by Mark Ellis
* * *
London
“There’s a letter, Constable, addressed to you and Sergeant Bridges. It was hand delivered.”
“Thank you, Sergeant. When did this arrive?”
Sergeant Reeves stroked his double chin. “To be honest, Robinson, I can’t tell you. I found it on the duty desk when I came on shift an hour or so ago. Normally the duty officer marks the incoming delivery details on the envelope but this one is clean. It was a very busy night last night. Perhaps he forgot. Occasionally mistakes get made. There is a…”
“War on. Yes, I know, sir. Thank you anyway.” Reeves disappeared and Robinson opened the letter.
Dear Sergeant Bridges and Constable Robinson,
Please forgive me for not being completely truthful at our interview and for not providing the fuller information contained in this letter in person. I have had a few unsatisfactory experiences with the police in the past and I’d prefer not to have any more.
I am taking a little break from London. It won’t be long before my call-up papers arrive at Mrs Lafontaine’s house and much as I love my country, I don’t think I will do it or myself much good by putting on the khaki uniform. I have had reason to disappear in the past and am quite good at it, so please don’t waste your time by trying to track me down.
I am very sorry about Bridget Healey and what happened to her. I think you suspected we had a fling together. We did not although I would have jumped at the chance. I believe I was not unattractive to her but she always had her eye on the main chance. Why waste time on a chauffeur when there are bigger fish to catch?
I told you that I last saw her briefly by chance in Piccadilly Circus in April. In fact, we went for lunch and had a bit of a heart-to-heart. She told me that she’d met someone who had got her in the family way. Bridget was very keen on this fellow and felt he was going to do the right thing by her. She didn’t mean marriage but she thought he would stand by her and support her and the baby. She wouldn’t tell me who he was but gave me the impression he was quite well-to-do. I offered to help in any way I could but she said there was no need.
A few weeks later, she telephoned me in floods of tears and told me that the man in question was insisting she have an abortion. She was distraught. I didn’t really know what to say but again I offered my support. We arranged to meet. When we did, she had calmed down and become more philosophical – “What would I be wanting a baby for, anyway?”
We met again at the Lyons Tea House in the Strand. She told me the father of her baby had arranged for some French fellow to perform the abortion. Said she’d been told he’d been a very famous doctor back in France and would do a good job. A day or two later, she rang me in a panic. Her lover had given her the address of a hotel off Oxford Street, the Bedford, and she had been told to turn up there for the procedure the following day before one o’clock. He couldn’t accompany her as he “had important work to do” although he did say he might send someone along to check that all had gone well. She was petrified and asked me if I’d accompany her. She had been told to check in to room 14 and wait.
I agreed. We got there very early. Over an hour after we got to the room, a fat Frenchman turned up. He stank of booze. I was complaining to him about the state he was in, and saying he should arrange another time to carry out the operation, when another man arrived. He was another Frenchman. I kept trying to get everything called off but this Frenchman pulled a gun on me and told me to clear off. Bridget was naturally in a terrible state but, after a few words in French with the officer, which I couldn’t understand, she calmed down and agreed with him that I should go. I hesitated but she insisted. I thought to myself that at least someone was there to keep an eye on things, even though he had waved a gun at me.
So I left. Naturally I now wish I’d stayed. Perhaps I could have saved her. I went to see a picture in Leicester Square and had a bite to eat before returning to the hotel to see if all was well. By then you fellows were all over the place. I hung around outside and heard someone mention a dead girl. I knew it had to be Bridget and went away to drown my sorrows.
I hope you can make good use of this information. If you can find the Frenchman, I am sure you will be able to get to the bottom of this. He was a good-looking young chap, dark-haired, about six feet tall. The main thing I remember about him was that he had a slight limp. Whether that was a temporary or permanent affliction, I don’t know, but I hope it helps you to find him.
Yours
Peter Wilson
* * *
Northamptonshire
“No, I don’t know anyone called Freddie, Chief Inspector. And I have no idea what the message SAFE WITH FREDDIE means. Perhaps, after all, the message was intended for someone else.”
