by Dawn Harris
I said nothing then, but when Tim woke up and we all went out into the beautiful grounds surrounding the house to let him enjoy a good run around before we set off in the car again, I managed a quiet word with the Colonel. ‘That case you were telling us about, can you recall the man’s name?’
He stroked his chin and thought for a moment. 'Greene,’ he announced suddenly. ‘Yes, that was it. Edward Greene.’ My heart plummeted. I was right, it had been too much to hope for. 'He was quite well dressed too -- for a villain.’
Hope flickered again. 'Actually, it was the name of the victim I was after -- the man who had the car accident.’
'Oh, I see,’ he said. 'He was a London solicitor. Name of Crawleigh. A good fellow by all accounts. Why do you ask? Did you know him?’
'No, but I read about that accident in “The Times,” and wondered if it was the same man. You don’t think Greene bumped him off, do you?’
He laughed. 'Not a chance. He was in gaol until the Monday. It was an odd case, though.’
'Oh, really? In what way?’
'Well, Greene gave his address as Half Moon Street in Mayfair. Not where you’d expect a villain to live. No doubt he lied. Still, he was a crook all right or my name’s not Barrington.’
When we reached my new house, Jean was very taken with it. ‘It’s perfect. A house right by the sea, and it’s so quiet here.’
‘I’ve always loved the seaside,’ I said. I’d spent my childhood in Devon, and I wanted Tim to have fun on a beach, just as I had. And it was that kind of simple enjoyment Monica needed right now too.
Once the car was unloaded we raced down to the beach. There were very few people about and Monica tried her best to join in the fun. She helped Tim build a huge castle and moat, paddled with him in the warm shallows of the sea, and as the tide slowly began to come in, she and Jean tried teaching him to swim. Something I’d never learnt to do, probably because my parents hadn’t either. So I sat on the breakwater watching and thought about Edward Greene.
On that Saturday evening George Crawleigh accused him of attempting to steal his wallet. Greene was charged, kept in custody, and was due to appear before the magistrates on Monday. Shortly before noon on Sunday Peter Crawley was murdered. Twelve hours later, George Crawleigh died when his car went off the road and crashed into a tree. On Monday morning, with the only witness dead, the case against Greene was dismissed. As a result, Edward Greene got off scot free.
I gazed unseeingly at the waves gently lapping over the end of the breakwater, convinced that no man would commit murder simply to avoid what, at the absolute worst, would be a short spell in prison. In any case, Greene couldn’t have done it; he was in custody when the murders were carried out.
It was all very puzzling. I still believed the hired gunman had gone to Peter’s house by mistake, and that the intended victim was George Crawleigh. But who had wanted George dead? And why? And why was the killer in such a hurry? On the Monday Greene would probably have been given bail, leaving plenty of time to get rid of George Crawleigh before the case was heard.
Or had I got it entirely wrong? Was Inspector Nabber right? Had the gunman been hired specifically to kill Peter? Was George Crawleigh’s death just an accident? A wave splashing against the breakwater threw water over my feet, and I shuddered. Not from the cold, but from the thought of who might have wanted Peter dead.
I decided I should tell Inspector Nabber what the colonel had said. After all he’d asked me to pass on any information, no matter how unimportant it seemed. And this was far from unimportant. I didn’t expect him to be at work on a Saturday afternoon, but Scotland Yard would surely pass on my message. Telling the others I had to make a telephone call, I went indoors and rang the Yard, only to be informed the Inspector was on holiday.
'On holiday?’ I exploded. How dare he go off enjoying himself, leaving a murderer at large.
'Yes, madam. For two weeks. He left this morning. He and Mrs. Nabber are touring France. They go every May, regular as clockwork. Mrs. Nabber’s mother was French.’
‘I see.’ And I thought I had the measure of the man. How wrong I was.
‘Would you like to speak to Detective Superintendent Burns? He’s dealing with the case.’
I declined the invitation politely. I’d met Superintendent Burns shortly after I became a widow, when a burglar broke into my London home and stole the trophies Archie had won in air races. Burns, a Chief Inspector then, did not catch the thief or recover the trophies. The man was a pompous dimwit who I had no wish to encounter again. Luckily the burglar didn’t find Archie’s Victoria Cross. I wanted Tim to have that.
I left the house in an absolute fury, slamming the door behind me. What the devil was I going to do now? How could the Inspector leave Burns in charge of the case? Didn’t he realise the man was useless? Common sense told me the decision was not his to make, but I couldn’t forgive him for going off at such a time. Only later, when I’d calmed down, did I admit he was entitled to his annual holiday, the same as anyone else, and that most years he probably went off in the middle of some case. But I still didn’t like it.
