The imminence of Mrs Dodd’s arrival drove me from the flat. I was in no mood for her homilies. Instead, I tried to walk off some of my frustration by marching across London to Charnwood’s bank in Lombard Street. I hoped to be told the rejection of my cheque was an administrative error, but instead I was coolly advised to refer to the drawer for an explanation. The cashier did not say whether he had read in his Sunday paper how the signatory had been found battered horribly to death in a Surrey wood. Nor would he reveal on what grounds the cheque had been returned. But he did favour me with some information I already possessed: the address of Charnwood Investments.
I left the bank and headed down one of the alleys that I knew led to Cornhill. For as long as it took me to reach the George and Vulture, whose doors had just opened, I actively contemplated seeking an interview with Charnwood’s company secretary and trying to persuade him I was legitimately owed a thousand pounds. So I was, but I was sure he would not agree. The slim chance he might was not worth the risk of Hornby hearing about the approach. Biting my lip, I entered the George and Vulture in search of the only solace I was likely to find.
In this at least I was not disappointed. I sat there for two increasingly bleary hours, watching the red-faced denizens of the City gobble down their steak and kidney puddings and listening while they debated what I gathered was now the actual collapse of the government. Then I wandered down to Blackfriars Bridge and trudged slowly back along the Embankment.
My route took me across Whitehall, where the crush of people in and near Downing Street was at once apparent. With nothing better to do, I stopped to see what was attracting them. A sullen-faced fellow in a threadbare trench coat and flat cap glanced round at me as I joined the throng and cocked a knowing eyebrow. ‘Come to see the fun?’ he asked.
‘Is there any?’
‘Depends what tickles you. The sight of our lords and masters scurryin’ in and out’a Number Ten like rabbits from a burra’ puts a smile on some people’s faces.’
‘But not yours?’
‘Why should it? If I ’ad a job to go to, I wouldn’t be standin’ ’ere, would I?’ A shout went up as the celebrated door opened and a stocky bowler-hatted figure emerged. It was Stanley Baldwin. ‘An’ it’s the likes of ’im what threw us all out’a work. So don’t expect me to raise a cheer.’
Baldwin marched down the centre of the street and out into Whitehall, cradling his umbrella in his arm as if it were a shot-gun and he a squire patrolling his estate. A car had been drawn up in readiness and an aide now rushed to open the door for him.
‘Looks like ’e’s in, dunnit?’ said my companion. ‘Just abaht all we bloody need.’
I watched Baldwin stoop to enter the car. As he did so, my gaze shifted aimlessly to the section of the crowd beyond him. And there, standing almost immediately opposite me, was Max. He was wearing the dark grey suit I had noticed as missing from the flat, but the black trilby looked new and was pulled well down over his forehead. He must have been watching me for some time, because our eyes met instantly. Then he flung down his cigarette and turned away, elbowing past other onlookers to reach the open pavement.
‘Max!’ I shouted, but he paid me no heed. I started after him, only for a policeman built like an oak tree to step into my path and lay a restraining hand on my arm.
‘I don’t think Mr Baldwin wants to speak to you, sir.’
‘You don’t understand. I was simply trying—’
‘Have you been drinking?’
Baldwin’s car was drawing away. Beyond it, heading in the same direction towards Trafalgar Square, was a grey-clad figure, running hard. ‘Let me go!’ I protested.
But the policeman’s grip tightened. ‘Not until I’m sure you’re going to be sensible, sir. Why don’t you go home and sleep it off?’
‘I’m not drunk.’
‘I think you are, sir. And unless you want me to decide whether you’re also disorderly, I strongly recommend—’
‘All right, all right.’ Max was out of sight now. Once he reached Trafalgar Square, my chances of sighting him were nil. And from there he might head in any one of half a dozen directions. I shook the policeman’s hand off and tried to compose myself. ‘I’m sorry, Constable. I don’t want to cause any trouble. I’ll go home, as you suggest.’
