Stop Press Murder

by Peter Bartram

  “Yes. But she thought I could gain your confidence, discover what you knew.”

  “Some kind of damage-limitation exercise?”

  Fanny sunk down on a tree stump. The fight had drained out of her. “I suppose so. Although what Grandmama planned to do with any information I discovered I just don’t know.”

  I moved closer. Knelt down beside her. “So why did you agree to do it?”

  Fanny took off her riding gloves and rubbed a hand over her face. “My God, I don’t know. I must have been mad even to consider a deception like that. But I’ve been so worried about her. About both of them.”

  “The Marquess, too?”

  “Yes, Daddy. He’s seemed so distracted in the past few days. Of course, as a government minister, he’s got important problems to deal with. He’s always seemed a bit remote. But now it’s as though he’s withdrawn into himself. He hardly speaks – except to Grandmama and then only when they think I can’t hear…”

  I’d watched the tension rising inside her. She snivelled but fought to control her tears and keep her voice steady. Generations of breeding in the stiff upper lip were being put to a tough test. But the test failed. The grief she’d bottled up broke loose and she wailed as the emotion inside took over. Her shoulders heaved and her head slumped as she wept. All the arrogance had gone. She crumpled with despair.

  I moved closer and put my arm around her shoulders. I said: “There’s more isn’t there?”

  She nodded.

  “And it’s frightening you.”

  She nodded again. She pulled a lace-fringed handkerchief from the pocket of her jodhpurs, dried her eyes, blew her nose.

  She spoke in a voice thick with tears. “There’s something bad that’s worrying Daddy and Grandmama. I don’t know what it is. But I can tell it’s destroying them. And I don’t know what to do about it.”

  I said: “Let’s talk.”

  Her eyes widened. “With a journalist. You think that will help?”

  I said: “In journalism, we often see people at their best and at their worst. People accuse us of being cynics. That can happen to you when you only see people at their extremes. You can start to believe that there’s nothing in between. But there always is. Perhaps I can help you to see that whatever it is that you think is the worst is not as bad as you imagine.”

  “And then you’ll write about it in your newspaper.”

  I smiled. “Not this time. This conversation will be on background only. I won’t write about what you tell me.”

  Fanny managed a thin smile. “You promise?”

  “I promise.” I didn’t mention that Frank Figgis always justified breaching a confidence by quoting Jonathan Swift: “Promises and pie-crust are made to be broken.”

  Me? I still hadn’t decided whether I agreed with Swift.

  “I think the trouble started three days ago,” Fanny said.

  We were sitting in the snug bar of the Marquess of Angelsey, a pub in the village of Rodmell, a couple of miles from Piddinghoe Grange. I’d ordered Fanny a large brandy and myself a small G and T. Herbert was drinking his fill from a water trough outside.

  I said: “How can you be sure of that?”

  “Daddy came down to breakfast in a foul mood that morning.

  Shouted at Pinchbeck because there were no devilled kidneys. Spilt his coffee. Then stormed out with his shotgun to shoot rabbits.”

  I thought about that. Three days ago would have put the outburst on Monday – the day after Milady’s Bath Night was stolen.

  I kept that to myself and asked: “Did your father mention what was on his mind?”

  “No. He barely spoke to me or Grandmama. Just munched his toast in silence.”

  “What did Venetia say about it?”

  “She made an excuse for him. Said he had a lot of problems at the ministry.”

  “Was that likely?”

  “Daddy often has government problems to solve. He relishes them. It’s what he lives for. I’ve seen work problems make him tired – but never to lose his temper. And he never shouts at the servants. It’s just something one doesn’t do.”

  One made a mental note about the correct form in case one ever hired a butler.

  I said: “Do you think that Venetia knows what’s worrying your father?”

  Fanny’s eyes filled with tears again. She took a sip of her brandy. It steadied her.