“I think that’s unlikely, ma’am. Any idea, sir?”
“Afraid not, Mr Merlin. I knew a fellow in school called Freddie but haven’t seen him in years.”
Mrs Cavendish raised a hand to pat down her new perm. “Come to think of it, Philip, wasn’t your father’s regular barber called Freddie? Perhaps you should have a word with him, Chief Inspector. Back in town.”
Merlin sucked in his cheeks. “Thank you, madam. We’ll certainly follow that up. If anything else occurs to you both, I’m sure you’ll let me know, won’t you?” Merlin nodded wearily to Bridges and Goldberg. “I think perhaps we should call it a day and get back to London.”
“Of course, Mr Merlin, and thank you. Is it all right if I let Jackson see you out? It’s been a long day and I could do with some fresh air. Come, Philip. Let’s take the dog for a walk.”
Aunt and nephew said their goodbyes and the policemen went over to the desk to collect their paperwork and the book. “She’s lying, sir.”
“Of course she’s lying, Sergeant, and she’s not very good at it. The barber indeed! She knows who Freddie is but wants to keep it to herself. We’ll just have to get it out of her somehow.”
“It’s odd though, Frank. Up until now she’s been very cooperative. She identified the source book, after all. We’d be nowhere without that. Why start lying now?”
“Perhaps she thought we’d never crack the code, Bernie. Now that we have and it’s a cryptic message she understands and we don’t, she can clam up and act on it when we are out of the picture.”
“Shouldn’t we take her back to London with us then, sir?”
“What, and beat the truth out of her? No, Sergeant, I don’t think that’s on. Come on, I’m bushed. Let’s get back home. Things might look clearer after a good night’s sleep.”
Jackson escorted the policemen out of the house. Merlin and Goldberg waited by the front door as Bridges turned the car round. They were just about to get in when they heard a loud shout. A labrador suddenly burst through a bush at the side of the house, chased by a grizzled and bearded old man in dungarees. “Let go, Archie, you bugger. Let go now!”
Archie had a duck clenched between his teeth. As the old man caught hold of the dog and struggled to pull the bird from its jaws, Philip Arbuthnot and his aunt appeared, both a little out of breath. The old man finally managed to get the growling Archie to release the bird, but it was dead. “The bugger! Excuse my French, ma’am, but that’s the third he’s done for in the past fortnight.”
“Never mind, George, we’ll buy some more.”
“Easier said than done, ma’am. In this wartime market, ducks aren’t so easy to come by. And, anyway, what’s the point if Archie is going to keep on attacking them?”
“All right, George, run along now. Take Archie with you.”
George put the dog back on its lead and headed back the way he had come. Just before he disappeared out of sight, he turned back and shouted: “This dog is a law unto himself, ma’am. We never had these problems with Freddie.”
* * *
London
“Vorster. Where on earth have you been?”
“I did ring in.” Rupert Vorster hovered nervously at the threshold of his boss’s office.
Tomlinson frowned. “Indeed you did. That was to explain yesterday. Today is another day and it’s well past lunchtime already. What’s your excuse now?”
“Mr Titmus asked me to research a point of law last week. I couldn’t get the answer in our library so I went straight to the Middle Temple library this morning.”
“And did you find the answer there?”
“I did.”
“In 30 odd years of practice together, I’ve not known Mr Titmus to have much interest in points of law. What was it?”
“A query about the law of estoppel, sir.”
“Hmm. Very esoteric.” Tomlinson gave Vorster a disbelieving look. “Very well. Now there are two things you should know, if you don’t know them already. First, a policeman came here looking for you yesterday. He wouldn’t tell me why. Any idea?”
“No.”
“I hope you haven’t done anything that will prove embarrassing to the firm.”
“I am not aware of anything, sir.”
