‘Poor woman be blowed,’ said Bill heartlessly. ‘It serves her right. Why on earth she couldn’t tell us she’d seen a man in the corridor, I don’t know. How did you get her to come clean? I thought you reserved your devastating charm for real lookers, not stout grey-haired ladies in their fifties.’
‘I appealed to her motherly instincts,’ said Jack with grin. ‘Devastating charm, indeed! It makes me sound like Gigolo Joe. I got more out of her than you did, though.’
‘Don’t be so smug,’ said Bill. ‘At least she’s amended her statement, which is something. What I hadn’t really taken on board is how odd it is that no one seemed to hear the shot.’ He lit his cigarette and looked at Jack with a puzzled frown. ‘Could the gun have been silenced?’
‘Now that’s an interesting question,’ said Jack. He opened the desk drawer and brought out a small, stout, blue-covered book. ‘This is the Text Book of Small Arms. I knew I had a copy somewhere. I went home and dug it out this morning. This is what it says about the Webley.’ He opened the book, ran a finger down the index, then flicked through the pages. ‘Here we are. Webley .32 automatic. First produced in 1906 – it’s astonishing they’ve been around for that long – weight, twenty ounces, length, six and a quarter inches, magazine capacity of eight rounds and – listen to this – a muzzle velocity of nine hundred feet per second. What d’you think of that?’
‘Nothing much,’ said Rackham. ‘You’d still have to be pretty nippy to dodge it, if that’s what you’re getting at.’
‘Idiot,’ said Jack impatiently. ‘Don’t you see, Bill? With a low muzzle velocity like that, a Webley, unlike most guns, can be effectively silenced. You can’t silence a revolver and you can’t silence the crack of a high velocity bullet – although, come to think of it, if you stand close enough to your target you don’t have to – but you can silence this. There’d be some noise but it’d sound like a flat whiz rather than a shot.’
Bill smoked his cigarette in silence for a few moments. ‘All right. It could have been silenced, I grant you, but that’s not to say it was. Silencing a gun isn’t something that would occur to most people, is it? I’ve used a Webley myself. It was the standard pistol issued to the Metropolitan Police, but it never crossed my mind it could be silenced. That’s pretty technical knowledge.’ He frowned unhappily. ‘Silencing the gun doesn’t seem to square with the clumsy way in which the suicide was arranged. I can’t work it out. We would have bought the idea of suicide, you know. All it needed was a little more care in the details and Dunbar would have been chalked up as dead by his own hand.’ He looked up. ‘You spoke to Carrington. Could he be the sort of person who would look up all the technical guff about the gun and then make a complete hash of the actual carrying-out of the plan? That seems to me the sort of mistake a clever person might make.’
‘Yes, it does,’ said Jack uneasily. ‘However, you said yourself you weren’t a hundred per cent convinced it was Carrington and, now the chambermaid has decided to tell us what she saw, we do have another man on the spot.’
‘So we do. The youngish man who she just might – or might not – recognize if she saw him again? That narrows it down to about fifty thousand or so. I’ll have fun finding him. Anyway, you asked me about the letter Dunbar received, the one from Stephen Lewis.’
Jack looked up alertly. ‘Yes?’
‘The postmark shows it was sent from Sackville Street at ten twenty-three. There were plenty of fingerprints on the envelope, including a set from Dunbar himself, but the actual letter only had two sets of prints. There’s one set from someone unknown. Those, I imagine, belong to Stephen Lewis, or Lewis’s secretary, at any rate. There’s another set of prints that belong to Dunbar. All of which,’ he added, looking inquisitively at Jack, ‘is exactly what we would expect to find.’
‘Carrington’s prints aren’t on it, are they?’
Rackham shook his head. ‘No. He could have handled it if he wore gloves, I suppose.’
‘I think that’s a bit of a blind alley. The prints tell us Dunbar read the letter though, don’t they?’
‘As far as we can tell, yes. You asked me to check if they seemed naturally placed. They certainly seemed so. I don’t think there’s any doubt about it. What’s your idea?’
Jack hunched forward in his chair. ‘It’s fairly simple,’ he said. ‘How did you know that Stephen Lewis should have been at the meeting?’
‘Because he told us so,’ said Rackham. ‘Carrington said so too. And, of course, we found the letter from Lewis beside Dunbar’s body.’
‘Exactly,’ said Jack. He stopped as a knock sounded at the door, followed by a youthful shout of ‘Post!’
