by Laura Wilson
‘But someone else did come along.’
‘Eventually. She was almost forty, and it was quite a surprise to everyone.’
‘Were her parents pleased?’
‘Lady Purbeck was. I should think,’ Mrs Boyce turned, a decorated plate in her hand, and stared at Stratton with sudden fierceness, ‘that by that time she’d have been delighted if it was Jack the Ripper who wanted to marry her daughter. And of course he went out of his way to be charming to her.’
‘And Lord Purbeck?’
‘I don’t know what he thought, but I never heard him say anything against it. I always wondered if perhaps he didn’t try to stop it because he felt guilty about not letting her marry the other one.’
‘Do you know how they met?’
‘It was when Lord Purbeck was selling some of his property. He came to the house – the family home in Lowndes Square, that is, not here.’
‘And Lord Purbeck is at Lowndes Square now, is he?’
‘Yes, he lives there. But he’s not … He no longer receives visitors. His health … He’s become very frail in recent years, and he gets rather confused.’
‘This confusion,’ said Stratton carefully, ‘was it noticeable at the time the property was sold?’
‘Really, I couldn’t say. He hasn’t been well for a number of years.’ Mrs Boyce looked unhappy.
‘What was Rutherford’s part in selling the property? Do you know?’
‘I’m not entirely sure. I think he might have been working for the estate agent. He came several times on business.’
Stratton remembered what Laskier had told him about Perlmann’s first forays into property. He’d said that the estate agent – Rutherford, presumably – had introduced them to the solicitor who controlled the trust funds. If Rutherford had known about the trust funds, he must have known, before he set his cap at her, exactly what his wife-to-be was worth and – as Laskier had said – that she wouldn’t be able to touch the capital until she was married. ‘Was Mrs Rutherford present at these discussions?’ he asked.
Mrs Boyce looked affronted. ‘Of course not,’ she said briskly. ‘That was men’s business. She had nothing to do with it.’
‘Did Rutherford ever bring anyone with him?’
Mrs Boyce thought for a moment, weighing the plate in her hands. ‘I don’t recall anybody. We didn’t see him for a couple of months after the houses were sold, and then one evening he arrived with Miss Virginia – this was before they were married, of course – and …’ The housekeeper pursed her lips. ‘That was it, really. They were married about six months later.’
‘You don’t like him, do you?’
Mrs Boyce stiffened and looked down at the plate in her hands. Carefully, as if she did not quite trust herself not to smash it, she replaced it on the dresser. ‘He married her for her money, no other reason. She was certainly in love with him. She was swept away by his looks, the way he paid her attention and flattered her … I’m sure she must have known, in the back of her mind, that the money had a great deal to do with it – she was almost ten years older, after all – but I think she genuinely thought that he loved her. And for once her mother was pleased with her, and of course it was exciting, all the preparations and being the centre of attention, because the wedding was a very grand affair.’
‘And then?’
‘It was fine for a while – on the surface, at least – although he’d been seeing other women behind her back right from the word go.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Logan – our chauffeur – used to drive him. He never made any secret of it.’
‘Mr Rutherford didn’t?’
‘Not to Mr Logan, no.’
‘And Mr Logan told you?’
‘Only this morning. He said he hadn’t liked to say before.’ Mrs Boyce shrugged. ‘Men sticking together. In any case, I certainly wouldn’t have told Mrs Rutherford. Ladies aren’t meant to know about these things, and once it’s been said …’
Once it’s been said, they can’t carry on pretending not to know, thought Stratton, picturing the Hon. Virginia, alone, hurt and bewildered. He could visualise her thinking that she must have done something wrong and trying desperately to remedy it, then realising that there was no remedy; could imagine her hope that she had her husband’s heart dwindling, by degrees, to the hope that he would be civil to her, if only in public. What was it Fenella had said? It’s humiliating, having your husband eyeing every other woman in the room … ‘Well,’ he said aloud, ‘that certainly helps to put me in the picture. Now, what can you tell me about yesterday evening?’