Then, as I walked back down the wooden breakwater, I suddenly had an idea. Inspector Nabber wouldn’t be in London on Monday, but I would, and there was something I could do. It wasn’t dangerous, so no-one could object. Not that I intended telling anyone.
Thankfully, Tim’s antics soon had me smiling again, and dinner that evening was pretty light-hearted. But half my mind was on Edward Greene and whether I could get to Half Moon Street on Sunday evening. When I asked Jean what time she expected Arthur to join us tomorrow, she told me, 'Between two and three, he said. But he wants to leave by six.’
This meant Half Moon street had to wait until Monday. I longed to go sooner, but I said, ‘That’ll be nice. I’ve hardly seen him lately.’
She laughed. ‘Neither have I. He’s working far too hard. And as if that wasn’t enough, he says some woman in his office has taken a fancy to him. Dashed embarrassing, was how he put it,’ she chortled. ‘I advised him to have her transferred immediately.’
'And did he?’ I asked, choking with laughter, and even Monica smiled.
‘Of course. Arthur said he hadn’t thought of that. For an intelligent man he has no common sense at all.’
She wasn’t in the least concerned, which didn’t surprise me, as no-one could doubt Arthur’s devotion to Jean, but I did comment, ‘Fancy him telling you about it.’
‘Oh, Arthur tells me everything.’ As I poured out the coffee she said to me, 'In fact he was the one who told me your chauffeur is retiring to Kent to live with his daughter.’
'Oh, right. He left yesterday, actually.’
‘Have you found a replacement yet? If not I...’
'I’m interviewing on Monday, Jean.’ I hadn’t advertised the position yet, but one man, learning my chauffeur was leaving, had written a rather intriguing letter of application, and I’d decided to see him first. Although I didn’t tell Jean that. She would not have approved.
'You will be careful, won’t you, Liddy. Don’t take on any lame ducks.’ I promised not to, but she went on, ‘Yes, but I know you. You feel sorry for people on the dole and.........’
'Don’t you?’
'Yes, of course I do, but I don’t believe half the sob stories we hear. The working classes would manage much better if they stopped spending all their money on beer and cigarettes.’
It was a view she often expressed, and Monica, who was sitting beside Jean, raised her eyes heavenwards, then said, ‘Liddy’s not easily taken in.’
Jean took a sip of coffee and reminded me, 'You did hire Connie instead of a proper nanny.’
‘I don’t want a proper nanny,’ I assured her cheerfully. ‘I like looking after Tim, but I need someone sensible to be with him when I’m busy, or out.’ I had told her this before, but she never could believe I enjoyed caring for my own son. 'Don't worry, if a prospective chauffeur comes up with a tale of woe, I’ll check
it out thoroughly before employing him. Honestly I’m not as gullible as you think, Jean.’ I wasn’t now. I had been once, but I didn’t say that either.
On Sunday, after a rather late lunch, I settled Tim down for a nap. Once he was asleep, I joined the others on the back garden terrace, which faced due south, of course, and sinking into a comfortable chair, I sipped the long cool drink Jean had prepared while I was upstairs. As we lounged, soaking up the sunshine, Jean said, ‘This is like old times with just the three of us. We should meet up more often.’ And immediately suggested, ‘How about Wednesday at-----’
'Oh, I can’t Jean,’ I said with genuine disappointment. 'I'm playing tennis that afternoon. What about Tuesday?’
‘That’s my day with the PDSA,’ Jean pointed out. She was a volunteer, helping to raise money for the charity. She had two cairn terriers and was, I often thought, fonder of animals than people. Before we could settle on a day, there was a loud knock on the door and Jean jumped up at once. ‘I’ll go. That’ll be Arthur.’
I was always pleased to see his handsome smiling face, and as he bent to kiss my cheek, he said, ‘I hope you don’t mind Liddy, but I’ve brought a friend with me.’
‘Of course I don’t mind.’ And a tall, slim, beautifully clean-shaven man emerged into the sunlight. He had thick light brown wavy hair and, as I well knew, had celebrated his twenty-eighth birthday in February. A man I had known all my life, but hadn’t seen in three years.
CHAPTER FOUR
My heart exploded with such joy I thought it was going to burst. ‘Johnny,’ I whispered breathlessly. I jumped to my feet, grasped his out-stretched hands and smiled up into those familiar deep blue eyes in a mixture of disbelief and wonder. 'I thought you were still in America.’ He was my oldest and dearest friend, and he hadn’t said a word about leaving in his last letter. ‘It’s so good to see you,’ I said. 'Why didn’t you tell me you were coming home?’
‘Didn’t Jean mention it?’ He spoke solemnly but his eyes were laughing.
