by Mark Ellis
He went over and gently shook his aunt’s shoulder. “The police are here to see me.” Earlier in the day, he had told Lucinda about his father’s gambling problems, Beecham’s visit and the mysterious letter that had been brought back from Crete. His aunt’s immediate reaction had been to tell him to go straight to the police.
Arbuthnot had thought Lucinda would be wary of public exposure and protective of her brother’s reputation but her response had been firm. “He is dead, you are alive. If crooks are threatening you, get the police to deal with them.”
He had said he’d rather not do that until he’d discussed things with Tomlinson and Fleming. Aunt and nephew had agreed to disagree. She had gone out shopping and he had read a P.G. Wodehouse book to take his mind off things.
Five minutes later, Arbuthnot and his aunt were sitting around the coffee table in the drawing room with Merlin and Bridges. “I am sorry to bother you, Mr Arbuthnot, at this difficult time but we are dealing with a murder that may somehow be connected with your father.”
Arbuthnot looked confused. “My father is dead, Chief Inspector. How can he be connected with a murder?”
“Have you heard of a man called Edgar Powell?”
“Yes. A fellow officer of Father’s in Crete. I understand he brought some message from him and discussed handing it to our solicitor. I was telling my aunt about it earlier.”
Lucinda Cavendish straightened in her chair. “I thought it strange that Mr Powell didn’t contact Philip or myself. I would have thought we were the most appropriate people to take delivery of the letter.”
“You may be right, Mrs Cavendish. I can only tell you that Mr Powell agonised about who should get the letter and ultimately resolved, we believe, to pass it to Mr Tomlinson. He wasn’t, however, able to do so. Have you spoken to Mr Tomlinson today, sir?”
“No. I rang the office a couple of times but he was out.”
“I see. Then you don’t know about Mr Powell?”
“What about him?”
“He was found dead over the weekend. Drowned in his bath. We think he may have been murdered for the letter.”
Nephew and aunt exchanged shocked glances. “Well, that’s very… that’s… that’s terrible.” Arbuthnot paused to think. “However, I find it hard to imagine what sort of message from my father could provoke a murder. Was the letter taken by the murderer?”
“No. We have it. There is a difficulty, however. It is in code.” Merlin took the message out of his jacket pocket and gave it to Arbuthnot.
Arbuthnot looked at it carefully.
“Any idea as to what it could mean?”
Philip looked blankly back. “It’s just a jumble of numbers. I have no idea at all. Aunt?” He passed it on.
Mrs Cavendish took off her glasses and held it close.
Merlin leaned forward. “Our initial expert advice is that this might be some kind of book cipher. Do you remember your father having any particular interest in codes, sir?”
“No. He never discussed the subject with me as far as I can recall.”
“Mrs Cavendish?”
Lucinda Cavendish returned the message to the chief inspector and briefly looked off into the distance before responding. “I believe I can say, with some certainty, Mr Merlin, that this message was intended to come to me.” She smiled. “It was during the war, when we were in our teens – 1915, perhaps 1916. There was all sorts of talk about German spies. Simon read a book by John Buchan, The 39 Steps.”
“The one they made a film of, ma’am, starring Robert Donat?”
“I don’t go to the pictures much, Sergeant, but yes, I did read that there was a moving picture made. So he read that book, then some other similar stories. Simon loved tales of espionage and became particularly fascinated by secret languages. He got hold of a cipher book and was soon making up coded messages, which I was required to decipher. He made me learn how to encode messages, too, for him to decipher. I quite enjoyed it. I have always had a good mathematical brain and I like puzzles and crosswords.” She pointed at the completed crossword in the newspaper in her lap. “He tried all types of code but the book cipher was his favourite.”
Merlin could feel his pulse accelerating. “Did he have any favourite books for code making?”
“He did. Books by John Buchan. The one I mentioned, The 39 Steps, and its sequel, Greenmantle.”
“If you were the intended recipient of this message, your brother would have to assume you knew which book to go to. Which book?”
