‘Can’t you just ask the old men if they have worked for the government in the past, Francis? They can’t have been major spies, surely, just messengers or couriers.’
‘I don’t know, Lucy. Arbuthnot implied the dead man might have been turned round from being a British agent into a German one. If you wanted to hide the ace of spies away somewhere, you could do a lot worse than the Jesus Hospital.’
‘Is there nobody you can talk to, Francis? Are there any retired spies? People who have left the service and might be more able to talk?’
‘I don’t think there are any of those. The service has only just been founded. Hold on a minute, though.’ Powerscourt stopped by the fireplace and stared at Lady Lucy for a moment. Then he smiled. ‘I’ve just thought of something, Lucy. It’s a long shot, but it might just work. I’m going to go to Paris to see a man in the Place des Vosges.’
‘Who is this French gentleman, Francis?’
‘I met him when I was working on the death on the Nevskii Prospekt, my love. His name is Olivier Brouzet and he is the head of the French secret intelligence service.’
Inspector Grime swore violently when he heard the news of Roderick Gill’s meetings in the Farmers’ Arms. He despatched a young constable who lived round the corner from the pub and knew the landlord well for more information.
‘Bloody man Gill,’ he raged at his sergeant. ‘Why isn’t one woman enough for him? Why does he need to have two on the go?’
‘Don’t know, sir.’ His sergeant had long ago decided that the minimum number of words were the safest course of action on these occasions.
‘Do you suppose we would find yet more women if we went on a trawl round the pubs of Holt and Swaffham? Is the bloody man never satisfied? I’m beginning to suspect this womanizing may have been the death of him.’
Constable Parrish, all of twenty-four years old, returned from his trip to the Farmers’ Arms.
‘Well, Constable, what’s the news?’
‘The woman’s name is Lewis, sir, Mrs Maud Lewis. Widow, thought by the publican to be in her late forties.’
‘You don’t often hear them say they’re in their late fifties, do you?’ The Inspector was scowling at a picture of Queen Alexandra on his wall. ‘Some of these women have been in their late forties for years.’
‘Yes, sir.’ Constable Parrish carried on, ‘She lives in a huge house a couple of hundred yards from the pub. She only moved there about six months ago, sir. The publican thinks she lived in Birmingham before that. Plenty of money, sir. Kind to the servants apparently.’
‘Never mind whether she was kind to the bloody servants or not for now, did she have any family?’
‘She does, sir, sorry, sir. She has two sons in their early twenties. The publican believes they live in London now.’
‘Do they come to visit their mother? Devoted sons perhaps?’
‘Well, sir, this was one of the most interesting things. I should have mentioned it earlier. Two or three weeks ago the two boys were having a drink with their mother. There was a row. The publican wasn’t in the room himself at the time but one of the bar staff told him about it when they’d gone. They were arguing about the money in her will. The boys kept saying they couldn’t see why they should lose out in favour of somebody she hardly knew.’
‘My God,’ said Inspector Grime, ‘if that’s not a motive for murder I don’t know what is. Sergeant, take yourself off to interview the merry widow this minute. Don’t leave without an address for her sons.’
13
The old men of the Jesus Hospital had been summoned to a special meeting in the Maidenhead police station. Black police vans brought those thought unfit to walk the seven hundred yards from the almshouse. The silkmen were kept in the police canteen until it was time for their interview. Afterwards they were free to leave or to wait for the police to take them back home. Under no circumstances were the men who had been through the interview allowed to speak to those who had not. Inspector Fletcher had decided that the easiest way to obtain the information needed about their past lives and their past connections was to ask them. He dreaded to think what might happen if he asked them to write anything down. He had looked at the records of the old men held by Monk in his little office and decided to start again. The Inspector and Sergeant Donaldson were seated side by side at the table in the interview room.
‘Thank you very much for coming,’ Inspector Fletcher began, ‘and thank you for agreeing to answer our questions about your lives before you came here. This will be useful in our investigation.’