  She said: “That’s the worst of it. Mama died shortly after I was born. She was killed in an air raid during the Blitz. So Grandmama became like a surrogate mother to me. As I grew up she was at the centre of my life – much more than Daddy who was always away at a political meeting or something boring like that. I’ve never had a single secret from Grandmama – not even those silly teenage things like my first boyfriend. And, until now, I didn’t think she had any secrets from me.”

  “I can see that’s hard.”

  “Very hard. I’ve just felt these past couple days she’s started to exclude me from her life.”

  “And that’s why you agreed to be a spy?”

  “I thought that if I said yes, perhaps Grandmama would trust me enough to tell me what’s worrying Daddy so badly.”

  “But it’s not worked out that way?”

  “No. I’ve just made a fool of myself.”

  “Not in my eyes,” I said.

  “That’s kind of you.” She cupped my hand in hers and gave a gentle squeeze.

  I said: “Couldn’t you confront your father and grandmother and demand to know what’s on their minds?”

  Fanny shook her head. “You don’t know them. That would just make them even more determined to hide their secret.” She picked up her glass and drained her brandy. Looked at me with a new determination in her eyes. “But I do know something,” she said.

  I took and sip of my G and T and said nothing. Waited for her to decide whether she wanted to tell me. I saw doubt chase across her face. Then she made up her mind.

  “Since all this started, I’ve taken to creeping around the house, hoping to overhear Daddy and Grandmama whispering to one another. I know it’s terrible. It’s not the sort of thing one was brought up to do.”

  “Being in journalism, I was brought up to do the reverse,” I said. Then wished I hadn’t spoken.

  Fanny frowned but continued. “This morning’s breakfast wasn’t as fraught as Wednesday’s but I could sense a tension in the air. Finally, Grandmama stood up and said, ‘I’m going to speak to cook – she’s put too much curry powder in the kedgeree.’ That was nonsense. It tasted the same as always. As you know, you only need a small pinch of curry powder – and a small pinch there was.”

  “My usual breakfast dilemma is how much brown sauce to put in my bacon sandwich,” I said.

  Fanny sniffed. “A minute later, Daddy got up even before he’d had any marmalade with some excuse about his car coming earlier for him this morning. After he’d left the room, I followed him. He went through the servants’ door into the passage that leads to the pantry. I pushed the door ajar and I could hear him talking to Grandmama.”

  “About what?”

  “That’s it. I’d missed most the conversation. But I heard Grandmama say, ‘Leave it to me, Charlie, I’ll make the delivery tonight as instructed.’ Daddy said, ‘Don’t take the Bentley – it’s too conspicuous.’ Grandmama said, ‘I prefer driving the Riley anyway.’ I heard Daddy grunt, ‘Do it after dark,’ and then his footsteps came back up the passage. I let the door swing shut and ran.”

  I finished my G and T and sat back. “What do you make of that?” I asked.

  Fanny turned her head and gazed out of the window for fully a minute. Some unpleasant options must have been running through her mind. They were certainly doing so in mine.

  “I don’t know what to think,” she said at last. “But I’m certain that Daddy’s in some kind of trouble. And it must be some sort of trouble that even his position and influence can’t remove.”

  It was trouble, all right. And trou
ble with a capital B for blackmail. I’d had my suspicions that Lord Piddinghoe had instructed Hardmann to remove Milady’s Bath Night from the pier. But it was just a theory. Now the theory started to harden in my mind. Suppose Hardmann had been doing the dirty work on the pier on the Marquess’s orders. If somebody discovered that, Lord Piddinghoe would be as much in the frame for a blackmailer as Hardmann himself. Perhaps more so – because Piddinghoe was the one with the ancient title and the job in the government. But who would’ve discovered it? Could someone have seen Hardmann close to Palace Pier? If they did, Hardmann could be hard pressed to explain his presence there. And perhaps the blackmailer had followed the same chain of reasoning as I had. Somehow I had to find a way to follow Venetia when she went to make this mysterious delivery.

  I said: “There is a way to get to the bottom of this mystery.”

  Fanny’s lips parted and I barely heard her whispered “How?”

  “Follow Venetia and discover what she’s delivering and to whom.”

  “I couldn’t do that. I don’t know how.”