“Greenmantle was his favourite. He was always rereading it. I saw him with it as recently as last year. One of the main characters is called Sandy Arbuthnot. Not surprisingly, he identified with him. A very aristocratic hero, who was a friend of Buchan’s protagonist, Richard Hannay. I believe Simon saw him as something of a role model.”
“Presumably the sender and recipient have to work from the same edition. If he had the source copy with him in Crete, do you have a matching edition?”
Lucinda thought for a moment. “Our father was quite impressed by our code-making efforts. He thought we should each have copies of the books we were using. So, yes, I should have my edition of Greenmantle somewhere at home.”
“And home is where, ma’am?”
“Sackville Hall in Northamptonshire, Sergeant. Would you like me to go and bring it back for you?”
“Do you mind if we come up to you?”
“Not at all. I shall be returning tomorrow morning on the first train.”
“Tomorrow around 12.30 then, if that’s convenient?”
“That would be convenient.” Merlin and Bridges stood up. “But please don’t leave yet, Chief Inspector. Philip, I believe there is something else you’d like to discuss with Mr Merlin?”
A pink flush appeared on her nephew’s cheeks. “No, Aunt, we haven’t yet finished discussing that. I’d like to talk to the others and…”
“For goodness sake, Philip, spit it out. It’s for the best.”
Merlin settled back in his seat, bemused. “And what exactly is for the best, sir?”
* * *
Bridges pulled sharply over to the kerb as two fire engines raced past him on Berkeley Square. Although the raids had stopped for the moment, the fire and rescue services still had mountains of work. There were unexploded bombs everywhere, damaged buildings in need of shoring up or demolition, and broken gas and water pipes and other utilities requiring continuous attention.
“I think I’ll call off those plans for tonight.”
“Sir?”
Merlin rolled down the car window. “Now we know that this dangerous fellow Beecham has a part to play, it might be wise to hold off and be a little more – what’s the word? – circumspect.”
The fire engines disappeared in the direction of Oxford Street and Bridges engaged gears and pulled away. “I’ve never really understood what that word means, sir.”
“We need to pause for thought. We are pursuing Vorster and Dumont to see if they can give us more on Bridget Healey. If they turn up tonight and do as before we shall be exposing Goldberg to unnecessary danger. I don’t want him going to a club run by a man who is making violent threats. And these links with Simon Arbuthnot. Eddie Powell got himself killed running an errand for him. There are connections here that we don’t understand but that should make us very wary. In the circumstances, it’s too dangerous to send Goldberg in.”
There was another traffic hold-up on the other side of Bond Street, which Bridges tried to avoid by turning into Bruton Street.
“Arbuthnot says Beecham seemed a very hard nut. That’s not surprising, given the business he’s in, but we need to be very careful and find out more about him. I think we should revert to the original plan and go ahead and pull Vorster and Dumont in as soon as we can. Goldberg will be disappointed but better that than he ends up in trouble a few days before he goes home.”
“Fair enough, sir.” They were now in New Bond Street, which was also congested, and Bridges turned
left on to Burlington Gardens to cut through to Regent Street. They passed the Burlington Arcade, where they had been involved in a shoot-out nine months before. Merlin remembered everything very clearly. Things had been too close for comfort that night. Constable Tommy Cole had been the one unlucky enough to take a bullet. Merlin and Bridges could have very easily been shot as well.
Bridges was obviously thinking about that night, too. “I had a letter from Tommy yesterday. Said he thought he might be sent back from Southampton in a week or two.”
Merlin smiled. “Good! Let’s hope so. Now put your foot down, Sam. The road is clear.”
* * *
Vorster was watching a game of vingt-et-un. Beecham’s place was not at its busiest but that was only to be expected on a Monday night. There were groans as a couple of the players got cleaned out by the bank for the fifth time in succession. Vorster decided to watch another game and was walking over to one of the poker tables when he felt a hand on his shoulder. It was one of Beecham’s waiters. Vorster followed him, as requested, to the study at the back where Beecham did his business.
His host was counting a wad of cash, a cigar in his mouth and a large glass of brandy on the desk in front of him. He looked up with that supercilious smile of his and tidied the cash away in a drawer.
