Shadows of the Dead

by Jim Eldridge

  The Americans had only declared war on Germany in December 1917, and their troops hadn’t entered action until early in 1918. Stark hoped that by only asking about this short period he would be able to get a swift reply. He found that he was wrong. At first he was frustratingly passed from one department to another, and when he finally thought he had located the right person who could give him the information he required, he was told, ‘I regret that we are unable to supply you with any information concerning the activities of the late Lord Fairfax.’

  ‘But this is a murder enquiry,’ insisted Stark.

  ‘That may be, sir,’ said the crisp, detached voice at the other end of the telephone, ‘but we are not allowed to give out any information about any War Office personnel.’

  ‘Perhaps if the Police Commissioner approached the Minister for War with the enquiry?’ asked Stark, doing his best to hide his anger.

  ‘Providing the request was put in writing, it would be considered,’ said the man curtly.

  I’m hitting a brick wall, thought Stark angrily. ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘I will certainly initiate such a request. May I have your name, please, in order to make reference to this conversation in our request?’

  ‘We are not allowed to give out names,’ said the voice.

  ‘Then perhaps you’d give me the name of your department,’ suggested Stark.

  ‘Nor are we allowed to disclose information about departments. If a written request is submitted, it will be passed to the relevant department. Thank you. Good day.’

  Stark heard the hum of a disconnected call buzzing in his ear, then he slammed the receiver down. Bastards! he scowled. Typical War Office bureaucrat. Safe behind a desk, building a wall against any probing into their inner workings. ‘Bastards!’ he said again, out loud this time, just as the door opened and Sergeant Danvers came in.

  ‘Problems, sir?’ asked Danvers.

  ‘The War Office,’ grunted Stark. ‘Doing what they do best. Hiding behind regulations.’ He gave a weary and angry sigh, then said, ‘I hope you had better luck. Your note said your parents might have some information about the case. Which aspect? Fairfax or Adams?’

  ‘I thought it was going to be some information about Adams; as it turned out, though, they wanted to talk about Edgar Cavendish.’

  ‘That’s a coincidence; Mr Cavendish called earlier. What did they have to say about him?’

  ‘They don’t like him, sir. My father in particular. They’re very concerned about my sister, Lettie, and her relationship with him.’

  ‘Her relationship?’

  ‘Not in that way. At least, they hope not. They asked me if I could intervene. Get her to back off from him.’

  ‘Good luck with that, Sergeant. From my experience, the more people are warned against someone, the more attractive that person becomes.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Were they able to tell you anything about Adams?’

  ‘I’m afraid we didn’t actually get to talk much about him, except for them to say that Lettie had met him. And when I asked her about Adams, she wasn’t able to tell me much either. She suggested I talk to an actor called Noël Coward. She said Adams was talking to him at some length at an art exhibition she went to with Cavendish.’

  ‘Do you know him? This Noël Coward?’

  ‘No, sir. But Lettie says he’s a terrible gossip. Which might prove useful.’

  ‘Yes, indeed, Sergeant. That’s a good thought. Did your sister mention where we can get hold of him?’

  ‘Lettie says he’s appearing at the New Theatre in a play. I checked and there’s a matinee performance this afternoon.’ He looked at the clock. ‘If we left now, we might be able to have a word with him before the performance.’

  ‘Yes, let’s go.’ Stark took his coat and hat from the rack, and he and Danvers headed downstairs to the motor pool. As they walked, Stark filled Danvers in about Cavendish’s visit, and the fact that Adams had seen action at Belleau Wood in the war.

  ‘So it could have been an old soldiers’ reunion,’ said Danvers. He frowned. ‘But I thought Lord Fairfax was in a desk job, directing operations, during the war.’

  ‘Apparently, he also went to the Front when he could. That’s the information I was trying to get out of the War Office, but I hit a stone wall.’

  ‘Why don’t I ask my father if he knows anything?’ suggested Danvers. ‘A lot of retired generals move in the same social circles. I’m sure they must have talked.’

  ‘Good idea,’ nodded Stark. He smiled. ‘It’ll also give you a chance to talk to your sister on the dangers of someone like Mr Cavendish.’