‘Not a great deal, I’m afraid. I left the house at half past six – before Mr and Mrs Rutherford had gone out – and when I returned just after eleven there was no one here.’
‘Did you know where they were going?’
‘Mrs Rutherford told me. I must say, I was a bit surprised. I’d think twice about going there during the day, never mind after dark. It’s one thing going in for good works, but …’ Mrs Boyce’s eyes filled with tears and she yanked the handkerchief out of her sleeve once more. ‘Look what happened. And he just went and left her with a pack of savages! You’ve only got to look at the papers to know … Excuse me, Inspector.’ She blew her nose.
‘And where did you go?’
‘I went to the cinema with Miss Preston. She’s the housekeeper at number 20. We went to the new Angus Steak House in Kensington High Street and then to the Odeon to see The Man Inside.’
‘And what did you do when you got home?’
‘Miss Preston came in for a cup of tea, and then I went up to bed – I have two rooms at the top of the house. I read for something like ten minutes, and then I went to sleep.’
‘Were you aware of Mr Rutherford returning?’
‘I’m afraid not. I suffer from insomnia, so I take sleeping pills, and they tend to make one dead to the world.’
‘What about this morning?’
‘I made breakfast as usual. I take the tray up at ten o’clock on Sundays. Usually they’re still in bed, but Mr Rutherford was already dressed. In fact, thinking about it, I’m not sure that he’d been to bed at all, at least not properly. The ashtray was overflowing, and so were the ones in the sitting room, and all the brandy in the decanter was gone, so I think he’d been up for most of the night.’
‘Did Mrs Rutherford sleep in the same room?’
‘Yes. I asked Mr Rutherford where she was, because she’d not said anything about going out early, or I’d have fetched her breakfast for her. I didn’t know there was anything wrong, and then he said that you’d come, that you’d told him … I couldn’t believe it.’
‘And he explained about leaving her at the party, did he?’
‘Yes. I was appalled that he’d left her in such a dangerous place, and I didn’t really bother to hide it.’
‘Did he give a reason for leaving her there?’
‘No. Just said he was bored and she seemed to be enjoying herself, so he’d decided to come home.’
‘Did he say he’d gone on anywhere else before he came home?’
‘If he did I don’t remember.’
‘And what about later?’
‘Well, he told me that he had to go and … identify the body … and that someone would come and fetch him. That was in the morning – I suppose he got back at about midday. He was in the sitting room for a while after that, and then he went out again.’
‘Did he say where?’
‘No. The first I heard of it was when the door slammed.’
‘Did Logan take him? You said you’d spoken to him this morning.’
‘He drove himself. Mr Logan came at about eleven because Mrs Rutherford was supposed to be opening a fête somewhere out in Barnet and he was meant to be driving her. We had to telephone the organisers and tell them.’
‘And the woman who comes in to help – was she here?’
‘Mrs Doran only comes on weekdays.’
‘Do you kn
ow what Mr Rutherford was doing in the sitting room when he got back?’ asked Stratton, making a note. ‘There isn’t a telephone in there, is there?’
‘No. There’s one in the passage down here, and one in the study. But,’ Mrs Boyce straightened her back, a look of sudden triumph on her face, ‘I can tell you what he was doing in the sitting room. He was burning papers – lots of them. The grate was chock-full of ash.’
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
‘In the light of what you’ve just told me …’ Matheson leant back in his chair and tapped his fingers on the arms for a moment before continuing, ‘I think we can justify a request for emergency warrants.’
‘I’m guessing that Rutherford’s already destroyed any papers he had at home,’ said Stratton, ‘but – assuming we’re on the right track – there’ll be more at Perlmann’s office, and possibly at the club, Maxine’s. And of course he might have more documents at Lower Belgrave Street.’
‘I’m inclined to agree,’ said Matheson. ‘It sounds as if Lord Purbeck is pretty well ga-ga, so I can’t imagine we’re going to get any clarification from that quarter.’ He sighed. ‘And of course we still don’t know if there’s any real connection with the murder of Hampton.’