There was usually a murmur of dissent from the silkmen at this point. The old gentlemen didn’t like being called out to the police station at ten o’clock in the morning. They didn’t like change to their routines in any shape or form. They didn’t like having to give details of their earlier lives. The sergeant had given it as his opinion that any of them with criminal records or other misdemeanours in their past were hardly likely to tell a police Inspector and a sergeant just yards away from the cells.
‘I am going to ask you a series of questions,’ Fletcher went on. ‘All you have to do is to tell me the answers.’ For once the Inspector’s pauses and hesitations worked to his advantage. The old boys had more time to take in what he was asking. ‘First, this is just for the record, could you give us your full name – that means all your Christian names if you have more than one – and your date of birth.’
Sergeant Donaldson was scribbling furiously in his notebook. He was to remark later that all of them could manage their names but about three of the silkmen were having trouble remembering their birthdays. They would stare blankly at the wall and scratch their heads. The Inspector waited.
‘If you can’t remember your precise date of birth, the year will do,’ he said, wondering if the whole exercise was going to come to nothing, defeated by the ravages of time and old age’s ability to wipe out people’s memories. Two out of the three who had forgotten the exact date managed to tell him the year. The third, Number Four, Bill Smith, known as Smithy, with his shock of white hair, gave up.
Inspector Fletcher took them through the names of their parents, the names of their wife or wives, if such were still alive, which he doubted, and the names of any children and where they were now. He asked for details of the jobs they had held and the places where they had lived. Had any of them, he asked, ever been employed by the government in any way? The post office perhaps? Most important, he said, what was the name and nature of their last job before they came to the Jesus Hospital.
Most of the old men were slow and suspicious, trying to remember some post they might have held thirty or forty years before. The sergeant took pity on them. He had a father the same age as these men, after all. This, he felt, was asking too much of the old boys, reminding each and every one of them how mentally frail they had become and the things they could no longer remember. When they had finished, they sat patiently in their places waiting for the Inspector to dismiss them. He had one last request for them all. ‘Thank you very much,’ he said. ‘My final inquiry does not relate to any of you, but I would like you to tell us anything that Abel Meredith may have said to you about his year of birth or his parents or his own family, if he had one, and any jobs or positions he might have mentioned to you. And one other question’ – this, in fact was the point of the entire exercise, heavily disguised under a cover of personal information – ‘did Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, ever ask you to go with him on a journey, to London perhaps, or maybe even abroad?’ Most of the old men looked blank at this point. Most of the information they gave was of little value, but in two cases the answers to this final question were pure gold.
Number Six, Colin Baker, said he had gone with the late Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, to Hamburg for a few days three months before. They had stayed at a modest hotel and seen the sights of the city and its many drinking establishments. Number Twenty had paid all the bills.
‘Were you with him all the time?’ asked Ins
pector Fletcher.
‘I don’t understand,’ said Number Six.
‘Was there ever a time when you were left on your own? When Abel Meredith, Number Twenty, could have gone to a meeting or something like that?’
There was a long pause while Number Six marshalled his thoughts. Sergeant Donaldson thought he might be about to fall asleep.
‘There was something strange, I suppose, now I come to think about it. It was on our first morning there, just before nine o’clock. I remember that because they had an enormous clock in the dining room where we were having breakfast. Not that you can get a decent breakfast in Hamburg, even the Jesus Hospital can do better than them. Anyway, Number Twenty, says he is just going to look for an English paper. I sat there trying to eat some disgusting cheese and a smelly sausage or two. Number Twenty came back after twenty minutes or so and said there were no English papers to be had. I suppose he could have met somebody in that time. I never thought about it.’
The Inspector and the sergeant exchanged meaningful glances but made no comment. ‘Did you get the impression that he had been there before? Was he able to speak to the natives in German?’
‘Well,’ said Number Six, ‘they certainly knew him at the hotel. I’m sure he’d been there before. And he could certainly jabber on to the locals in their ridiculous language, though I’m not qualified to say how good he was.’