  Danvers scowled unhappily. ‘Thank you, sir,’ he said sourly.

  Stark and Danvers arrived at the New Theatre in St Martin’s Lane half an hour before the performance was due to begin.

  ‘Let’s hope he’s not one who needs hours to get prepared for his role,’ muttered Stark doubtfully. ‘Perhaps we should have telephoned ahead.’

  ‘I get the impression from Lettie that he’s not one of those serious theatrical types,’ said Danvers. ‘According to her, he seems to treat it all as fun.’

  They interrupted the stage doorkeeper from reading his newspaper, showed him their warrant cards and asked for directions to Mr Noël Coward’s dressing room.

  ‘Down the corridor, first left, then first left again. It’s the second door on the right.’

  ‘Don’t you need to check with him first that he won’t mind us calling on him?’ asked Stark.

  The doorman shrugged. ‘He won’t mind,’ he said. ‘People are popping in and out of his dressing room the whole time. He seems to love it.’

  Stark and Danvers followed the directions and found themselves outside the door of a dressing room coming from which they could hear singing.

  ‘Is it a musical?’ queried Stark.

  ‘I don’t think so, sir,’ said Danvers. ‘The poster says it’s by Beaumont and Fletcher. From what I can remember, they were writing at about the same time as Shakespeare.’

  Stark knocked on the door. The singing stopped and a voice called, ‘Enter, whoever you are!’

  Stark opened the door, and he and Danvers stepped into the dressing room. A thin-faced young man, wearing a dressing gown ornately patterned with Chinese designs, was sitting in front of a mirror applying white stage make-up.

  ‘Mr Noël Coward?’ enquired Stark.

  ‘I sincerely hope so; otherwise someone else has stolen my dressing room,’ said Coward. ‘Let me guess. Reporters?’

  ‘Police, sir. I’m Detective Chief Inspector Stark and this is Detective Sergeant Danvers.’

  ‘Lettie’s brother!’ Coward put down his make-up and got to his feet, smiling at them. ‘How wonderful to meet you! Lettie has told me so much about you! A policeman!’ He smiled and winked. ‘Sounds like social revolution to me! Joining the downtrodden lower orders! How wonderfully proletarian!’ He gave Stark an arch smile. ‘Not that I’ve got anything against the police! They’ve been involved in some of my most exciting escapades.’

  ‘I’m glad to know that we have been of service, sir,’ said Stark politely.

  Coward let out a braying laugh. ‘Why, what an outrageous thing to say, Chief Inspector!’ he chuckled.

  ‘You’re sure this isn’t an inconvenient time?’ asked Stark. ‘We do understand you have a performance to prepare for.’

  ‘Hardly prepare for!’ pouted Coward. ‘Do you know the play, Chief Inspector?’

  ‘Er … no, sir.’

  ‘You have not missed a thing. Absolutely ghastly. It’s supposed to be a comedy. Well, it may have had them rolling in the aisles in 1600 and whatever, but I can assure you it is absolutely turgid. Fortunately, the audience seem happy with it, so who am I to complain?’ He sat down at his dressing table again, his expression suddenly serious. ‘But enough of the dreaded Burning Pestle. Lettie phoned to tell me you might be in touch. I understand this is about poor Carl?’

  ‘Yes, sir. C
arl Adams. Miss Danvers said that you were engaged in conversation with him at a recent gathering at an art exhibition.’

  ‘Art!’ snorted Coward derisively. ‘The Post-Vorticists, they were calling themselves. Though, if you ask me, it was just poor old Wyndham desperately scraping by on his fingernails.’

  ‘Wyndham?’ asked Stark

  ‘Wyndham Lewis,’ said Coward. ‘Do you know his work? No, I don’t suppose you do. Too, too outré! And, let’s face it, Vorticism died with the war.’

  ‘Mr Adams, sir,’ prompted Stark. ‘What did you talk about?’

  ‘With Carl? Why, America, of course! I have already decided it is my spiritual home. And Mr Adams is – was – involved in the moving picture business! And that is the future for we creative types – you mark my words.’

  ‘Was he helpful?’

