Ava had felt their defiance even more the night before in the public shelter on the King’s Road to which the kindly ARP warden had taken her after rescuing her outside Seaforth’s apartment. She’d sat on an upturned packing crate in the candlelight, wrapped in the ill-fitting but warm greatcoat that he’d given her, as she drank tea from a plastic cup and joined in with renditions of innumerable hymns and patriotic songs. A large, determined lady from the WVS, the Women’s Voluntary Service, had stood on a dais and conducted the singing with a walking stick, ensuring that the shelterers kept up a spirited response to the noise of the explosions going on outside. Ava had never been more alone in the world and yet she’d never felt closer to her fellow human beings.
She was still shaken and shocked by her experience with Seaforth. The change in him that she’d witnessed when he had found her reading the diary had been so violent that she felt sure the charming, sensitive person she’d encountered at previous meetings had been an act put on for her benefit. The real Seaforth was closer to the howling creature in the terrifying picture above the mantelpiece in his apartment. Perhaps he had it up there as a reminder of who he really was.
She thought again of the accusations Alec Thorn had made against Seaforth in her flat on the day of Bertram’s arrest. Had Quaid been right to dismiss them so lightly? Could Seaforth have killed her father? Could Bertram be innocent of the crime? She didn’t have answers, but she knew that she needed to keep looking for the truth, and the inspiration she’d taken from her escape and the night in the shelter had made her more determined than ever not to give up the search. This bus journey to Bow Street Magistrates Court was another step along that road. Today was the first proper hearing in Bertram’s case, and she had no intention of missing the occasion. She needed to reassess her opinion of whether the police had got the right man, and she thought that seeing him would help, even across a crowded courtroom.
She got off the bus at Covent Garden and walked up Floral Street to the sandbagged courthouse, past the Royal Opera House, which had been converted to use as a Mecca Dance Hall since the start of the war. She was dog-tired after her sleepless night in the shelter, and there had been no chance to rest when she went back to her flat in Battersea to wash and change her clothes. Pure adrenaline was keeping her on her feet.
Inside, a huge crowd of people from all walks of life were milling about in the lobby outside the courtroom: down-at-heel crooks looking wistfully towards the exit doors; impoverished young journalists hoping for a hot story to please their editors; journeymen lawyers in threadbare suits conferring with their clients or waiting for their cases to be called on; stolid-looking police officers in blue serge uniforms waiting to give evidence. And coming towards her where she stood just inside the entrance was another policeman, but one wearing plain clothes instead of a uniform. It was Detective Trave, whom she had last seen watching her across the crowded restaurant in Coventry Street.
‘How have you been?’ he asked, shaking her hand.
‘All right,’ she lied. The truth was too complicated, and she didn’t want to talk about her troubles. Even the thought of such a discussion made her feel exhausted.
‘I’m glad you’re here,’ he said. ‘I was going to pay you a visit.’
‘Why?’ she asked, surprised. She’d thought the police would have finished with her now that they’d charged Bertram with the murder.
‘Well, it’s not good news, I’m afraid,’ he said awkwardly. ‘It’s your father’s flat.’
‘What about it?’
‘There was a bomb last night, a land mine. It destroyed the entire block. I think quite a lot of your father’s neighbours were killed. They were sheltering down in the basement.’
‘How do you know all this?’ asked Ava, sounding shocked.
‘I was there, with someone you know. With Alec Thorn. He was hurt in the blast too.’
‘Is he going to be all right?’
‘I think so. I rang the hospital this morning and he’s still quite concussed. But the injuries aren’t as bad as I thought they would be, judging from how he looked last night. He was in a bad way and there was a lot of blood. He’s dislocated his shoulder but not broken it, apparently, and the shrapnel injuries around his right eye don’t seem to have affected the eye itself. He’s a lucky man — I thought it was going to be a lot worse.’
‘What hospital’s he in?’