But I did not go home, not least because, strictly speaking, I had none to go to. Instead, I wandered up Whitehall, pondering the ever greater mystery of Max’s conduct. Why should he run away from me? Surely he could not have thought I would identify him to the police. If he did doubt my loyalty – for whatever reason – why had he followed me? Follow me he certainly must have, for I could not believe he was in Downing Street by chance. No fugitive would emerge from hiding simply to check on the balance of political power.
I sat on a bench in Trafalgar Square and smoked my way through the remaining cigarettes in my case while the traffic whirled remorselessly round and the pigeons rose and landed and rose again. Was Max really following me? If so, why? And what would he have concluded from my visit to the City? I thanked God I had thought better of going to Charnwood Investments. But my relief was swiftly replaced by alarm. Had Max followed me into Charnwood’s bank? Had he perhaps overheard my conversation with the cashier? The possibility was too horrible to contemplate. Stifling the thought, I ground out my last cigarette and headed for Hay Hill.
I paid no attention to the large black car parked a few yards beyond the door of the flat, but I should have, for, as I turned my key in the lock, Chief Inspector Hornby and another plain clothes detective appeared either side of me.
‘May we come in, sir?’ asked Hornby. ‘There’s been a new development.’
‘You better had, then.’ I said no more. There had been so many new developments that I dreaded to imagine what else could have happened. But, as we climbed the stairs, I resolved to make no mention of seeing Max in Whitehall. At least he would not have that to blame me for.
‘This is Detective Sergeant Vickers,’ said Hornby, pointing to his colleague as we entered the sitting-room. ‘My assistant.’ And a man, to judge by his build and expression, from the same mould as his superior.
‘What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?’
‘You can comment on this, sir.’ Vickers handed him a large envelope, from which he removed a folded sheet of paper. ‘It’s a letter received this morning by Mr Aubrey Wingate.’ He unfolded it as he passed it to me and I recognized the hand-writing immediately.
‘It’s from Max.’
‘So Mr Wingate confirmed. Perhaps you’d like to read it.’
I looked down at the letter resting in my hand and noticed at once the absence of either date or address. Then I read what my friend had written.
Dear Father,
You will know by now of what I stand accused. I want you and Mother to understand that I am innocent of Fabian Charnwood’s murder. I do not know who killed him or why, but it was not me. I cannot give myself up because my friends have turned against me. Nobody will believe me except you. Do not trust Diana or Guy. They have betrayed me. I cannot write more till I have discovered the truth. But I will discover it.
Your loving son,
Max.
‘Well, sir?’
I was scarcely aware of Hornby’s question as I sank into the nearest chair and re-read the letter. Now I knew why Aubrey Wingate had given me my marching orders: because his son had denounced me as a traitor. But it was impossible for him to have learned of my one act of treachery, unless it was from Charnwood’s own lips. And he had accused Diana along with me. Surely she at least did not deserve such harsh words.
‘What do you make of it, Mr Horton?’ asked Vickers.
‘I … I don’t understand. What does he mean?’
‘We were hoping you could tell us that, sir.’
‘The letter was posted yesterday afternoon,’ said Hornby. ‘In Banbury.’
‘Banbury?’
‘Yes. Know the town, do you?’ Something
in Hornby’s face, some narrowing of his gaze, suggested he was well aware of my recent movements – including my departure from Banbury railway station aboard the London train less than twenty-four hours before. If I was right, the police had been following me. And so had Max. This was no time to risk a lie.
‘I caught a train there yesterday afternoon.’
‘Really? That’s a coincidence, isn’t it?’
‘Is it?’
‘Well, if it isn’t, I have to ask myself why you and Mr Wingate should both be in a town neither of you have any connection with on a Sunday afternoon. If you were both there, of course.’
‘I’ve just told you I was. And the postmark proves Max was as well.’
‘Not quite. It proves a letter written by him was posted there. It doesn’t prove he posted it.’
‘Then who are you—’ I broke off as the drift of his reasoning became apparent. ‘I’ve not seen Max since Friday night.’
‘So you say.’