He opened the door. Two doors along the corridor, a boy in hotel livery stood with an open satchel over his shoulder and a handful of letters in his hand.
‘Letter for you, sir,’ said the boy helpfully, pointing to the envelope he had left in the rack outside the room.
‘Just make a note of the time, would you?’ Jack murmured to Bill, then, raising his voice, called to the boy. ‘Come here, son.’
‘What is it, sir?’ asked the boy, trotting towards them. He was a stocky, crop-headed, intelligent looking lad of about fourteen and was clearly very happy to have a legitimate reason to stop and chat.
‘What’s your name?’
‘Henry Ellis, sir,’ said the boy. He sized Jack up and found him worthy. ‘My pals call me Harry.’
Jack grinned. ‘And have you worked here long, Harry?’
‘I’ve been here nine weeks, sir,’ said Harry.
‘Do you always bring the letters round at this time in the afternoon?’
‘More or less, sir. I takes them round in the morning, too. Eight o’clock and half past four, those are my times.’
‘And do you always knock and shout “Post!”’
‘Well, yes, sir,’ said Harry defensively, sensing a possible reprimand in the offing. ‘I’m sorry if I disturbed you, sir, but it’s what I’ve been told to do, see? Mr Rice, the head porter, he told me particular. He said I had to knock because if a party was waiting for a letter, if I didn’t knock they wouldn’t know it was here, would they? It’s only what I’ve been told to do, sir.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘You’re not in trouble.’ Harry, although still wary, relaxed. ‘Were you here the afternoon Mr Dunbar was murdered?’
The boy’s face lit up. ‘The geezer in 206? Cor, I should say I was!’ He grinned happily. ‘That was exciting, that was. Old Ma Gledburn – she’s one of the chambermaids – she was in a right old state, weeping and carrying on. She found him, and my word, she didn’t half squawk. You could have heard her a mile off, the way she went on.’ He frowned in remembered outrage. ‘I wanted to have a look but they wouldn’t let me. It wasn’t fair, that. I only wanted to look.’
‘Ghoulish little beggar,’ interjected Rackham without heat.
Harry looked at him with an expression of injured innocence. ‘It wouldn’t do any harm, would it? Not just having a look. Old Mrs Gledburn, she kept on saying as how he’d shot himself but he didn’t, did he? It’s better’n that, ain’t it? He was murdered. I’ve never seen a geezer who’s been murdered afore.’
‘Did you see him before he was murdered?’
Harry’s eyes filled with longing, then he regretfully shook his head. ‘No. I can’t say I did. If I’d a-known what was going to happen, I’d have copped a look at him special, but he was just an ordinary gent.’ He sniffed. ‘I wished I’d a-known.’
‘But you did bring a letter for him that afternoon, didn’t you?’
‘Oh yeah. I did that all right.’
Rackham shot a quick glance at Jack. ‘Did you, by Jove?’ he said quietly. ‘Did you knock on his door, Harry?’
‘Oh yes. I called, “Post!” like what I’ve been told to do and he called back.’ Harry adopted a squeaky, supposedly posh, voice. ‘“Right-oh,” He didn’t come to the door,’ he added broodingly. ‘I’d a-
seen him if he come to the door. I’d liked to ’ave seen him, as he was going to be murdered.’
‘What time was it?’ asked Rackham. ‘When you delivered his letter, I mean?’
Harry ran a hand through his hedgehog hair. ‘It would a-been about this time, sir. It always is, unless suminck goes wrong, and there weren’t nothing wrong that afternoon.’
‘Twenty to five,’ muttered Rackham. He drew himself up to official height. ‘Now look here, son, I’m a police officer. Why didn’t you tell us any of this before?’
‘No one asked me! That flatty who was here—’
‘Sergeant Butley,’ put in Jack.
‘Yes, him. He asked who’d seen the bloke who was murdered and I didn’t see him, did I? That’s what I’ve been telling you.’
‘All right,’ said Jack. He felt in his pocket for some loose change and held out a shilling. ‘Here you are.’
Harry pocketed the shilling with a lop-sided grin. ‘Thanks, guv. You ain’t a flatty, are you?’ Jack shook his head. ‘I didn’t think so. More class.’