“Rupert, my dear chap! There you are. Can I interest you in some brandy? Yes? Pour Mr Vorster a glass before you leave us, Reynolds.”
Beecham was wearing, as he usually did, an ordinary suit, this evening a brown worsted. Vorster had once heard Beecham’s reply to a drunken customer who had complained that he was not wearing black tie. “But if I did that, my dear Sir Malcolm, you and your guests would regard me as a maître d’ and I wouldn’t care for that.”
“So, take the weight off, as my old pa used to say.” Rupert sat down and tasted his brandy.
“Not bad, is it? I got several bottles in part settlement of a debt. The Earl of… I forget where. Somewhere in the far-flung bogs of Ireland. It’s a cognac from the 1900s, bottled some time in the 1920s. Produced by Gautier Frères, who have been distilling this golden nectar for several centuries.”
Vorster took another sip. “It’s wonderful, Peregrine.”
“So where is your American friend tonight? The one who came on Friday. I thought he’d told you he’d be around for a while.”
“No sign of him at the Ritz tonight, I’m afraid. I thought he might have come directly here but obviously not. He’ll be back another night, I bet.”
“Don’t bet anything, Rupert. It’s not your forte, remember? Anyway, let’s hope you’re right. No other likely suckers tonight?” Beecham swirled the brandy around in his glass before trickling some into his mouth.
“No, sorry.”
“Hmm.”
Vorster turned away from Beecham’s penetrating glare. “Any more news about Arbuthnot?”
“No, Peregrine.”
“So the situation is as you said last week. The certificates are missing. This friend of Arbuthnot’s – Powell, you said his name was – has some important document or documents in his possession. Entrusted to him by Arbuthnot as he lay dying.”
“Yes. I wasn’t in the office today so I have no more information. I don’t know whether Powell gave what he had to Tomlinson. I…” There was some sort of racket outside. They heard raised voices.
“An unlucky customer, I presume.” Beecham gave Vorster a lizard-like smile. The commotion, whatever it was, swiftly subsided.
“I think…”
Beecham put a finger to his lips and Vorster fell silent. “I, unlike you, Rupert, have not been idle. I have some new information. I made a point of finding out Powell’s address.”
“Actually, Peregrine, so did I.”
“Did you now? And are you aware that Powell’s place was swarming with policemen on Saturday?”
“Oh?”
“Powell is dead. After you told me about this last week, I was wondering about what Powell had. The certificates? Probably not. It would be very odd of him to have carried those into battle with him. A message about their whereabouts? Much more likely. In any event, we are not going to get hold of anything now. The letter is most likely in the hands of the police.” Beecham topped up his brandy.
“You know, Rupert, I have been looking to you for a little creativity in helping me sort out this quandary. Arbuthnot has died, owing me a very large sum. Somehow or other, the debt must be settled. I don’t have to remind you that your own debt to me, while not in the same league as Arbuthnot’s, is still quite substantial.”
“Of course, Peregrine, I have tried. I’ve…”
“I have been patient. I have avoided causing you embarrassment. I have not approached your father. I have allowed you to work off some of your debt by the provision of services. I like you, Rupert, I really do. But you’d best keep on the right side of me.”
“Of course, Peregrine. I am at your full disposal.” Vorster lit a cigarette with a shaking hand and avoided Beecham’s eye.
Beecham drew on his cigar. “I suggest you make sure you are in your office tomorrow. Keep your ears to the ground. Report any new developments to me immediately. Is that understood?”
“Yes, Peregrine.”
CHAPTER 13
Tuesday 17 June
London
“I don’t care about Dumont and who he’s seeing, Mr Harp. I thought it would have been clear from my note that you were only to concentrate your efforts on Beaulieu from Sunday onwards. If the colonel knew you had still been following Dumont or Meyer…”
“I have dropped Meyer, Commandant. He is in the clear as far as I am concerned.”
“Good, but Aubertin insists that we come up with the goods on Beaulieu. He is convinced that Beaulieu is the leak.”
