by Mark Ellis
“No, thank you. I’m fine.”
“How can we help?”
Tomlinson loosened the buttons on his suit jacket. “As you will no doubt know, Chief Inspector, Sergeant Bridges here visited my office this morning in search of one of my juniors, Rupert Vorster. I don’t yet know why.” He paused and looked enquiringly at Merlin’s expressionless face.
“No doubt you’ll enlighten me at some point. The sergeant happened to mention the sad, very sad, demise of Mr Edgar Powell, with whom my firm had some dealings very recently. I am not sure if you have any knowledge of those dealings?”
“Assume we know nothing, Mr Tomlinson. Just tell us all you know about Mr Powell.”
Tomlinson launched into a long and verbose description of Powell’s approach to him and their discussion of Simon Arbuthnot’s letter. At the end, he stated that it was his confident belief that Powell had resolved to pass the letter on to him.
“Are you sure he was going to do that?”
“I am. Powell seemed to be an honourable man of substance. It would be only natural for such a man to decide to give the letter to the writer’s solicitor in the circumstances.”
Merlin looked out of the window and thought of his friend. Was it just last Wednesday that he’d been sitting in this very chair advising Eddie to do exactly that? “I think you are right, as it happens, Mr Tomlinson. He was, as you say, a sensible fellow. The letter is now in our possession. We found it in his safe.”
“Ah.” Tomlinson’s eyes lit up. “I presume that by now you have seen the contents of the letter. Can you share them with me? Clearly as the late Mr Arbuthnot’s lawyer and executor, I should be made privy to the contents.”
“The letter contains a coded message. We are trying to decipher it at the moment.”
“Perhaps I could be of assistance?”
“Has Mr Arbuthnot ever corresponded with you or any of your colleagues in code?”
“Er… no. I don’t recall any such communication.”
“Then I think it unlikely you’ll be able to help us. In any event, I’d rather keep the code breaking in-house for the moment. It is our current theory that Mr Powell was murdered by someone who wanted to get this letter. If this theory proves correct, the contents of the message must have high value. Any idea what it might be about?”
Tomlinson shook his head. “I am sorry.” He shook his head again. “No idea at all.”
Merlin leaned forward, steepling his hands together in front of him. “It is my understanding that Simon Arbuthnot ran a large and successful business in the City and abroad and that he was a very wealthy man.”
Tomlinson’s chair creaked as he shifted his position. Merlin sensed that he was uncomfortable for reasons other than the flimsiness of his seat. “Yes… yes, he was a clever man.”
“You mentioned that you are his executor. Can you tell me who inherits?”
“Well, there are a few legal complications relating to his final will but the intention was always for his only son, Philip, to be the main beneficiary. There is a sister, too, of whom Simon was very fond. She was to be provided for as well.”
“When you say ‘legal complications’ what do you mean?”
Tomlinson wondered why he had introduced this qualification to his response. Sometimes his legalistic brain ran away with his mouth. He had made a mistake and Merlin had picked up on it straightaway. Merlin repeated the question.
The solicitor resigned himself to revealing more of Arbuthnot’s messy affairs than he had intended. “Before he went away, and unknown to me until last week, Arbuthnot removed the latest version of his will from my office. He said in a letter that he would send me a new one. The assumption was that there were some minor amendments he wanted to make. He was always making such amendments so there is nothing sinister about this but, after extensive searching, we have not been able to find a copy of the new will nor the one he removed.”
Merlin raised an eyebrow. “So you don’t have the will. If not found, everything would go to the son on intestacy, wouldn’t it?”
“It would.”
“Perhaps Arbuthnot’s message is something to do with the will?”
“Possibly.”
“Mr Tomlinson, your dead client was in control of a very large fortune. People have murdered for far less than I’m guessing he was worth. Can you think of anyone who might be capable of murder to acquire a letter that might affect the disposition of such a fortune?”
“No, of course not!”