‘Cheeky little beggar,’ said Rackham, once they were back in Jack’s room. ‘Just because I can’t go tipping shillings to witnesses he thinks he can cheek the police. Either I or Butley should have spoken to him before now, though.’ He glanced at the envelope in Jack’s hand. ‘Who’s your letter from?’
‘Me. It’s just a blank sheet of paper. I posted it to myself this morning.’ He held out the envelope. ‘I wanted to replicate the letter Stephen Lewis sent to Dunbar and, as you can see from the postmark, this was posted this morning at Sackville Street and postmarked ten twenty-three, just as Lewis’s letter was. I wanted to check what time it would arrive here.’
‘Twenty to five,’ said Rackham absently.
‘Can we assume that Lewis’s letter arrived at more or less the same time? Twenty to five?’
‘I suppose so. I don’t see why it shouldn’t.’
‘And Mrs Dunbar saw Carrington in the lobby at what time?’
‘Mrs Dunbar? That was . . .’ Rackham broke off and swallowed. ‘My God, Jack, she saw him at half four. She’s certain she saw him at half four.’ He sat down, his face pale. ‘That’s ten minutes before Lewis’s letter arrived. Dunbar read that letter. Carrington has to be innocent. Dunbar was alive when he left him.’
EIGHT
A look at the head porter’s day book confirmed it; on the fifteenth of July, the day Dunbar was killed, the post office had delivered the afternoon post to the hotel at twenty past four. Rice, the head porter, confirmed that if the ordinary routine of the hotel had been carried out – and he was certain it had been – then Young Ellis would have started on his rounds about half past four, reaching the second floor and Room 206 around twenty to five. The murder, said Rice, pulling at his walrus moustache meditatively, fixed the day in his memory. If there had been anything out of the way, he would have remembered it, sure as eggs were eggs.
Sir Douglas Lynton, Assistant Commissioner of Scotland Yard, also pulled at his moustache, but in his case it was irritation rather than thoughtful reflection that was the chief emotion. ‘Damn it, I thought it was an open and shut case!’ He glared at Rackham and Haldean. ‘You’re absolutely convinced of the facts? Carrington couldn’t have shot Dunbar after the letter was delivered, I suppose?’
‘Absolutely, sir,’ said Rackham with a glance at Jack. This was a possibility they had explored earlier. ‘Mrs Lewis confirms that Carrington met her at the Lyon’s in Leicester Square just after five. Even if he’d taken a taxi, he couldn’t do it in the time allowed and there would be the risk that the taxi driver would remember him. There’s no doubt that Dunbar really did read Stephen Lewis’s letter, sir. I had the fingerprint department go over it with a fine toothcomb once I’d realized how important it was. They’re certain Dunbar was alive when he handled it.’
Sir Douglas looked at them grumpily. ‘I can’t really argue with our own fingerprint people.’
Rackham nodded. ‘It seems conclusive to me, sir. Besides that, I can’t help thinking that if Carrington had any idea of how important the letter was, he’d have found some way of drawing it to our attention. He’s never mentioned it. I thought there was something I’d overlooked but it was Major Haldean who actually pinned down exactly what it was.’
‘I suppose you’re to be congratulated, Major,’ said Sir Douglas unenthusiastically. He looked at the file on his desk and sighed. ‘There’s nothing for it. We can’t go ahead now. But, damnit, if Carrington didn’t murder Dunbar, who did? If the man was alive at twenty to five and dead twenty minutes later, it comes down to a matter of split-second timing.’
‘Or luck, sir,’ put in Rackham.
‘Or luck,’ agreed Sir Douglas dryly. ‘Quite considerable luck.’ He leaned back in his chair. ‘Well, there’s nothing for it. Carrington will have to be released. I still think there’s a chance he’s our man, but we can’t afford to go ahead now.’ He raised a quizzical eyebrow at Jack. ‘If Major Haldean has another inspiration and works out how Carrington could have done it after all, I don’t want to have scuppered our chances because he’s already been tried and acquitted. The law won’t let us bring a man to court twice for the same offence, even if we’re certain he’s guilty. As the case stands, we haven’t a hope. Not now.’ He looked at the file gloomily. ‘You’d better go back to the beginning, Rackham.’ He tapped his finger on the file. ‘There’s Dunbar’s wife. She might know something.’
He read the notes for a few moments. ‘Dunbar’s her second husband of course,’ he said thoughtfully. ‘We know they were separated, so she might be a possible.’
‘I don’t think she could manage to climb the stairs to his room, sir, and she didn’t take the lift.’
