Mattress and pillows followed in his search. The bed had been made up most probably on the morning of the day he died and had not been disturbed. The bedder? Worth having a word with her? Yes. Just occasionally, distraught or careless young men living a solitary life confided things they should not have confided to their bedder who was, after all, the only civilian, uncritical human being they came into contact with every day. For most students they were a faceless army of automatons who came in, made the bed, sometimes got them out of it, picked up socks from under it, washed up the dirty teacups and disappeared, telling no tales. But Aidan had loved to talk. People were easy in his company. They told him about their family, their pets, their troubles and triumphs, and Aidan remembered the details. Perhaps, thinking he was on the trail of some other inhabitant of the college, he might have asked a few penetrating questions of someone who knew all the ins and outs and much of the gossip. In the same circumstances, Joe would certainly have made a point of getting to know his bedder.
He interrupted his search to scribble a note and, hearing feet clattering down the corridor, dashed to the door. “I say! You fellows going past the porter’s lodge, are you? Jolly good! Look, could you drop this in on him and mention that it’s really rather urgent? Thanks awfully!”
He turned his attention lastly to the suitcase which Aidan had retained and pushed under the bed. Locked. This was not a problem for Joe, who carried a set of lock picks in his pocket. He had it open in seconds. Disappointingly, it contained nothing more than a bag of apples, two Mars bars, a packet of Senior Service cigarettes and a pair of gold cuff links bearing his familiar stag’s head crest. Joe hesitated before reclosing it. It had been locked. Why? On account of the cuff links? Possibly. But, running a hand around the silk lining he felt a slim shape hidden in the side of the case. This, when he’d managed to disentangle it from its hiding place, proved to be a diary.
A university year book for the academic year, only three weeks of entries. He’d started his diary immediately on his arrival in college on the 8th of October, the beginning of Michaelmas term. Joe followed the entries eagerly, curiosity roused.
But only to be dampened.
The man was taking his role-playing very seriously. Arrivals and departures were noted, times meticulously written in. The state of the weather merited two lines each day. The people he’d met were listed, further meetings had been entered. Even the menus for each meal he’d taken in college were painstakingly recorded. By no means had every evening been so occupied; on ten occasions, no mention of his whereabouts or activities was offered. His visits to the college archives where he was ostensibly spending his days researching the wartime exploits of the alumni were logged. There was no code known to Joe in all this. It was tedious beyond words, but all completely innocent as far as he could judge. Had Aidan invented a new enemy agent deterrence technique—bore the buggers to death? “I catch you reading my diary! Okay, mate—I’ll make you suffer!”
The very last entry was made on the 31st of October: “8 p.m. All Hallows.” Joe was on the point of giving up and closing the book when his sharp eye caught the aberration.
Same pen, same hand, but words surely more carelessly or hurriedly written?
At the end of a tiresome entry for the 28th of October, following drivel about the unseasonably warm weather . . . how the lawns were crying out for rain . . . roast beef and Eve’s pudding for lunch, there it was. So lulled was his brain by the repetition, and so eager to reach the end, it had at first reading passed smoothly over the single line:
I saw him. At dinner. There can be no doubt.
Unfathomable. This entry was out of step with the rest. Why was it written down at all? Aidan couldn’t have known that Joe was going to read this. It wasn’t directed at him. Communication with headquarters was by quite other means, the drill made perfectly clear to the agent. Joe had the impression that it was a personal comment, the emotional outburst of a man isolated and taken by surprise. If a man stubs his toe in an empty room, he still yells and curses though there is no one to hear. If a solitary agent claps eyes on the Angel Gabriel or the Devil himself in the course of his undercover enquiries and he has no one near him to share his shock, then a single line in a diary might be his sole outlet.
None of Joe’s reasoning satisfied him, but the single scribbled line had the unsettling quality of a yelp of pain. Aidan seemed to have been excited—or alarmed—by the sight of a man he did not name. A man who had been present at the college dinner table. That comment at least would reduce his area of search. If Aidan had been given a place at High Table, which seemed to be the usual arrangement, according to the diary entries, then the stranger would be one of no more than a dozen men. And someone, somewhere, would have a list of their names. Easily followed up.