  “I do,” I said.

  Fanny shifted in her seat. “I’m not sure. It’s so risky.”

  “If you let me drive, I will keep the risk to a minimum. We’d be in a car which Venetia doesn’t know and won’t suspect.”

  “I hate this. It’s as though a lifetime of trust is being cast aside for ever.”

  “Not for ever. Venetia hasn’t trusted you, but you can help rebuild the trust you both cherish. You need to let her know that whatever she’s doing, you will understand. But you can’t do that, until you do know.”

  Fanny chewed on her lower lip. Worried at one of the buttons on her riding jacket.

  “We can’t go on as we are,” she said. “Perhaps your plan is the only way.”

  I said: “Your father said that Venetia would not be leaving until after dark. It won’t be fully dark until nearly ten o’clock tonight. So let’s meet here at half past nine.”

  Fanny nodded reluctantly. “Anything else?” she asked.

  “Yes. Dress in dark clothes. And don’t bring a horse.”

  Chapter 16

  I met Fanny in the Marquess of Anglesey pub just after nine-thirty.

  She was in the saloon bar dressed as a super-spy in a pair of designer jeans, black polo-neck sweater and dark-grey jacket. James Bond would have been proud of her. She was nursing the remains of a gin and tonic. She looked like a woman who needed a drink and was determined to have it.

  I sat down beside her and pointed at the glass: “Your first?”

  “Second.”

  “Kemosahbee no track big white hunter with stench of juniper berry masking scent.”

  “If you think I’m playing Lone Ranger to your Tonto, you can think again.”

  “A man can dream.”

  “I’m in no mood for your jokes – or your dreams.” She took another swig of the G and T.

  “Tough up at the Grange?” I said.

  “The atmosphere in the house has been terrible this evening. Cook made one of her very best cheese soufflés and Daddy hardly touched it. We could hear cook’s ructions in the kitchen even from the small dining room.”

  I pondered for a moment on the rarefied lives of people who had a choice of dining rooms in which to turn their noses up at a cheese soufflé.

  But there were more pressing issues. I said: “We need to find a place to hide the car when Venetia drives through the village.”

  Fanny downed the remainder of her drink and said. “There’s a cart track which leads up on to the Downs. Grandmama will have to pass it to reach the Lewes road. If we park fifty yards up the track, we can see her drive by.”

  “And suppose she doesn’t head for the Lewes road.”

  “She will. Trust me.”

  I shrugged. I’d reached the stage in this story when I was wondering whether I could trust anyone.

  Of course, Venetia did take the Lewes road.

  And at a fair clip. The Riley was bulky for country lanes with a bouncy suspension that wouldn’t have shamed a trampoline. But Venetia manoeuvred the car around the bends as though she were negotiating a Silverstone chicane with Stirling Moss. I hung back at least two hundred yards. At times the Riley disappeared around a bend but we could follow its progress by the glow of its powerful headlights above the hedges.

  Venetia hurried through Lewes and headed for the road leading north towards Uckfield. She maintained a steady sixty through the town and pushed on towards Crowborough.

  “Have you any idea where this delivery is taking place?” I asked Fanny.

  “None. I only overheard the tail-end of the conversation in the pantry passage.”

  “It’s possible Venetia doesn’t even know her final destination yet. Blackmailers have a way of keeping their victims in the dark as long as possible. It’s why too many of them get away with their crime.”

  “And they come back for more. Isn’t that right?”

  I glanced to my left and saw Fanny’s tense face illuminated by the headlamps on an oncoming car.

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you have any sense that this is the first time Venetia has made a delivery?”

  “It’s only been in the last few days that the atmosphere in the house has been so bad. So maybe. But I’m not sure.”

  I feared Fanny could be wrong. Perhaps the Piddinghoes’ financial problems had been worsened by having to make blackmail pay-offs.