‘It happens to be—’ I stopped. How much did Hornby know? If his men had also seen Max in the crowds at Downing Street, they would surely have arrested him. Of course, it would not have been as easy for them to recognize him as it was for me. Perhaps they had missed him. But, even if they had, they could not have missed me crying out his name. ‘As a matter of fact, I thought I caught a sight of him in Whitehall a few hours ago.’
‘What?’
‘It was … just a glimpse. I—’
‘Were you intending to report this?’
‘I’m reporting it now, aren’t I?’
Hornby frowned darkly. Before he could say any more, Vickers produced a note-book and pencil. ‘What exactly did you see, sir?’ he asked.
As I recounted the incident and Vickers scribbled dutifully away, Hornby’s gaze remained fixed on me, one eyebrow raised in dubious deliberation. It was clear he did not believe me, which was ironic, since for once I was telling him nothing but the truth. Perhaps that was what provoked me to conclude on a misleading note. ‘I can’t be sure it was him, of course. There were so many people milling about between us. I could easily have been mistaken.’
Hornby grunted. ‘There’s certainly a mistake somewhere.’
‘Are you still suggesting I met Max yesterday? And posted this letter for him?’
‘Are you admitting you did, sir?’
‘Of course not. Damn it all, you’ve Max’s own word for it that he regards me as a traitor.’
Hornby took the letter back from me and glanced down at it. ‘Is he right to do so?’
‘No.’
‘Then why should he?’
‘I don’t know.’
‘There’s no reason at all?’
‘None whatsoever.’ With a jolt, I realized how easily I had been trapped. Hornby’s theory was that Max’s denunciation of me was designed to obscure my role as his ally. And now I had gone some way to proving the theory correct. ‘Look, this is absurd. If I’d spoken to Max since Friday night, I’d have urged him to give himself up. He doesn’t have any other choice.’
‘He has the choice of running. But he needs help if he’s to stand any chance of pulling it off. A quiet passage across the Channel and the money to pay for it. That sort of help.’
Had they followed me to Lombard Street and questioned the cashier? If so, they must have known I had gone away empty-handed. But my possession of a Charnwood Investments cheque would have sown a host of doubts in Hornby’s mind – more than I could ever hope to allay. ‘I’ve told you everything I know, Chief Inspector. I’m not assisting Max in any way.’
Vickers sat down in the chair opposite me and fixed me with a sceptical frown while Hornby wandered around the room, glancing at the drab hunting prints which adorned the walls. They seemed to be digesting my remarks, weighing them for sincerity and significance. At last, Vickers said: ‘It’s often a matter of instinct, sir.’
‘What is?’
‘Help. Who you give it to and who you don’t. Thick as thieves, the saying goes. And it generally holds true. At both ends of the social scale.’
‘What exactly do you mean?’
‘You and Mr Wingate were at school together, weren’t you?’
‘What of it?’
‘Winchester, wasn’t it?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well, there you—’
‘Another coincidence!’ put in Hornby with sudden force. ‘They do mount up, don’t they?’
‘I don’t know what you’re talking about.’
‘Your car has been found. In Winchester.’
‘Winchester?’
‘Yes. In Kingsgate Street. Which, as I’m sure you’re aware, runs past the College where you and your friend spent what they tell me are supposed to be the best days of your life. Well, for the likes of you two, I expect they were.’
I leaned back in the chair, overwhelmed by a surfeit of mysteries. Why had Max gone back there, of all places? Why revisit the scenes of our youth? To mourn the friendship he thought I had betrayed? Or to set it aside? ‘I haven’t been back to Winchester since I left it sixteen years ago,’ I said, slowly and deliberately. ‘As far as I know, Max hasn’t either.’
‘Seems he has now, sir,’ said Vickers.
‘The car had been parked in Kingsgate Street for some time before it attracted any attention,’ said Hornby, resting his hands on the back of the sergeant’s chair and gazing down at me. ‘Probably since Saturday morning.’
‘Are you suggesting he drove straight there from Dorking?’
‘Presumably. Then back to London by train, I imagine.’ He frowned. ‘Unless you have some alternative to put forward.’