There was no sign at all in the room of any useful notes for the perusal of MI5. Perhaps he’d already sent them off in accordance with prescribed practice? Joe resolved to ask Bacchus to chase this up. Meanwhile he put the diary and Aidan’s cuff links into his own pocket and locked up the suitcase again.
A sharp knock on the door rang out as he pushed the case back under the bed. George the footman was standing there, a piece of paper in his hand: Joe’s own message for Mr. Coulson, the porter.
“Your reply, sir.”
Joe was impressed. This was quicker service than the Yard could provide.
He asked the man to wait in case he should wish to send a further message.
Here was his answer, written on the back. The bedder on this corridor was a Mrs. Alsopp, who attended, unusually, twice a day as the occupants were “specials.” 7 to 9 a.m. for the regular service, and 6 to 9 p.m. for the turning down of the sheets while the guests were in the refectory. Mrs. A. was a long-standing and trustworthy employee whose service dated back to the period before the war. Exemplary character. She would even now be making her way to the college for her evening stint. Mr. Coulson would ask her to pop up and see the commissioner before she started on her duties.
Joe looked at his watch. Five forty-five. He thanked George and sent a verbal response. “Excellent! Please do just that. I will await the lady here.”
Mrs. Alsopp hopped into the room with the energy of a small brown robin and cast a bright and searching eye over what she clearly regarded as her territory. The arrangements seemed to pass muster. Joe was thankful that he’d made no mess.
He introduced himself and gravely set about announcing the news of Aidan’s death.
She sat down heavily on the chair Joe quickly pulled forward, seeing her unfeigned distress.
“Oh, my Lord! It’s true then? We’d all heard the rumour but no one could be certain and Mr. Coulson’s lip is always buttoned.”
She began to look anxiously about the room again and Joe interpreted and responded to her fear. “No, don’t be concerned! He didn’t die in this room, Mrs. Alsopp. No traces physical or spiritual left to clear up here. He wasn’t on college premises at all when he met his death.”
“They’re saying he was murdered, sir.”
“No. We think he killed himself.”
“No! Gerraway! I don’t believe it. Why would he go and do such a thing, then? He was a lovely man. Always laughing. Liked a joke. Clean and tidy and no trouble. He left me a tip at the end of every week. A gent. It’s not right!” She began to fish about in the capacious front pocket of her overall, turning up only a yellow duster and a bag of mint imperials. Guessing her problem, Joe hurried to offer his handkerchief.
He watched the tears begin to trickle their way uncertainly down the rough terrain of Mrs. Alsopp’s cheek to disappear in the folds of the crisp white cotton. Bloody old Aidan! Guests of the college came and went in their hundreds, skivvied for by a battalion of Mrs. Alsopps, instantly, perhaps thankfully, forgotten by them, but Aidan left a memory and a loss. This unattractive, barrel-shaped, elderly lady with her unexpected show of grief ha
d crashed through Joe’s professional veneer of unconcern as no one else had. He swallowed to ease his constricting throat, sniffed and turned away.
“Friend of his are you, sir?”
“I am,” he said. “I’m here to clear up his affairs. Excuse me, Mrs. Alsopp, tears are catching it seems! No, no. Hang on to it, I’ve got a spare so we can sniffle together in harmony. I met Sir Aidan nearly twenty years ago. Very brave soldier.”
“Thought as much. The way he carried himself. It always shows.”
“Now, I’m hoping you can help me to understand what was in his mind on that last day. I see the bed was not turned down so you didn’t come in for the evening service. Is that right?”
“Yes, sir. I did him out in the morning as usual. He was here at his desk writing a letter but he stopped when I came in and we had a good old chin-wag. Cheerful as ever. He passed me a bit of scandal about the master. That was the last I saw of him . . .” She paused to dab away a fresh outbreak of tears. “When I came back in the evening, his oak was up.”