  At Crowborough, Venetia turned left towards Friars Gate and within a few minutes we were in the heart of Ashdown Forest. The road narrowed as trees crowded in on both sides. At times, their branches stretched over the road forming a dark canopy. In front, the Riley slowed and I throttled back to avoid closing the distance between us. A quarter of a mile ahead, Venetia pulled into the side of the road just before it curved sharply to the left. I swung the MGB into a track which led into the woods, turned off the engine and lights.

  “What now?” Fanny whispered.

  “We wait and watch,” I said.

  We climbed out of the MGB and stepped behind a tree.

  “Stay here,” I said. “I’m moving forward to get a better view.”

  “I’m coming with you.”

  “Two of us will make more noise.”

  “Then you better stay here. She’s my grandmother.”

  “And we got here in my car.”

  “That doesn’t give you a casting vote.”

  Fanny’s face was pale with tension. I could hardly blame her. We were secretly following the grandmother she’d adored to an assignation where anything could happen. I laid my hand gently on her shoulder.

  “We’ve got this far. Let’s not blow it by arguing – or taking impetuous decisions.”

  Fanny shrugged. “I suppose you’re right. But this is a joint enterprise.”

  “I agree. But we need to plan our next step very carefully. I’m going to do a reconnaissance to see if we can get any closer without being seen. Venetia is less likely to see me if I do it alone.”

  Fanny nodded reluctantly.

  The road ran through a dense part of the forest but there was a narrow grass verge on either side. I crept along it, keeping as close to the trees as possible. Ahead, I could just make out the outline of the Riley. Venetia had switched on the courtesy light, so a faint glow came from inside the car.

  About a hundred yards from the car, I slipped into the forest and pushed forward parallel to the road. Brambles snagged on my trousers. Nettles brushed against my hands. Spiders’ webs wrapped themselves around my face. Twigs snapped under foot. Bushes rustled as I shoved my way through undergrowth. I probably sounded like a herd of rampaging elephants. I hoped that inside the car Venetia wouldn’t hear me. Unless she’d opened the windows.

  After a few minutes, the trees thinned. I crept to the edge of the forest and looked back down the road. My trek had brought me out just ahead of the Riley, a little around the left curve of the road. From my vantage point behind a beech tree I coul
d see Venetia’s face through the windscreen. She was smoking a cigarette with a kind of nervous energy I’d never seen in her. And the driver’s window was open.

  It had been a risk getting this close but I now knew why she’d stopped at this point. Just across the road from the Riley, around the left-hand bend, was a small layby. There was a red telephone box in the layby. Its lights illuminated the ground around it for about ten yards. I looked up and down the road, but it was deserted. The blackmailer had chosen his spot well.

  If this was the spot… I wondered whether Venetia had been lured here so the blackmailer could pass further instructions by phone. I risked a peek at the Riley. Venetia was lighting another cigarette. She shot anxious glances at the phone box.

  I listened. A gentle breeze rustled the leaves in the forest’s canopy. In the distance, a fox barked. Behind me, something rustled in the leaf cover.

  And then the telephone rang.

  Its shrill tone cut insistently through the night.

  In the car, Venetia stubbed out her cigarette. She opened the Riley’s door, clambered out and crossed the road.

  She paused at the phone-box door. Took a deep breath, went inside and seized the receiver.

  I saw her body tense as the caller said something. Then she asked a question, nodded and relaxed a little. The caller said something else and she nodded again. Then Venetia asked another question. But the caller had hung up. Venetia rattled the telephone cradle to reconnect the line, but it was dead. She replaced the receiver, visibly braced herself, and pushed her way out of the box.

  She crossed the road, went to the passenger-side door of the Riley, opened it and took a package off the seat. It was about a foot long and maybe three inches thick. It was wrapped in what looked like an oilskin and secured with two wraps of string, one at each end.

  Venetia crossed the road, walked round to the back of the telephone box and put the package on the ground. She hesitated, looked at the package, then at the telephone inside the box. Her hand reached for the telephone-box door. It hovered by the handle for a few seconds. Then she took a decision. She drew back and straightened her shoulders. She stalked across the road with the same haughty arrogance she’d shown when I’d first met her at Piddinghoe Grange.