“I would ask you to think on it, Mr Tomlinson. Think on it carefully, please.”
* * *
“Someone to see you, Colonel.” The commandant stood at the door, his demeanour suggesting he had again lunched well. “It’s Beaulieu. He has an interesting story to tell.”
The lieutenant, also looking well lunched, appeared from behind Angers, hand raised in salute. The colonel gave no indication of his surprise but simply set down the file he was reading and gave Beaulieu a curt nod. “What story?”
The commandant walked over to Aubertin’s desk and leaned in close to whisper in the colonel’s ear. “We were wrong about this fellow. He’s no spy. You should listen to the story he has to tell. I had to give him a few drinks to loosen his tongue but he is telling the truth, I’m sure.”
Recoiling from Angers’ stinking brandy breath, Aubertin pulled his chair back. He looked hard at Beaulieu. “Very well. I’ll listen. Sit, Lieutenant.”
Beaulieu took a chair at the desk while Angers slumped into one of the armchairs behind. The lieutenant looked uncomfortable. His hand plucked nervously at his moustache.
“Come now, Beaulieu, no need to be shy. You’ve been on leave, haven’t you?”
“I took a few days leave with the permission of my superiors at Carlton Gardens. I had not had any leave since I arrived in England.”
“A well deserved break, I am sure. I have heard how diligent and hard-working you are. You had a pleasant time, I trust?”
“Yes and no. Do you recall the name de Metz?”
“De Metz? The man the police were enquiring about?”
“Yes, sir.”
“What about him?”
“I’m not sure how much you know about him.”
“I have been told the basic details about his unfortunate circumstances and his death.”
“De Metz came to Carlton Gardens seeking financial help. He made noises about having important and valuable intelligence information. The consensus view at Carlton Gardens was that the man was desperately casting around for some sort of currency to use with us. Because he had been an eminent man in Paris before the war and could no doubt drop some big names, he thought he could make something up to his advantage. He didn’t have any real information. That was the view taken and he was sent packing.”
The colonel nodded. “Quite correctly.”
“Last Wednesday, I took my leave and went up to Oxford to see an old English friend of my family. He is a professor of medieval history at Wadham College, specialising in French history of the 13th and 14th centuries. He used to stay with my family at our summer house near Avignon before the war. He entertained me royally until Friday, when I was planning to return to London.
“I was at the Oxford railway station at seven in the evening, waiting for my train, when two men came up to me and insisted that I accompany them. They showed me what looked like police identity cards and it was made clear that I had little choice. I was bundled into a car and driven out of town and into the country. It was not a long journey and soon we were travelling up a long drive towards an immense house, which I later learned to be Blenheim Palace, the estate of the Duke of Marlborough.”
A flash of anger crossed the colonel’s face. He knew MI5 had teams operating out of Blenheim Palace. “Lieutenant, are you telling me you were kidnapped by the British security services? This is an outrage. I shall make protests at the highest levels.”
“Thank you, sir, but I don’t think that will be necessar
y.” Beaulieu paused to allow Aubertin’s anger to subside. “To continue, they kept me there until Sunday morning. I dined well, was given a comfortable room and could walk the grounds, albeit under supervision.”
“And the purpose of this incarceration?”
“They wanted to talk about de Metz. They had apparently interviewed him themselves and had reached the same conclusion as us – that his claims to possession of valuable information were spurious and designed only to get money. However, now that he had been murdered they were beginning to worry that they might have got him wrong. They questioned me to see if I could add to their knowledge of de Metz and, on a broader level, to see what I knew of intelligence leaks in Carlton Gardens.”
Angers allowed himself an ironic smile, given Beaulieu’s status as Aubertin’s principal suspect.
“During their questioning, they told me that they had just received information about an SOE agent in France having been compromised. I presumed them to mean by this that the agent had been arrested or killed. We went over everything a second time but I had nothing to tell them that they didn’t know. Except about the photograph. De Metz had an old picture of two young men, one in some sort of cadet uniform. Two girls as well, I think. Taken in a sunny garden. Somewhere in France.”