‘Maybe,’ said Sir Douglas, unconvinced. He read on for a few moments then looked up with a different expression. ‘Good Lord, I’ve just realized who she is! Evelyn Dunbar is Evie Grace. That was her stage name, of course.’
Jack looked at Bill. No, the name didn’t mean anything to him, either.
Sir Douglas was surprised by their lack of reaction. ‘You’ve heard of Evie Grace, surely? The fair singer of Scotland, The Bluebell of the North? No? Perhaps you’re too young, but she was famous in her day. She was the star of a string of shows – light operettas, I suppose you’d call them – at the Majesty. She was a wonderful actress with a wonderful voice, too. The audience used to hang on her every word.’ He smiled indulgently at Rackham and Haldean’s blank expressions. ‘They used to play one of her songs as the troop ships left for the South African war. Every errand boy in London whistled it. A Barefoot Prince. That’s it. A Barefoot Prince from The Golden Touch.’
‘I’ve heard of that,’ said Jack intelligently. ‘It was a huge hit.’
‘The Golden Touch?’ said Rackham. ‘We had the music in the piano stool at home.’
‘Everyone did,’ said Sir Douglas absently. ‘My word, she was a lovely girl, with huge blue eyes. I suppose nowadays a show like The Golden Touch would be thought terribly sentimental but it suited her down to the ground. She was a sweet little thing. Fragile, you know? Not at all like these modern, hard-bitten girls, all lipstick and cigarettes and skirts up to their knees. My word, if we saw an ankle it was a real thrill.’ He recalled himself with a sigh from his Edwardian youth. ‘She must have had a hard time of it when she was young. I’m not surprised she changed her name. It isn’t generally known, but her mother was Violet Cautley.’
‘Violet Cautley?’ repeated Rackham, puzzled, but Jack was ahead of him. ‘You mean the Cautley poisoning case, sir?’
‘That’s the one. It was about 1875 or thereabouts. Donald Cautley was an opium-eater, a philanderer, and known to be a violent man. Violet Cautley was a wispy, pretty bit of a thing who made a good impression on the jury. She was acquitted but that probably had as much to do with the sympathy she aroused rather than any regard to the facts of the matter. Cautley was poisoned with antimony. It was argued that Cautley h
ad taken it himself and the jury, despite some fairly strong evidence to the contrary, decided that was the truth of the matter.’
‘Are you suggesting these things run in families, sir?’ asked Jack.
Sir Douglas laughed. ‘No. Not in public, at any rate. Officially Violet Cautley was innocent.’ He closed the file. ‘I’ll leave it with you, Rackham. Let me know how you get on.’
‘Can I come with you?’ asked Jack as they clattered down the stairs from Sir Douglas’s office. ‘I wouldn’t mind meeting Mrs Dunbar.’
‘I suppose so,’ said Rackham. ‘It’s not by the book by a long chalk, but you wouldn’t be involved in the first place unless I’d asked you to take a hand. I wouldn’t mind getting your impression of her.’ He looked uneasy. ‘You know I said I didn’t believe Evelyn Dunbar could have murdered her husband? I mentioned her dodgy ankle, I know, but the real reason was that I just couldn’t see her doing it.’
‘You said, as I recall, that she’d have to be a brilliant actress.’
‘Yes,’ agreed Rackham slowly. ‘And now Sir Douglas has just told me that she was.’
Mrs Dunbar’s house in Essex Gardens, Kensington, was part of a pleasant, quietly prosperous, mid-Victorian terrace, with neat sash windows, whitened steps, and an oak front door with a brass lion’s-head knocker gleaming in the evening sun. A tall, elderly parlour maid admitted Jack and Bill into the hall and, after a short wait, ushered them into a comfortably furnished drawing room where Mrs Dunbar was waiting for them.
She was not alone. With her was Hector Ferguson, who looked understandably surprised to see them, and a middle-aged, plump, cheerful-looking man with a round, good-natured face who spoke with a precise Edinburgh accent. He was introduced as Mr Robert Bryce, the manager of Dunbar’s Gramophone Company. He had come down from Falkirk to accompany Mrs Dunbar and Hector Ferguson to a meeting with Stephen Lewis.
‘I hope we’re not interrupting your plans, Mrs Dunbar,’ said Rackham, taking in Mr Bryce’s and Hector Ferguson’s evening dress.
Off the Record Page 11