‘St Stephen’s in Fulham. I’m sorry about the flat. Insurance companies don’t cover destruction by bombing, but you probably know that. You can put a claim in to the government, but they won’t pay out until the end of the war, whenever that’s going to be.’
Ava nodded. She couldn’t really absorb the news about the flat and what had happened to Alec Thorn. There were too many other things she was trying to deal with. And she sensed there was something else the policeman hadn’t told her yet. ‘What’s happening with Bertram?’ she asked. ‘That’s why you’re here, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, although it’s more for form’s sake, really. The magistrate’s not likely to need to hear from me. The charge is too serious for bail and so he’ll just set a date for the committal hearing — probably in about a month, when they’ll go through the evidence and see if there’s a case to answer. Which there is, of course, given that your husband’s confessed-’
‘But you’re not so sure,’ Ava interrupted, picking up on an uncertainty in Trave’s voice which was at odds with his words.
Trave looked at her for a moment, as if deciding how to respond, and then nodded. ‘I’ve got some concerns, yes,’ he said. ‘But I may be wrong.’
‘What concerns?’ demanded Ava, ignoring the caveat.
‘About Charles Seaforth. I know he’s a friend of yours. In fact, that’s something I wanted to ask you about. ‘
‘Ask me what?’ asked Ava, reddening. She felt under pressure suddenly, as if she were in trouble of some kind.
‘I saw you together at the Lyons Corner House. I followed Seaforth there …’
‘I know. I saw you there too.’
‘But what bothered me was that you’d said nothing about where you were going when I saw you at Scotland Yard the day before, even though I asked you about him. Why was that, Mrs Brive? Why did you keep that back from me?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Ava, feeling flustered. ‘I was curious to know what he wanted, and I didn’t see how I could go through with the lunch if everyone knew about it,’ she finished lamely. She didn’t want to tell the policeman that she’d lied about the meeting to her husband.
‘I see,’ said Trave, looking unimpressed. ‘The reason I’m asking you is because Alec Thorn told me last night that Seaforth was the one who opened your husband’s desk — the desk where you found the matching cuff link. And he said that there were only the two of you there when you found it.’
‘And you think that I helped him put it there. Is that what you’re saying?’ Ava demanded, looking outraged.
It was Trave’s turn to be taken aback. Ava’s shocked, angry reaction to his implied accusation was clearly genuine. ‘I’m sorry,’ he said. ‘It just seems like you and Seaforth have been spending a lot of time together, that’s all. I didn’t know what to think.’
‘Well, now you do,’ said Ava, still clearly upset. ‘The reason I’ve been seeing him is because I’ve been trying to find out what he’s up to. And after last night, I’ve got to say I’m beginning to think the worst.’
‘What happened last night?’
‘I was in his apartment and he got angry — I mean, really angry. And so I ran away. I was lucky to be able to get away from him. And afterwards it felt like that person that got angry was the real Charles Seaforth, that he’d been pretending to be someone else when I’d seen him before.’
‘Which would make sense if he needed to get in your flat to plant the cuff link,’ said Trave, expanding on the idea.
‘Oh God, is that what happened? cried Ava, as if glimpsing the truth for the first time.
‘How could I have been such a fool?’ Tears welled in her eyes as her emotions got the better of her. Her legs felt weak. She was tired and overwrought; she thought she was going to faint.
Trave took her arm and led her outside. It felt better in the fresh air, away from the press of people, but she was still swaying from side to side. Trave watched her anxiously for a moment and then seemed to come to a decision.
‘Come on,’ he said. ‘You need something to eat. I’ve had you faint on me once before and I’m not going to let it happen again. There’s a cafe I go to sometimes when I’m here for court hearings. They’ll give you a good breakfast and we can talk.’
‘But Bertram …,’ she protested weakly.
‘His case won’t be called on for a while yet,’ Trave reassured her. He had hold of her arm again and they were already crossing the road.
Trave was right. The food did revive her, and the coffee was excellent — more like the real thing instead of the awful Camp version made of chicory essence that she drank at home. She was still tired, but at least she wasn’t going to pass out.