‘Other than that Hampton worked for Perlmann,’ said Stratton. From the moment he’d sat down in Matheson’s office, tiredness had engulfed him, dulling his thought processes, and the heat – still stifling – wasn’t making things any easier.
‘Ye-es … And then there’s the matter of Etheridge, who seems to have disappeared, and the probable connection of Rutherford with Knight and Halliwell and the rest of them – incidentally, we’ve not yet managed to bring those two in for questioning. It’s a fair old mess.’
‘I’m sorry, sir,’ said Stratton. ‘I realise I’m not being much help.’
‘For God’s sake, man, you’re exhausted. I’m going to get on the blower – no, don’t get up. The sun’s over the yardarm, and I’m sure you could do with a drink.’ Matheson rose and went to the discreet cabinet in the corner of the room where, Stratton now knew, he kept the decanter and glasses. ‘I know I could use one. Here.’ He slid a large measure of Scotch across the desk.
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Well,’ Matheson raised his glass, ‘cheers. It’s a lot to unravel, but I can’t help feeling that a couple of good tugs on some of these loose ends will do the trick. Now, you sit tight and help yourself to those,’ he waved a hand at the box of cigarettes on his desk, ‘while I sort out these warrants, and then,’ he gave Stratton a sudden wolfish grin, ‘it’ll be time for some action.’
A single gulp of his drink made Stratton feel light-headed – hardly surprising, he thought, since he’d only eaten half a tomato sandwich since his meagre breakfast – and he closed his eyes and tried to unscramble his thoughts. There must be something more, something he’d forgotten to follow up … His gaze, unfocused, took in the top of Matheson’s desk, then Matheson himself, receiver in hand, drumming his fingers as he waited for the operator to put him through, and then moved past him to the fireplace behind. He supposed that the Victorian original must have been ripped out at some stage, because instead of a mantelshelf and grate, there was a gas fire surrounded by a geometrical arrangement of shiny green tiles … Of course! It was that bloody green van.
Stratton took out his notebook and began thumbing through the pages. Seen by O’Driscoll outside the pub, seen by two witnesses in Golborne Road, seen by the old girl in Colville Road when the petrol bombs were thrown … But there was something else too. The kid with the adenoids … Tony Pearson. He’d said Halliwell “must have had the van off some bloke”, hadn’t he? And he’d said he’d meant borrowed, rather than pinched. If that was the case, it must be someone he knew well enough to borrow their vehicle. He flipped back through his notebook again. Halliwell’s mother had said he’d got his driving licence a couple of months earlier, but that he didn’t own a vehicle – but he hadn’t thought to ask her if anyone else in the family owned one, had he? Stupid, stupid! He hadn’t asked about a specific car or van, and of course he hadn’t spoken to the father at all … Still, it would be easy enough to find out – and if the van wasn’t Mr Halliwell’s, there were plenty of other candidates. Raising a hand to Matheson by way of excusing himself, he put down his Scotch and went to find PC Dunning.
*
Someone was shaking his shoulder. Stratton unglued his eyes, blinked at the glare and peered at the clock on the office wall. ‘It’s twenty past two,’ said Matheson. ‘Bit of a mix-up, I’m afraid – took a bit longer than I thought.’
Stratton levered himself off the camp bed and started dragging on his trousers. After a lot of waiting about and only a few hours’ fitful sleep on a narrow bit of sagging canvas with a pillow that might as well have been a piece of wood, he felt sweatily clammy all over and every bone in his body ached. ‘Bit stiff?’ Matheson’s tone was sympathetic.
‘You can say that again.’ Stratton rubbed a hand over his bristly chin and wondered how his superior did it. All right, the man was over ten years younger, but he looked as spruce and alert as if he’d just stepped, newly minted, out of a bandbox.
‘I’ll get over to Perlmann’s office—’
‘I shouldn’t think anyone’ll be there now, sir.’