“And what of this photograph?”
“I told them that de Metz had shown it to us, saying it was very important. He said he could have someone by the balls with it. The British seemed to find this very interesting although I said that we had thought this claim as spurious as the others.”
“And then?”
“They gave me a good dinner on the Saturday night – well, as good a dinner as you can expect from Englishmen – and I came back to London on the morning train.”
“They didn’t ask you to keep their inquiries to yourself?”
“No. In fact they encouraged me to discuss this with my colleagues on my return. Said it might – what was their phrase? – put the cat among the pigeons.”
Aubertin scratched his cheek. “Well, thank you for telling me about this unpleasant experience. Are you sure you wouldn’t like me to complain? No? Very well. I’m not sure there is anything more to be done. We must all take note and be on our guard against our English hosts, I think. Eh, Commandant?”
“Indeed, sir.”
“You’d better get back to Carlton Gardens, Beaulieu. And thank you.”
The lieutenant left and Aubertin went over to sit by Angers. He could see that the commandant’s eyelids were beginning to droop and so he shook him by the shoulder. “Wake up, Auguste.”
Angers sat up and rubbed his eyes. “Sorry, Colonel. A heavy lunch but all in a good cause, eh? Shall I call off the pursuit of Beaulieu now?”
“On the contrary, Auguste. I presume Beaulieu volunteered this information directly to you?”
“Yes, he rang me this morning to suggest lunch.”
Aubertin put a finger to his mouth and looked thoughtful. “This episode does nothing to release Beaulieu from suspicion. Whether true or not…”
“Surely you don’t think he made it up?”
“Whether true or not, it is really just the equivalent of having dust thrown in our eyes. MI5 can’t know anything about our suspicions. If they picked him up, they just identified him as one of the officers to whom de Metz had spoken. You must keep the Irishman on him exclusively. You have already arranged that, haven’t you?”
“I left him a message, yes. At the weekend.”
“And he understood clearly. That he’s not to follow the others?”
“My message was clear. Concentrate on Beaulieu alone.”
“When is the next meeting?”
“Rougemont’s seeing him tomorrow.”
“You see him. I am sending Rougemont on an errand today. He’ll be away for a couple of days. You must meet yourself with Harp or whatever it is we call him. Make sure he understands. All right?” Aubertin could see Angers’ eyelids beginning to droop again. “And for God’s sake, go and get some fresh air!”
* * *
“Hello, Aunt. Why didn’t you let me know you were coming? Come on in.”
Lucinda Cavendish entered her nephew’s flat, handbag in one hand and a small valise in the other.
“Cup of tea?”
His aunt started to unbutton her overcoat. “Yes please, Philip. I don’t know why I wore this damned thing. It’s boiling outside. That idiot butler of mine said he’d read that it was going to rain in London. Why I listen to him, I don’t know. He’s usually wrong about everything.” As she hung her coat on a peg by the door, she realised that Philip was already in the kitchen and probably couldn’t hear a word she was saying. She went into the drawing room and flopped wearily into an armchair. Philip appeared with her tea.
“I’m sorry to turn up unannounced like this, dear. I did ring for you at the office but they said you weren’t there. I rang here twice but there was no answer.”
“Sorry, Aunt. Must have been out on my constitutional in the park.”
“Anyway, I decided to get on the train in the hope that I’d find you in when I got here, and luckily you are. As you can see, I have brought a case with me. Do you mind awfully if I stay here tonight?”
“Not at all, Aunt. Stay a few days if you like. You could probably do with a change of scene. If you don’t mind my saying, you look a little overwrought. Not surprising in the circumstances but…”
“Your father’s death will take some getting over, of course, Philip, but there is something else that is worrying me.” Lucinda Cavendish took the letter out of her bag. “A good deal of correspondence for your father comes to the hall. As you can imagine, quite a pile has built up over the past months. On Saturday, I steeled myself to go through it all. In among it all I found this. It gave me a shock.”