“Tell me, Mrs. Alsopp, was there anything in particular Sir Aidan asked you about? The college, the city, the people here, perhaps? Anything that struck you as unusual?”
She gave the question her full attention. “Nothing out of the ordinary, sir. Just chit-chat, you know. He was interested in everything. Why do you want to know? He wasn’t in trouble was he?”
“Nothing of the kind.”
“One of you then? A policeman?”
Joe smiled. “Not his style at all. No. Sir Aidan was a good man. Believe me, Mrs. Alsopp, he was on the side of the angels. That’s why I want so badly to work out what went wrong for him. I want to know why, instead of propping up the bar at the Eagle and having a good laugh with him, I shall be going to his funeral next week.”
After a few minutes’ exchange of comment and remembrance, Joe thought there was probably nothing further he could draw from her and she’d already told him the very thing he needed to know. He was about to start making the polite sounds of dismissal but he hesitated at the sight of her face, saddened but straining with a need to be of some help, wanting more from him. He had never met a witness so ready to show cooperation. He made a last shot, taking a more precise aim. “Did he ever mention a scientist, perhaps? Or a local member of the aristocracy?”
She shook her head vigorously. “Nothing like that. He was no show-off. He only talked about things he thought I’d be interested in. He asked me how Mavis was getting on. She was the only one he mentioned from his student days.”
“Mavis?”
“His old bedder, sir. Fancy remembering after all those years, but he did! Mavis and I started here the same term in 1905 as soon as our kids were old enough to go to school. I had two, Mavis had three, and we were free to go out to work. They’re very particular about who they take on, sir. You’ve got to be a steady-going, married woman of a certain age with a good reputation. Kids are no problem. They expect you to have got kids and a lot of women pass the job down to them. Keep it in the family.” She grinned and shrugged. “And it helps if you’re no film star.”
“Is Mavis still in employment here? What were you able to tell him?” Joe asked.
“Oh, she’s here. Still bedding. She does staircases A to C. We’ve never been close—she’s always been a bit uppity with the rest of us. Thinks she’s too good for the job and keeps herself to herself. That’s not hard to do when you live out in Ditton.”
At the mention of the name “Ditton,” Joe was unable to prevent there springing into his mind a line or two from Rupert Brooke’s poem about the Cambridge villages. The young poet, an undergraduate at the university, had carelessly, naughtily, characterised the inhabitants with undeserved epithets.
And Ditton girls are mean and dirty.
There’s none in Harston under thirty . . .
“Did you tell her someone was asking after her?”
“’Course I did. She looked at me as though I had a screw loose and said she’d no memory of anyone by that name. I pointed him out to her as he was crossing the quad one morning. ‘Look, Mavis,’ I says, ‘That tall, fair bloke—that’s him as was asking after you.’ Same thing—never clapped eyes on him. Well, you can forget the names, however strange—they get all sorts coming through here and it is nearly twenty years ago—but the man? You wouldn’t forget a man like that, would you?”
“No, you wouldn’t, Mrs. Alsopp.”
“I expect it was Sir Aidan got it wrong then.”
Joe closed the door thoughtfully behind her.
So, Aidan had been writing a letter. Using, Joe assumed, the most spy-proof form of communication—the King’s Royal Mail. Swift. Secure. Unremarkable. As recommended by Bacchus. It was probably waiting in the in-tray on his desk in Scotland Yard right now. He decided to make a phone call from the Master’s office when he took his farewell.
His second thought turned on Mavis the bedder. Joe was intrigued and concerned. Aidan didn’t make mistakes of that nature and it was entirely in character for him to have made pleasant overtures. Less likely that Mavis would have protested that she had no recollection of him. Mrs. Alsopp had instinctively known that something was wrong. She would have remembered Aidan with fondness even without the very generous ten-pound note Joe had thought to press into her hand. “No, really, Mrs. Alsopp! It’s what he would have wanted and I am his executor, you know. I insist! And thank you for taking care of my friend.”
