair can be than a single soul working alone. And three was stronger still. Joe smiled at the idea that the Nine Men’s Morris mill of three would be operating again. Two tough men, standing on either side of their leader. All might yet turn out well.

  Joe reached for his phone again. Belt and braces was never a bad policy. It was essential that these two good centurions got back home safely. There was one more thing he could do to ensure this.

  “Get me the Admiralty, please, Miss,” he asked the operator.

  But it was not about to turn out well for Joe. For the second time in his short tenancy in this office he’d overstepped the mark. Swinton would surface eventually and raise hell. Better prepare for it. Wearily, Joe took a sheet of headed writing paper from his desk and wrote out his resignation. He signed it, put it into an envelope and wrote the commissioner’s name on the front. The least he could do was save the old fellow’s face and reputation.

  Suddenly free of the tiresome grind of fifteen years, Joe recognised that he didn’t want to grow old sitting at that desk. He’d had enough of investigating dubious people doing nefarious things in London’s underbelly. He was sick of politicians using him to poke their scorching chestnuts out of the fire. He promised himself he’d leave at once, pack a bag, go and find Dorcas and take her off to the south of France. Married first or unmarried, he didn’t much care. Always provided that she’d be willing to hitch herself to a man freshly without profession—and not much in the way of resources, come to think of it. And assuming her affections weren’t being directed to some other quarter. Bloody Truelove! He’d probably left it too late.

  Two hours to go before he picked up Kingstone at the conference hall. At last a quiet moment when he could get up to date with his notes. He reached for his notebook and began to write.

  As he wrote, an insuperable snag occurred to him in the matter of Natalia’s death. If the powers who decided these things were, when all the evidence was in, minded (or directed) to declare a suicide, they would come upon the problem of the absence of any .22 pistol in her hand, in the car or in the immediate vicinity. What the devil had Armitage done with it? How many more guns had he managed to smuggle into the country? Where was the .22 now? Joe lifted the phone again and left a message for Bacchus.

  CHAPTER 27

  “Bill! Shouldn’t you be with Cornelius?… What are you doing?”

  “God! You startled me! I thought I had the floor to myself this afternoon. Kingstone said you were tying up Natalia’s loose ends. I thought you must have gone over to the clinic. What have you been up to, Julia? How long have you been standing there?”

  “I haven’t started standing here yet and with a welcome like that I’m not going to. I’ve just come back from town. I’ve been to see Natalia’s lawyers. Had to be done. I sorted out her things before I left. There wasn’t all that much. There’ll be more at the theatre but I’ll do that tomorrow when I break the news that they’ll have to field a substitute for the opening night. Cornelius brought back some of her stuff from wherever it was she went and I’ve repacked everything in the cabin trunk. No idea what to do with it though. There it is if anyone wants it. Are you going to shoot me with that thing? If not, put it away. I don’t like guns.”

  “Come off it, Julia! You know what I do. You’re lucky, creeping up on me like that, that you caught me re-loading. I might have drilled you.”

  Armitage regained control of himself and began again. “Come on in! No
need to pad about. There’s half an hour to go yet before I pick the boss up. He took pity on me and sent me out of the conference half way through. Too damn boring. Come and have a look. Don’t pull that face! You ought to learn how to load a gun.”

  Doubtfully, Julia approached the bureau where Armitage was standing and watched him. He slipped the big gun back into its usual place in the holster in the small of his back.

  “Colt Police Positive,” he told her as he tucked it away. “Thirty-eight, four-inch barrel. Not the fastest in a draw but no one talks back to it. That’s for distance work or for making seriously big holes. This is what we use for close up. It’s a twenty-two.”

  He produced what Julia thought to be an entirely more acceptable pistol. A neat little thing so long as no one was using it in anger, she ventured to comment.

  “And this is how we load it.” He demonstrated. “Why are you shuddering? It’s only a piece of metal when it comes down to it.” In an effort to cancel the impatience in his tone, he added more gently, “Think of it as a life-preserver.”

  “Didn’t do much to preserve my Dad’s life. He was mixed up in all sorts of political trouble here and in Russia. I’ve watched him many a night doing just what you’re doing. Playing with his guns. Big old things, not like that one. More likely to blow your hand off than kill anybody. They brought his body back one winter’s night. Dumped it on Ma’s doorstep. I found it when I went out for the bread. Three things I can’t stand the sight of: blood, snow and a man loading up.” Suddenly afraid, Julia kept her voice level and asked, “Bill—are you expecting trouble when the conference turns out?”

  “I’m always expecting trouble. That’s why I spend some time checking the guns before I leave to go on duty. Do it carefully and you know it’s done. No need for last-minute twitchiness. Never double-check once you’re out there—that’s a dead giveaway. A man’s hand goes to his holster—you shoot. It’s not ten paces, turn and fire at will in this game.” He put the safety catch on the pistol, showing her how that was done, and then slipped it away in his pocket.