‘Of course I haven’t,’ I snapped, instantly regretting my tone and fearing it would alert them to the lie I had told.
‘Well, we’ll know more when we go down and take a look at it tomorrow. So far, we just have what the Hampshire police have told us. One abandoned Talbot Saloon bearing the registration number you gave us.’
‘With bloodstains on the steering-wheel,’ added Vickers.
‘Yes,’ said Hornby. ‘We mustn’t forget those, must we?’
I studied each of them in turn, defying them as best I could with a show of impassivity. About twenty seconds must have elapsed, though it seemed more like several minutes, before Hornby spoke again.
‘I think that’s all for now, sir. We’ll be on our way.’ Vickers stood up and they both moved towards the door. I stayed where I was, too exasperated, too utterly confounded, to show them out. ‘We’ll keep you informed of any further developments, naturally.’
‘Thank you,’ I murmured.
‘One last point,’ said Hornby, turning back in the doorway. He was tugging at his ear-lobe and I took some comfort from having expected this to happen – the mannerism and the theatrical postscript; he was becoming predictable. ‘Mr Aubrey Wingate tells me you may shortly be leaving here.’
‘I will be, yes.’
‘You’ll be sure to let us have your new address, won’t you?’
‘Do I need to?’ I raised my eyebrows, confident he would understand what I meant.
‘Look on it as a matter of courtesy,’ Hornby replied with a grin. ‘An Old Wykehamist’s strong suit, isn’t it?’ He paused for a second, then added: ‘Along with loyalty, of course.’
Every aspect of my life seemed now to be badly awry. The police thought I was in league with a murderer. Max had renounced our friendship. My finances were dwindling. And I would shortly not even have a home-from-home to call my own.
I left the flat within an hour of Hornby’s departure, nursing a hangover and more unanswered questions than my aching head could bear. A massage and a lengthy sweat at the Hammam Turkish Baths in Jermyn Street cleared my mind, but the questions remained. Where was Max? What did he hope to achieve by playing cat-and-mouse with the police? Had Charnwood told him I was his informant? Was that what he blamed me for?
I went into the bar of the Carlton Hotel and studied my smoke-
wreathed reflection in one of its many mirrors over a succession of razor-edged Manhattans. The talk at nearby tables was of the newly formed National Government. Evidently, some sort of coalition had resulted from the comings and goings I had witnessed in Downing Street. But I could only think of Max’s face as our eyes met across the crush of onlookers. There was stealth in his expression, and suspicion – and something horribly close to hatred. If I could only find him, I would be able to explain everything. But he did not mean me to find him. That much at least was clear.
I left and wandered up to the Plaza Cinema, where I sat through half a fatuous talky called These Charming People wondering all the while if Max was sitting in the dark somewhere behind me. But nobody left when I did. No shadows moved between the street-lamps as I made my way to Berkeley Square, nor hovered near as I paused beneath the trees to smoke a cigarette and watch and wait – in vain.
Morning brings resolution, albeit not of a lasting nature. Next day, I scanned the hotel columns of the paper, reckoning I could run to five guineas a week all found without exhausting my funds before some way out of my difficulties presented itself. The Eccleston Hotel, near Victoria station, seemed to fit the bill. By midday, I had booked myself in for the duration. It was not the Ritz, but a clientele of cashiered majors and divorced gentlefolk promised at least a degree of anonymity.
I spent the afternoon trudging round the hotels of the neighbourhood, showing a photograph of Max and me to any porter or concierge who was willing to give it a second glance. It was a snap-shot taken by Dick Babcock at the Surf and Sand Club in Palm Beach in 1925. We were both smiling, as well we might, for those had been happy days. But nobody recognized the face. I am not sure they even realized that the other face belonged to me.
I returned to the flat, defeated and dejected, to collect my belongings. Before leaving, I dutifully telephoned Dorking Police Station to report my new address. I had hoped simply to leave a message, but, to my chagrin, I was put through to Sergeant Vickers.
Closed Circle Page 10