Tomlinson adjusted the knot in his tie. “The second thing is that I received a cable from your father. He is in Lisbon en route to London from Cape Town. I suggest that you tidy up this police matter before he arrives tomorrow.”
“Of course, sir.” The thought of seeing his father so soon made Vorster’s forehead prickle with sweat. “I’ll deal with it.”
“I intend to make sure you do.”
* * *
Northamptonshire
They stood in a small circle around the last resting place of Freddie, Archie’s late father. It was a beautiful spot. Merlin thought he wouldn’t mind spending eternity under the boughs of this ancient oak himself.
When George, the gardener, had mentioned the dead dog, inspiration had failed Mrs Cavendish. Her shoulders had slumped and she had felt compelled to confirm that the previous family pet, Archie’s father, was named Freddie. It had not occurred to her, she had explained, that her brother’s message could refer to a dead dog. Merlin had smiled graciously at her in her embarrassment before asking George if Freddie had been buried in the grounds. The gardener, oblivious to the strained atmosphere that had descended on the group, had led the way to the oak, chattering nostalgically about the late Freddie’s equable character.
Mrs Cavendish looked sullenly at Merlin.
“I am afraid, ma’am, that we’ll have to…”
“Yes. Fine, Chief Inspector. Dig him up please, George.”
George’s face clouded over. This was not what he had been expecting and he protested vehemently but to no avail. “Just get on with it, George.”
The grumbling gardener went off to get a shovel. The others waited in a silence broken only by the sound of a woodpecker at work in a nearby tree. George soon returned and began to dig. The earth under its thick layer of grass was still soft after the heavy rain earlier in the month and it did not take long for Freddie’s remains to be exposed. Merlin moved forward to explore the earth around the dog. He made a circuit of the skeleton, stamping his feet on the ground. In the short space between the dog’s skull and the tree, Merlin thought he detected something underfoot. He stamped his right foot down several times. There was something hollow in the sound his foot made. “Can you dig here please, George. Carefully.”
George bent to his task and it did not take long for his shovel to reveal a rectangular black metal box. “Thank you. Looks like a bank deposit box. Do think you could scrape the mud off?” George produced a large, red, spotted handkerchief from the pocket of his dungarees and wiped the box clean. The lid was secured by a small padlock. Merlin thought of asking George to find a tool so they could break it open but then thought better of it. “We’ll leave it as it is and open it back at the Yard.”
Lucinda Cavendish was not happy. “Come now, Chief Inspector, you must open it here. Simon left this box here for me, after all.”
“This is evidence in a murder case, ma’am. As such its place is with us. We shall open it and inspect the contents. They will be released to you as and when appropriate in the context of our investigations. For the moment, I have a murderer to find and the contents of this box might help me to do so.”
“But, Chief Inspector, I helped you to decipher the message that led you to this box. Surely…?”
Merlin flicked away a speck of earth that had attached itself to his trousers. “I would leave it there if I were you, Mrs Cavendish. The assistance you gave us wasn’t exactly wholehearted, was it?”
“Damn it! This cannot be right. Philip, haven’t you anything to say?”
Philip Arbuthnot put an arm around Mrs Cavendish’s shoulder. “I think it’s clear that the chief inspector’s mind is made up. Come.” He turned and led his grumbling aunt back to the house as George started to shovel earth back on to poor Freddie.
CHAPTER 14
Wednesday 18 June
London
Merlin was at the Yard early. There were three messages on his desk, two of which were from Robinson. One contained details of Dumont’s home address in Soho. In the other, the constable said she had news of an important development, without specifying what. The third message was a duty-desk note of a telephone message from Reggie Tomlinson the previous afternoon, enquiring when Merlin would like him to send Vorster over.
Bridges and Goldberg were also early birds. Bridges brought with him the black box, which he had held in safekeeping overnight.
“We’re all keen as mustard today, aren’t we? Robinson’s usually an early starter. Any sign of her yet, Sergeant?”