Philip picked up the letter from the bank and read. His eyes widened. “Well, I’ll be damned. So he mortgaged the hall. That bugger, Beecham!” He threw the letter down in disgust.
His aunt appraised Philip shrewdly. “My dear boy, I sense that the mortgaging of the hall is not as much a surprise to you as it is to me. Who is Beecham and what on earth was your father up to?”
Philip closed his eyes in thought. Should he really burden his aunt with what he had learned? He opened his eyes and saw the strength in her face. Lucinda had always been a rock to his father and to him. And she was the only family he had left in the world. He looked up at the ceiling. Then he began to tell her.
* * *
There were far too many question marks on the case summaries Merlin had just scribbled on his notepad. He went over them again.
Case 1 – Bridget Healy (Republican rebel, good-time girl?).
Found dead – Thursday 5 June at Bedford Hotel, Fitzrovia.
Cause of death – complications from botched abortion.
Abortionist – Armand de Metz, former French surgeon – refugee in England, fallen on hard times. Also dead.
Baby’s father –?
Case 2 – Armand de Metz (abortionist as above).
Found dead – Saturday 7 June at his rented Notting Hill flat.
Cause of death – bullets to head.
Murderer –?
Suspects –?
Motive – something to do with abortion work?
Revenge of father or another for botched abortion?
Possession of damaging intelligence about Free French?
Other?
Case 3 – Edgar Powell (soldier).
Found dead – Saturday 14 June at his Flood Street flat.
Cause of death – drowned in bath.
Murderer –?
Suspects – men seen by Mrs Wilcox?
Others with motive?
Motive – to acquire encoded letter of Mr Simon Arbuthnot?
Other?
He popped another lozenge into his mouth as he picked up his pencil and added to his list.
Case 4 – Simon Arbuthnot (wealthy businessman).
C
ause of death – killed by Germans in Cretan retreat.
Crime – link to death of Powell.
Why his letter so valuable/desirable?
Arbuthnot’s business and life in London?
As he sat back, wondering whether he could usefully add any more to the memorandum, the telephone rang.
“Hello, Frank. Harold here. Got a moment?”
“Of course, Harold. Do you want to meet?”
“I think we can risk the telephone for once. I received some information regarding the gentleman we were discussing the other day. I was wondering whether you found any photographs in among his belongings?”
Merlin paused a second to recall the items they had found in de Metz’s flat. “Yes, there was a photograph. An old photograph of two young men, and two young women..”
“Do you think we could have a look at it?”
“Of course. Do you want me to bring it to you?”
“No. I’ll send a messenger round. Just pop it in an envelope marked for my attention. I’ll have someone at Scotland Yard within the hour if that’s convenient.”
“I’ll have it ready.”
* * *
Bernie Goldberg spent his morning at the American Embassy sorting out the details of his return journey to the States. As always with government arrangements, an inordinate amount of paperwork was required. After all was arranged, he made his way out into Grosvenor Square and then on to Brook Street. He got to Claridge’s 10 minutes late for his lunch.
Goldberg’s new friend spotted him and waved him into the cocktail bar, where he had taken two seats at the counter.
“Sorry to be late.”
“Think nothing of it, Detective. I know you’re a busy guy. That’s why I thought it best to grab a place at the bar. If you’re pressed for time, we can have a sandwich here. And a drink or two, of course.”
“That would be perfect, Ed.” Goldberg’s lunch companion was Ed Murrow, head of news operations for the American radio network CBS in London. Murrow had become a well known and influential reporter in the United States thanks to his vivid and poetic descriptions of the Blitz and British courage under the German bombs. In the tradition of a long line of war correspondents, he was a chain smoker and hard drinker. Goldberg found him engaging and intelligent company.