That was all. Colin Baker, Number Six, the man with the wooden leg, could remember no more. Any attempts to obtain more details of this strange holiday were met by a shake of the head and a plea to be allowed to go home.
The other nugget came from Pretty Billy, Number Sixteen, who told of going to London for a day with Abel Meredith the month before he was killed. They had gone to an address in central London where Meredith said he had to see a man about some business to do with his investments. He, Number Sixteen, had been parked in the saloon bar of the Three Horseshoes, virtually next door.
‘Number Twenty left me with two large glasses of port, I remember that now,’ said Pretty Billy. ‘I don’t normally like port but I just fancied it that day. Isn’t it strange how these whims come over you!’ Number Sixteen sank back into a reverie of past port.
‘How long before he came back?’ asked Sergeant Donaldson gently.
‘What was that? Where was I? I see, how long before he came back. Half an hour? Both my glasses were empty by then and I was looking forward to another. But that was not to be. Not that day, anyway. Number Twenty was in a furious temper. “Bastards, bastards,” he kept saying to himself over and over again. He didn’t speak a word to me all the way back to Marlow. Then he went straight to the Rose and Crown and didn’t come out till closing time. I don’t think I can remember any more, Inspector.’
Number Sixteen was the last man to be interviewed. Inspector Fletcher scribbled a rapid telegram to Powerscourt with the news of Hamburg and the meeting in London and sent Sergeant Donaldson off to dispatch it. He leant back in his chair, considering the relevance of the German mission, when a stout constable knocked on the door and headed straight for him.
‘Sorry, sir,’ he began, ‘it’s that woman, sir, the one at the Elysian Fields, sir.’
‘What woman? What are you talking about, for God’s sake?’
‘Sorry, sir, it’s the lady who goes up to Sir Peregrine’s quarters, sir, the suite on the first floor. Constable Jones has apprehended her, sir, on her way out. She’s waiting to talk to you now, sir.’
Inspector Miles Devereux was waiting to meet James Ibbotson in a private room at the Midland Grand Hotel at St Pancras Station. Ibbotson was the managing director ousted by Sir Peregrine from his post at a leading insurance company some years before. The Inspector’s reporter friend Sammy Wilson had not only located the man, but had set up the meeting here today. Ibbotson was a short, nervous fellow, with a fancy waistcoat and very small eyes.
‘Good day to you, Mr Ibbotson, how kind of you to come.’
Devereux told him about the murder of Sir Rufus Walcott at the Silkworkers dinner hosted by Sir Peregrine as Prime Warden of the Company.
‘Got the wrong man, didn’t he, our friend the murderer,’ said Ibbotson.
‘What do you mean?’
‘Should have bumped off bloody Sir Peregrine rather than the other fellow, if you ask me. Would have been a public service, don’t you know.’
Inspector Devereux had wondered before now if the intended victim might not have been Sir Peregrine, the death of Sir Rufus a mistake.
‘We believe this murder may be linked to one or two others, one in Buckinghamshire where Sir Peregrine was spotted some time before the killing took place, and the other in Norfolk, near to where Sir Peregrine has a house.’
‘Arrest him then,’ said Ibbotson, with rather a vicious smile. ‘It’s about time the man was put behind bars. One thing’s rather a pity, mind you. If he killed all of them he can still only be hanged once. Three times would have been more satisfactory. No chance of bringing back disembowelling, I suppose?’
‘I take it, Mr Ibbotson, that you are still protesting your innocence about the so-called forgeries at your previous place of employment?’
‘I am indeed, sir. I am as innocent as the newborn babe. I was cheated out of my position, sir, cheated. It’s a scandal.’
‘Forgive me for asking, but what is your occupation now?’
‘You may ask,’ said Ibbotson, ‘indeed in your position you must ask. It took me eighteen months, sir, to obtain a new post. My name had been blackened right across the City of London. I now have connections with the National Trust through my wife’s family. I am employed by them as senior accountant.’