The telephone rang before Merlin got an answer. It was the AC. “Ah, Frank. I was hoping you’d be there already. I’m calling from Paddington Station. I’ve got a speech to deliver in Bristol about the future role of women in the police force. It occurred to me last night that it would be useful to take Claire, I mean Constable Robinson, along with me. I hope you don’t mind her being out of the office for a day. I have to say that she wasn’t very keen, but I said it would be…”
Merlin interrupted the AC irritably. “Sir, the constable’s absence today will be most inconvenient. We are making rapid progress with…”
“What’s that, Frank? I can’t hear a thing with all these trains huffing and puffing.”
“Can I speak to the constable, sir?”
“Sorry, Frank. Still can’t hear you and I think they’re calling our train. We’re going to put up in a hotel in Bristol for the night and catch an early train tomorrow. We can catch up in the office then.” There was a click and the connection was broken.
Merlin slammed the phone down in disgust. “That’s bloody great. The AC’s taken Robinson off on a jaunt to the West Country. We’ll have to do without her today.”
Bridges had been reading the messages on the desk as Merlin spoke to the AC. “Says here she has something important to tell us.”
“I know. Looks like we’ll have to wait a while to hear it. Let’s hope she has time to call us when they get to Bristol. Meanwhile, we’ve got plenty to be getting on with. There’s Vorster and Dumont to get hold of. Sergeant, call Tomlinson when his office is open for business and tell him we’ll see Vorster at 11 o’clock. We’ll try Dumont’s home address before that. However, first of all…” he tapped a finger on the box, “… let’s open this thing.”
Bridges went over to an old cupboard beneath the cuckoo clock, where various odd items, such as tools, were kept, and found a chisel. The padlock was heavily rusted and it was no easy task for the sergeant to break it open. Eventually, after a lot of huffing and puffing, there was a loud cracking noise and the padlock fell away.
Merlin undid the latch and looked inside. There were three sealed envelopes, one large and thick, one large and thin and one of normal letter size. The two large envelopes were blank but the smaller was addressed in neat handwriting to Lucinda Cavendish.
“Let’s look at this one first.” Merlin opened the smaller envelope and found five sheets of blue writing paper, embossed at the bottom with Simon Arbuthnot’s initial
s. Arbuthnot’s hand was elegant and easily legible. Merlin put on his glasses and read the letter out loud.
My dearest Lucinda,
I know you are a clever old girl and will have remembered enough of our youthful cipher games to track down what I am entrusting to you. I apologise for the cloak-and-dagger stuff but I have got myself into a right old mess. Of course, the fact that you are reading this means that I have by now got myself into an even bigger mess – the ultimate mess, you might say – and have ‘crossed the bar’ as your favourite poet Tennyson puts it. So I am dead and this letter, and the things enclosed in the box with it, are intended to preserve you and poor Philip as well as possible through the storm that will follow.
The mess I have got into is not necessarily one that will surprise you, although the resultant scale of the problem might. You know how I always loved a gamble, ever since I was a young man. You will remember how I often bet the whole of the pitiful allowance Father was able to give us after his bankruptcy on one stupid nag or another.
As time went on, I managed to bring this bad habit under control, probably because my career in building the Sackville business was enough of a gamble to satisfy the urge. Although there were many ups and downs, I ended up rich and successful with a beautiful wife and son. I had to cut many corners but I always enjoyed the thrill of doing that. Yes, I lost the beautiful wife, but I was so engrossed in my business that the loss was not so difficult to overcome. I love Philip but we have been more distant recently than I would have liked, for reasons I don’t quite understand. No doubt my own stupid fault.
As you know, I have done some bad things in business but have had the good fortune to be impervious to feelings of guilt. What I am trying to say, in this rambling sort of way, is that I did not return to gambling because of any particular personal pressures. I returned to gambling through boredom, nothing more. I experienced such a string of fantastic highs and lows in my life that I eventually became deadened to normal excitements. I needed something else to give my life an edge and gambling was able to provide it in these past couple of years.