  ‘Very. But cagey, you know. I’d hoped to get an invitation of some sort. You know: “When you get to the States you must come and stay with us!” The Americans are like that, very friendly. But, alas, no such invitation was forthcoming. Perhaps it might have come later.’

  ‘What about Mr Cavendish? Did you talk to him at all?’

  Coward’s face creased into a look of disapproval, as if his nostrils had suddenly detected a bad smell. ‘Briefly. Now, there’s a dangerous creature, I said to myself.’

  ‘Dangerous? In what way?’

  ‘He’s so charming, so nice. Have you met him?’

  ‘Yes. He called to see me this morning.’

  ‘Doing his best Douglas Fairbanks impression, I expect.’ Stark did his best to hide his smile. Yes, that was Cavendish to a tee. A Douglas Fairbanks copy. ‘Trust me, Chief Inspector, no one is that charming and nice, not in real life. He reminds me of a cobra – all hypnotic, the perfect smile, but just waiting for the right moment to strike and devour.’

  ‘Getting back to Mr Adams, can you think of why he might have been meeting Lord Fairfax? Going to meet him at his flat?’

  ‘Absolutely no idea! I’d have thought their two worlds were like oil and water: the moving picture business and the military machine. As far as I know, Lord Fairfax had no interest in anything to do with the arts. I’ve certainly never seen him at anything, and I go to most things. It’s important to be seen.’

  ‘So you’ve never met Lord Fairfax yourself?’

  ‘Oh, of course I’ve met him. But not to socialize with. Especially with that dreadful harridan hanging around him whenever I see him, like some malevolent bodyguard.’

  ‘Which harridan would that be?’

  ‘Theresa Ambleton. Or Lady Ambleton, to give her her title. Because she loves her title. Now there’s someone – if I had a suspicious mind – that I’d be taking a close interest in with relation to the poor dear departed Lord Fairfax. My God, the woman is Lady Macbeth personified! Beneath that elegant exterior, absolutely ruthless. Completely without ruth.’

  ‘Would you say that this Lady Ambleton and Lord Fairfax were … close?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Very close indeed. Positively intertwined. But reflect on the black widow spider, Inspector, who kills her spouse after mating.’ And Coward gave a little shudder of glee.

  There was a tap at the door and it opened to reveal a small boy. ‘Fifteen minutes!’ chirruped the boy, then he vanished, on his way to alert the other members of the cast.

  ‘Is there anything else?’ asked Coward. ‘Only I need to finish applying the cake so that I am ready for my public.’

  ‘No. Thank you for your time, Mr Coward. Your help has been invaluable.’

  ‘Always happy to be of service to the boys in blue,’ said Coward. ‘Do call again!’

  Stark and Danvers left the young actor to complete his make-up.

  ‘Well, what do you think, sir?’ asked Danvers.

  ‘I think Mr Coward will go far in his chosen profession,’ commented Stark.

  ‘I meant his opinion that Lady Ambleton might have had a hand in Lord Fairfax’s death.’

  Stark frowned. ‘Motive?’ he asked.

  ‘A woman scorned?’

  ‘We don’t know if she was scorned. Or even what her relationship was with Lord Fairfax.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I suggest we divide our time, Sergeant. I shall return to Lord Fairfax’s flat and talk to his valet and see what I can find out about his late Lordship’s life, and also ask him about Lady Ambleton. You talk to your father. The period we’re interested in is from early in 1918, once the Americans came into the action. See if Lord Fairfax was in the same part of France at the time of Belleau Wood. The summer of 1918.’

  NINE

  When Redford opened the door of Lord Fairfax’s apartment to Stark’s ring of the doorbell, Stark noticed the valet had the use of only one arm; his left arm was kept by his side. He mentally kicked himself. Why didn’t I spot that before? Too busy looking at the scene of the crime, or too concerned about the implication that Amelia’s ex-husband had been the victim.

  I allowed myself to get too involved, he remonstrated with himself. I need to keep myself detached if I’m going to solve these murders. And that meant pushing the complicated situation with Amelia out of his mind. It wasn’t easy.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you again, Mr Redford,’ he said, ‘but there are just a few things I need to clarify.’

  ‘By all means, sir,’ said Redford. ‘Do come in.’