What care had Mavis taken twenty years ago? Surely not? Aidan had always been a randy old bugger but he’d never have taken advantage of the staff. And taking Mrs. Alsopp’s dates into account, the said Mavis must, in 1914, have been in her early forties, married, mother of three and ‘no film star.’ Hardly a temptation for a twenty-one-year-old undergraduate. That was the whole point. The college authorities knew their business and they understood their undergraduates. A false trail and an unworthy suspicion, Joe decided. He knew when he was being distracted by his affection for his friend and over-intrigued by the mystery surrounding his death. He had to keep his mind on the main event.
The master was all smiles and welcome. Already begowned in preparation for college supper, he asked Joe to step into his parlour for a glass of sherry and an exchange of condolences. In a few swift sentences, he had established exactly Joe’s position and his reasons for wanting access to Mountfitchet’s room. Joe made the required speech of thanks and added a résumé of his search. He ended with a statement that he had finished his task and the room was ready to be put back into the system once more. There were no residual problems for the college.
“I’ve packed his few belongings, including his books, into his suitcase and—”
“My dear fellow, I’ll have it sent straight round to you at your hotel. The Garden House, was that?”
Joe had only two requests to make: Might he be provided with a list of the guests at High Table on the night of the 28th of October, and might he use the telephone to make a private phone call to London?
In relief at finding that there was no scandal to be chopped off at the neck, and beguiled by the policeman’s easy and cultivated manner, the master readily agreed that Joe could make free with his telephone. In the study next door. Where he would also find a copy of the guest lists pinned to the notice board. Would Joe be so good as to help himself? He really had to scoot now. Oh, before he dashed off—perhaps the commissioner would accept an invitation to dinner tomorrow evening? Evening dress, they’d provide a gown.
“It might be of assistance,” he’d added, “if you were to take your friend’s place at the table. You will meet the same company. No new faces, apart, of course, from the four undergraduates who take their seats on High in rotation. You will have one on your right hand. Can’t predict whether it will be an enjoyable experience. Some are tongue-tied with embarrassment, some overly voluble.” He’d smiled confidingly at Joe. “I think
you’ll manage.”
Bacchus picked up the phone at once. “Frank? Is that you? Ernest here.”
Joe picked up the message and groaned inwardly. This was to be one of their frank and earnest business discussions, unintelligible to any of the ears that might be listening in over an open line. Occasionally the chat was not entirely intelligible to Joe but he tried to hang on. He appreciated the necessity for caution. Telephone operators galore sat in ranks, plug in hand, ready to overhear any conversation that took their fancy. It was claimed that there were even plants in some of the offices at the Yard. They’d been known to sell tip-offs to the press. Bacchus, his senior executive at Special Branch, never overplayed his hand. If Bacchus was doing some nifty footwork then Joe had better pick up the step and follow his lead.
“All going well up here in the Midlands. Unseasonably good weather. Just ringing through to check whether there’s been any post for me.”
“Yes, there has. That report you were expecting—it came yesterday. Hope you don’t mind—I took the liberty of looking through it.”
“Good man. Anything of interest?”
“Yes. Indeed. That rep you appointed last month—the one you have in place for the East Midlands—he’s a cracker-jack! He’s opened up some interesting avenues. You’ll want to follow them up straight away, I imagine. I’ve sent a copy up to you by motorcycle messenger. It should be arriving within the hour. The original I’ve passed up to Head Office for info and filing.”
“Got it! Thanks, Ernest. Love to your girls!”
Well, at least it had been good to hear the crisp London voice. Familiar, responsive. Joe didn’t think he could have coped with the loneliness and uncertainty of a spy’s life and wondered, again, how Aidan had managed nearly a month of cheerless isolation. He next addressed himself to the problem of finding a particular sheet of paper amongst the press of papers and notices on the master’s board. After a minute or two, he began to work out the system and turned up a term’s supply of dinner lists. There was Aidan’s name on the sheet for the first week of the term and continuing through at intervals to the night he had died: the 31st of October.
Diana's Altar Page 16