“But Aubertin…”
“Aubertin wants Beaulieu and if you can’t nail him then I’ll have to do it myself, somehow.”
Devlin took several drags on his cigarette. The Holborn café had its usual sparse scattering of late-morning customers, the nearest of whom, a bearded old man, was noisily slurping tea from a saucer. Angers clucked his disapproval. “Quelles cochons, les Anglais!”
“Where is Rougemont?”
“Rougemont has been sent to interview some newly arrived French émigrés in Kent. He is going to be out of town for a few days.”
“And what about what I have just told you? Shouldn’t you relay that to Aubertin?”
Angers closed his eyes. His head was throbbing and he wished fervently that he’d never been dragged into this operation. “I think the colonel has some sort of inside information on Beaulieu. He thinks it inevitable that he will make a slip any moment. I can tell him what you say but I don’t think it will change his mind.”
Devlin stared hard at Angers. “I monitored Beaulieu again from four until midnight yesterday. Nothing untoward. You tell me there was a legitimate reason for his late arrival back from Oxford so nothing untoward about his Oxford visit. He seems as straight as a die to me so far. Yet when I have something fishy to report on one of the others, you aren’t interested. It seems to me that you are not particularly interested in finding out who the real culprit is. You just want to frame a specific officer.”
The commandant’s mouth twisted in anger. Devlin liked Rougemont. He thought Rougemont was an honourable, intelligent man. All he could see in Angers was stupidity, bluster and naked ambition. Aubertin had no doubt made it clear to Angers that his career would prosper if he followed his orders unquestioningly.
The Irishman shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t do what you ask, Commandant, and I can’t carry on with your commission. You entrusted me with an important job, which I was happy to carry out. You know that I am as much a French patriot as an Irish one. If there is a Free French spy, I want to help you find him. I have told you where my suspicions lie. You are not interested.” Devlin got to his feet. “Accordingly, I bid you farewell and good luck. Don’t worry about the money but I’ll leave the
bill to you.” He tapped the brim of his hat and turned to the door.
“Dev… erm… Harp! Come back. Come back here right now!” The door banged shut and the Irishman was gone. Angers sat in morose contemplation of the empty chair opposite for a while then requested the bill. He’d better get back to Dorset Square to brief the colonel. He knew what was coming. In the absence of Rougemont and Devlin, who else could do the colonel’s legwork?
* * *
Northamptonshire
Merlin had originally intended to take Bridges alone with him on his trip to Northamptonshire but Goldberg was so disappointed at the cancellation of his undercover assignment on Monday that Merlin didn’t have the heart to exclude him. Robinson had also been keen to come but Merlin had insisted on someone staying in London to man the fort.
Mrs Cavendish was no longer travelling home by train because her nephew felt he should be with her in Sackville Hall for the police visit and so was driving her there. Under the circumstances, Merlin had suggested they travel in convoy. And so the police Austin followed closely behind Arbuthnot’s Morgan as they winded through the Northamptonshire country lanes and neared their destination.
It was perfect open-top weather but Arbuthnot kept the Morgan’s hood on to protect the expensive Mayfair perm Aunt Lucinda had acquired the previous afternoon. “My reward for enduring such a terrible day,” she had told Merlin. It was just after one o’clock when Bridges saw Arbuthnot turn off the road and through a high stone gateway. He trailed the Morgan up a winding drive lined with oak and beech trees. Halfway up the drive, the hall came into view.
“Beautiful house, gentlemen.”
“Sure is, Frank. How the other half live, eh?”
“Early Georgian, I think, or perhaps even Queen Anne.”
Bridges drove into the front courtyard and parked beyond the Morgan, which had pulled up in front of the main door. An elderly male servant tottered out to assist Mrs Cavendish into the house. Once inside, she issued a string of commands to the servant and a waiting maid before turning to Merlin. “Jackson here will escort you to the library. Philip, you accompany them. If you’ll kindly allow me a moment to refresh myself after the journey, gentlemen.” As she ascended the grand staircase ahead of them, the policemen followed Jackson and Philip into a gloomy room off to their right.