‘Is that really what you think?’ she asked, looking hard at Trave as she put down her knife and fork. ‘That Charles planted the cuff link? That he killed my father?’
‘I wish I could tell you,’ said Trave. ‘But the truthful answer is that I just don’t know. We need more evidence. Did you find anything at Seaforth’s flat?’
‘There was a diary in his bedroom. That’s what got him so angry — seeing me reading it.’
‘What kind of diary?’
‘From the last war. I don’t know who wrote it, but it was pretty grim reading, to be honest with you. I only had time to look at a small section before he came in. And there was a photograph of a young soldier on the chest of drawers. Not Charles, but someone who looked like him, or what he might have looked like twenty-five years ago, if you know what I mean. A brother, maybe.’
Trave nodded and for a moment seemed lost in thought, but then he glanced at his watch and got up abruptly from the table. ‘We need to go back,’ he said. ‘They’ll be calling Bertram’s case on soon.’
The courtroom was even more crowded than the lobby outside. Two heavy-built, shirtsleeved gaolers, each with a chain of keys jangling from his belt, stood on either side of the dock, barring public access to the well of the court, where there were benches for lawyers and reporters and, high above, a dais with a tall-backed armchair on which an ancient-looking magistrate with a sallow, oval face was presiding over the day’s business. Behind him on the wood-panelled walls above his head were hung portraits of two of his even more fearsome-looking nineteenth-century predecessors.
Behind the gaolers, a densely packed mass of people watched the proceedings from the back of the courtroom. Sometimes a name was called out by the clerk of the court, an old man with a reedy voice sitting at a table below the magistrate, and a man or woman would push through the throng to take his or her place in the dock. These were the lucky ones who had already secured bail; those in custody were brought in by other gaolers through a side door connecting the courtroom to the cells at the back.
There were no windows, and the inadequate lighting was provided by four dusty electric spheres hanging down from the ceiling on brass chains. The magistrate, however, had the use of a shaded reading lamp, which bathed his long, bony fingers in a sickly, greenish light as he turned the pages of the charge sheets piled in front of him on his desk.
It was like a scene from a Charles Dickens novel, thought Ava. Trave had managed to manoeuvre them near the front of the crowd, but she had begun to feel faint again and leant heavily on him for support.
Several Soho prostitutes wearing the gaudy night finery in which they had been arrested were called on and quickly disposed of, and then Bertram was brought in. Ava almost didn’t recognize him at first. He shuffled his way across the court and then stumbled on the top step of the dock, reaching out to take hold of the iron railing to keep himself from falling. He looked beaten and dejected, like a hot-air balloon that had been punctured in some vital place and was slowly losing air. All his outraged dignity and self-importance seemed to have disappeared in the four days since his arrest.
The clerk read out the manslaughter charge, and the courtroom went suddenly quiet. The reporters’ pens hovered expectantly over their notepads, and Ava was conscious of people turning to look at her. She wondered how they knew who she was.
‘How do you plead?’ asked the clerk, and then had to repeat the question in a louder voice when Bertram didn’t answer.
‘Not guilty,’ said Bertram finally, in a thin voice. ‘I didn’t kill him.’
The prosecutor, a big man in a loud pinstripe suit, got to his feet. ‘The Crown may seek leave to amend the charge to murder now that the case is going to trial,’ he said ominously.
‘Very well,’ said the magistrate. ‘We can consider that at committal. Any bail application, Mr Maier?’
‘No, sir. Not today,’ said another man whom Ava couldn’t properly see, her view blocked by the bulk of the prosecutor.
‘Very sensible,’ said the magistrate. ‘No point wasting your breath to no purpose. Bail denied. We’ll see you again in four weeks, Dr Brive.’
And that was that. Except that as Bertram was led away, he looked around wildly, scanning the crowd, and Ava realized he was looking for her. Standing on her tiptoes, she put up her hand, raising it above her head, hoping he would see. And she knew he had because he caught her eye and smiled just as he left the courtroom.