‘No matter.’ Matheson’s eyes, Stratton realised, were actually shining with anticipation. The man was electrified. ‘You take the nightclub. I thought you’d prefer it, being your old patch. I’ve said you’ll be ready in five minutes, and the chaps from West End Central’ll meet you there.’
I’m too old for this, thought Stratton, bending over to lace his shoes with thick, unwilling fingers. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘I’m on my way.’
*
It being Sunday, Wardour Street at 3 a.m. was pretty well deserted. The few people still about – in various stages of inebriation, judging from the unsteady figures Stratton could see weaving their way along the pavement – seemed to be on their way home. Maxine’s itself was dark, the heavy curtains drawn, as PC Brodie hammered fruitlessly on the front door.
Stratton looked at his watch again. Hadn’t Laskier said that the manageress lived on the premises? He looked up as a sash window was raised somewhere above his head, but it was the house next door. The blurred, pale disc of a face emerged, looked and, seeing policemen beneath the street lamp, withdrew, pulling down the window with a bang.
‘Should we try round the back, sir?’ said a young constable who Stratton recognised as PC Dixon from West End Central. ‘There’s a passageway.’
‘Good idea. Take Brodie and Dunwoody here with you, and I’ll follow.’
*
The passageway was narrow, and the policemen’s torches glinted off the filthy glass of small barred windows, the ill-fitting lids of battered dustbins and the tops of empty bottles in wooden crates. Stratton could smell the sickly ripeness of food discarded by nearby restaurants and beginning to rot. ‘Door’s here, sir,’ said Dixon.
‘Is there a bell?’
‘Can’t see one, sir.’
Stratton struggled past the uniforms and thumped his fist on the flaking paint. ‘Open up! Police!’
There was silence, but for the breathing of Dixon and the other two and the muffled sounds of Soho at night-time. ‘Right,’ he said, stepping back. ‘Break it down.’
‘I’ll take it,’ Dixon muttered. There was another moment’s silence and an indrawn breath as he braced himself for the kick while the other two shone their torches at the lock, and then the air was broken apart by a high, jagged scream coming from somewhere inside.
‘Go!’ The scream was abruptly cut off as Dixon threw himself at the door and disappeared inwards in a heap of splintering wood. Stratton, Brodie and Dunwoody followed and found themselves at the end of a tiny and very scruffy hallway. Illuminated by a single weak bulb, it was lined with crates of bottles, leaving just enough space for walking in single file. For a moment there was an absolute silence, as tho
ugh the very fabric of the place were holding its breath. Spotting a door at the end, Stratton muttered ‘Follow me,’ and pushed past the others.
As he reached for the handle there was another scream, shriller and more frantic than before. ‘Police!’ yelled Stratton, turning the handle and putting his shoulder against the panels as he did so. ‘I’m coming in!’
The room was an office, with two desks, a typewriter and shelves covered with messy piles of paper, more of which was stacked in two cardboard boxes on the floor. A door in the opposite wall led, presumably, to the front of the building and the whole space, which was windowless and smelt powerfully of stale sweat, was barely large enough to accommodate the four people inside.
The first one Stratton saw was Laskier, fully dressed, standing beside an open safe, a wrapped bundle of money in his hand and more in a canvas mailbag at his feet. His face was grey, the eyes sandbagged with exhaustion. Next to him stood Walker, feet bare and shirt unbuttoned as though he’d been disturbed in the act of getting dressed. With a closed expression that betrayed nothing, he was clasping the hand of Irene, who was standing beside him, shaking visibly, her face so pale that it looked translucent, like the lining of an oyster shell. She was clad in a floor-length white nightgown with a ruffled neckline, which looked as incongruous on her slight frame as though she were a little girl who’d dressed up in her mother’s clothes to play at being a bride. Stratton wondered, momentarily, if she’d borrowed it from the manageress, and then, where the hell the manageress was. Not here, anyway: the only other person was Etheridge, who was standing on the other side of Irene, holding a gun to her head.