  Stark stepped into the flat, and followed the valet into the kitchen, which appeared to be Redford’s base of operations.

  ‘Do you know yet what will happen to you?’ enquired Stark. ‘I assume you live in.’

  ‘I do indeed, sir. Fortunately, I have been informed by Mr Wright, Lord Fairfax’s solicitor, that Lord Fairfax has made provisions for me under his will. Not enough to stay here, but enough for me to be able to rent somewhere reasonable. I’m glad to say Lord Fairfax was a very considerate employer. Many others would not have been so lucky.’

  ‘That is true,’ agreed Stark. ‘You said before that you were with Lord Fairfax before the war, and returned to his service after it.’

  ‘Yes, sir. I was with Lord Fairfax for nine years before the war, and the three years since it ended.’

  ‘So you knew Lady Amelia?’

  ‘I did, sir. A most wonderful lady, in my opinion. Very fair.’

  ‘If you were in Lord Fairfax’s service for all that time, you must have become familiar with his life.’

  ‘Familiar to a certain degree, sir,’ replied Redford cagily. ‘He was the master, I was the servant.’

  ‘Of course,’ nodded Stark. ‘I only meant that you would have known about people he mixed with socially.’

  ‘Not really, sir. My world was here.’

  ‘Then you would have known the people who called on him regularly.’

  Once again, Stark was aware of a hesitancy in the valet as he answered guardedly, ‘Yes, sir. To a degree.’

  ‘Mr Redford,’ said Stark, ‘I’ll put my cards on the table. Your master has been murdered in a most horrible fashion. It is obvious to me that you had the greatest respect for him and don’t wish to say anything that might sully his memory. But unless I am in possession of all the facts, I cannot do my job properly and bring the people who committed this outrage to justice. You want Lord Fairfax to be avenged for what happened to him. So do I.’

  Redford studied Stark for a moment, then he said, ‘I heard that you served in the war, sir. That you were in the front line of the action for the whole four years. And that you received promotions in the field and medals for bravery.’

  ‘Who told you that?’ asked Stark.

  ‘I recall reading it in the newspapers recently when you were investigating the death of Lord Amersham.’

  ‘Yes, I served,’ nodded Stark.

  ‘And you commanded. You were a captain.’

  ‘In wartime promotions happened. Dead man’s shoes,’ replied Stark.

  ‘My point, sir, is that you understand about loyalty in the field. I didn’t see action with Lord Fairfax
because his war took him elsewhere, but he was loyal to me, taking me back into his service despite a disabling injury I received. He was a good man, sir. I would never sully his memory.’

  ‘I can assure you I’m not asking you to do that,’ said Stark. ‘I’m not interested in gossip or tittle-tattle about his life. If I want that, I can always find it. What I want is information that might help me find out who killed him, and why. People he was close to. People who might have harboured ill will towards him. For example, I understand that you telephoned Lady Amelia this morning as one of the first people to be told.’

  ‘Yes, sir. That is correct. In fact, she was the first person I contacted after I had informed the police.’

  ‘Why was that? I understand she and Lord Fairfax had been separated for some years.’

  ‘It was on the instructions of Lord Fairfax, sir. He told me that if anything should ever happen to him, I was to inform Lady Amelia, his solicitor, Victor Wright, and Lady Ambleton.’

  ‘In that order?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And did you manage to get hold of his solicitor at that early hour?’

  ‘Lord Fairfax had left me with Mr Wright’s home telephone number, sir.’

  ‘You’d better let me have that.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And then you telephoned Lady Ambleton.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Before or after I arrived this morning?’

  ‘Before, sir. But I waited until the police had first appeared before I made the telephone calls.’

  ‘No other people to contact? Relatives?’

  ‘No, sir. That will be done by Mr Wright. Lord Fairfax had a younger brother, resident in Australia. But no other family.’

  ‘Was Lady Ambleton a frequent visitor to this apartment?’

  Redford hesitated.

  He’s weighing up his words, thought Stark. ‘Mr Redford, we have already been told that there are suggestions of a relationship between Lord Fairfax and Lady Ambleton.’

  ‘Lady Ambleton is a widow, sir,’ said Redford quickly. ‘There are no suggestions of impropriety.’