‘I have to ask this question too, Mr Ibbotson. Where were you between ten o’clock at night on the twenty-first of January and nine o’clock the following morning?’
‘I was at home,’ said Ibbotson. ‘We had two friends from the Trust to supper. I suppose they went home about half past ten. My wife and I turned in shortly after that. The following morning I went to work in the usual way. I reached my office about half past eight and was there, or in meetings, all morning.’
‘And your friends and colleagues would support your account?’
‘They would. I shall give you their names.’ The former managing director entered three names into Devereux’s notebook. He turned back at the door. ‘Please let me know when you arrest Sir Peregrine, Inspector. I would be most interested.’
‘What would you do?’ asked Inspector Devereux.
‘Revenge,’ the little man said, ‘is a dish best eaten cold, according to the Spanish. I have spent years with the prospect of revenge getting colder every year. It’s well refrigerated by now, my lust for revenge, it’s practically turned to ice. I would, of course, visit Sir Peregrine in prison. I don’t think I’d bother saying anything. Just looking at him behind bars in prison clothes would be enough, I think. I’m sure I could look at him all day.’
Sergeant Morris wasn’t looking forward to his interview with Mrs Maud Lewis, christened the merry widow by his Inspector. The sergeant wasn’t as hopeless with women as the Inspector, but he thought he might have to ask her a number of very personal questions. As he passed the Farmers’ Arms and set off up the road, he consoled himself with the thought that she might be one of those talkative women only too happy to tell her entire life history once they have a captive listener. The sergeant had met a number of those in his time.
She was all charm as he arrived, showing him into an enormous drawing room lined with paintings and photographs of dogs. Mrs Lewis was about fifty years old and dressed from head to toe in black. She was a nervous woman, forever fidgeting in her chair or clasping and unclasping her hands. The sergeant had an aunt with exactly the same mannerisms. A servant was ordered to bring them tea at once.
‘Sergeant Morris, did you say, you must be all worked off your feet just now with this terrible murder. What a business! And to think that I knew the deceased! I’ve never known a decease
d before! My own dear Roderick, cut off in his prime in that dreadful way!’
The sergeant saw that he might have trouble steering the conversation in the direction he wanted it to go.
‘Perhaps you could tell me how you came to be living here in Fakenham, Mrs Lewis? Of course there’s no reason why you shouldn’t be living here, but I don’t think you’ve been with us very long.’
‘You’re quite right, Sergeant, I haven’t been here very long, but I do like to think that Fakenham has taken me to its bosom! Such kind people! We lived in the Midlands before where Horace had his business. He was my late husband, Sergeant, bless him. Horace had a chain of stores, you know, clothing shops, shirts, blouses, undergarments. Horace always said that ladies’ undergarments were his top sellers. Give them the right stuff and the customers will always come back, that was his motto. The shops were in and around Birmingham but we lived in a better sort of neighbourhood, Edgbaston Park. We had a very tasteful residence there. Do you know Edgbaston Park at all, Sergeant?’
The policeman shook his head.
‘It’s rather like one of these Norfolk towns, Edgbaston Park, quite superior people living there. We were so happy in the place, Horace with the shops, the boys off our hands, all our friends.’ Mrs Lewis paused briefly to pour some tea. ‘But then, two years ago to the day next Wednesday, we were struck by tragedy. Well, Horace was, really. He was up a ladder in the back storeroom of the main shop, checking on the supplies of some items of hosiery when he was struck down! Quite what Horace was doing up this ladder when he had all those people on his staff I don’t know. Anyway the young lady with him tried to bring him round on the floor where he’d fallen. No use, no use at all, Horace had had a heart attack up the ladder and that was the end of him. He’d often talked of heaven being like an enormous shop where you could buy everything without paying. Well, now he’d gone there. By express. He’d always been fond of expresses, Horace.’
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