Seeing him even from a distance, she didn’t feel he was guilty. Not any more. But feelings counted for nothing in a court of law. As Trave had said, they needed new evidence, and she had no idea how they were going to find it.
‘What are you going to do?’ she asked Trave when they’d got back outside and had the chance to talk.
‘I’m going to go north.’
‘North! Why?’
‘To see if I can find out who the real Charles Seaforth is,’ he said, quoting her phrase back at her with a smile. ‘It’s where he’s from, and what you told me about the diary and the photograph has got me intrigued. I know it’s a long shot, but Thorn suggested it and I don’t feel I can leave any stone unturned.’
‘Can I come too?’ she asked.
‘No, it’s better I go on my own. I’ll be back tomorrow and maybe I’ll need your help then.’
‘My help?’ Ava repeated, surprised by the idea that someone as apparently resourceful as Trave could need her assistance.
‘Yes. It may not have occurred to you, but now that Thorn’s out of the picture at least for a while, you’re the only person in this town that I can trust.’
‘How can you say that?’ asked Ava. ‘You were accusing me of helping Charles Seaforth an hour ago. What’s changed?’
‘I have,’ Trave said simply. ‘I was wrong, plain wrong. I can see now that you’ve been doing the same as me, trying to find out the truth. And, frankly, you’ve been a lot more resourceful about it than I have, going into Seaforth’s flat and looking through his things. Now it’s my turn to take a few risks.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, the last time my inspector caught me going after Seaforth, he threatened me with a transfer to the military police in the north of Scotland if I did it again, and I’m sure he’ll make good on his promise if he finds out where I’m heading now. Although I suppose the one good thing is that I’ll already have done half the journey,’ Trave added, smiling at the gallows humour of the situation. ‘The investigation’s closed as far as he’s concerned, and I think that’s the way Seaforth wants it too. Thorn says he has a plan of some kind that he’s pursuing. He thinks that Seaforth killed your father because Albert stumbled on it …’
‘What plan?’ asked Ava, looking bewildered.
‘Something dreamed up by the Nazis. Thorn says that Seaforth’s working for them. Yes, I know it’s far-fetched,’ said Trave, observing Ava’s look of incr
edulity. ‘But I feel I’ve got to look into it, particularly now that Thorn’s out of action.’
Ava knitted her brows in concentration, as if trying to make sense of what she’d just been told. But then she shook her head, giving up on the attempt. ‘You can count on me,’ she said.
‘Thank you,’ said Trave. ‘Who knows, maybe the fate of the country depends on a green detective constable and a housewife from Battersea. Wouldn’t that make a story for those newspaper hounds?’ he added with a laugh, pointing with his finger back towards the courthouse.
CHAPTER 7
Seaforth woke up early and, wearing only his robe, went and sat cross-kneed on a Persian prayer carpet that he had bought from a travelling merchant in Germany three years earlier. The towers of London rose up all around him outside the windows of his penthouse apartment, but he had eyes only for the sinuous arabesque design of the scrolling lines intertwining on the rich midnight-blue background of the rug. They soothed his mind, and he concentrated on slowing his breathing until he had it perfectly under control. Only then did he begin his mental autopsy of the previous night’s events.
He knew he’d been a fool to lose his temper and alienate Ava for no reason, although he realized that the mistake had occurred earlier when he took the phone call from his contact at the Portuguese embassy and let her wander around the apartment unattended. He should have told Monteiro that he’d call back. And then seeing her with the diary had infuriated him. It enraged him again now, when he thought of his brother writing by candlelight in the trenches, describing unimaginable horrors, and this woman who knew nothing about anything throwing the book at him across his bedroom as if it were some piece of worthless rubbish. She’d thrown it so hard that its spine had been damaged when it hit the floor, and now Seaforth wanted to break her spine — snap it like a twig with his strong hands. That’s what she deserved-
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