Letting go of his hands, I turned to her and accused, 'You knew?’
‘Of course. Arthur told me.’ And she giggled.
Monica was smiling too and when I eyed her with deep suspicion, she put up her hands in protest. ‘I had no idea, honestly.’ Greeting Johnny she asked, ‘When did you get back?’
'On Friday evening. Since then I’ve been at this conference with Arthur. And very boring it was too,’ he declared cheerfully.
‘Boring?’ I repeated, glancing up at him in surprise.
'The secret service isn’t all cloak and dagger,’ he joked. Johnny, recruited straight from university, was highly thought of, according to Arthur. He sat beside Monica and lowering his voice, said, ‘I am so very sorry about Peter.’ Thanking him she spoke of her plans to return to work. His concern for her was so genuine I found myself thinking how wonderful it would be if the two friends I loved best, fell for each other. His looks were no more than ordinary, but there wasn’t a nicer man in the world than Johnny, and he’d make a wonderful husband.
Jean bombarded him with questions about his life in America, and Monica asked if he’d met President Roosevelt. ‘I did,’ he said. ‘He’s a great man, most impressive. He uses a wheelchair a lot more than people think, but he doesn’t let that get in the way of doing his job.’
We’d kept in touch by letter, so I knew he’d met the President, and I sat back, content just to listen to him talking – I’d always loved the sound of his deep, rich voice. I’d missed him so much I found myself smiling whenever he turned his eyes in my direction. He’d originally gone to America for a year, but shortly after I married Archie he was asked to stay another two years. I thought of those happy times before I’d met Archie, when Johnny and I used to walk in the countryside, play tennis, go to the theatre, and just talk for hours on end. To have Johnny back in my life again made me quite ridiculously happy, and I felt as if my whole world had somehow righted itself.
When I went to check on Tim, he came with me. 'It’s time I saw your son and heir.’ As we went into the house, he asked, 'How are you, Liddy?’ There was no mistaking the deep concern in his voice. ‘I wish I’d been here when Archie had his accident. You must have had a dreadful time of it. He was an amazing man.’
I had no intention of telling anyone the truth about Archie, not even Johnny. Only he knew me so well I was afraid he’d guess. Fortunately I’d just reached the stairs, and walking up ahead of him I was able to say, without looking at him, ‘I’m lucky, I have Tim.’
The moment passed and he merely said, 'I bet he’s a swell kid.’
'How very American,’ I teased. I hadn’t expected him back until September and I asked what had brought him home early.
'Oh, they want me for a special job. It's very hush-hush, but I’ll be based in London for the time being.’
'That’s wonderful news.’ Reaching the top of the stairs, I turned to look at him. ‘We’ll be able to see each other often.’
‘You bet. You’ll be sick of the sight of me in a week or two.’
I laughed, for I could never tire of seeing Johnny. Tim was just waking up and after Johnny had said all the right things about my son, we took him down to the terrace, where he played with his toys while the rest of us talked. The time flew by, and when Arthur and Jean left for London, Johnny went with them, explaining he had a lot to do before reporting for work in the morning.
With Monica returning to the fashion house the next day, and needing to pack for her stay with me, we soon followed. I was itching to get back, eager to see what I could find out about Edward Greene. Really it was a job for Inspector Nabber, but he wouldn’t be home from France for two weeks, and I wasn’t going to wait that long.
When I woke the following morning I prayed Monica’s first day back at work would go well, and I gave a long deep sigh of joy that Johnny was home again. After breakfast I found Edward Greene's exact address in Half Moon Street in the telephone book, but I couldn’t go straightaway. I was interviewing Black for the chauffeur’s job at ten, so I spent a happy hour playing with Tim in the garden, revelling in his infectious childish laughter. He was blessed with a sunny nature, was very like me in looks and had the same blond hair.
After taking him to Connie, I went into my study and read Black’s letter of application again. It was well written in a neat, fairly large hand. I was greatly intrigued to be interviewing an American. On my one visit to the States, before I met Archie, people had been extremely hospitable. In London, I’d also met Mrs. Simpson, the King’s American friend, but the thought of how the monarchy could be affected by the King’s involvement with a woman who’d already divorced one husband, and seemed likely to divorce her second, made it hard for me to get on with her.
Black arrived in good time, although when Lang announced him there was a distinct note of disapproval in his voice. I knew from Black’s letter that he was thirty-two and single. I saw now that he was about six foot tall, athletic looking, and had skin as black as his name.
There were some black Americans in London, although I did not know any personally, nor had I spoken more than a few words to any negro in America. Black was neatly dressed, rather handsome, and had intelligent eyes. Smiling, I invited him to sit in the chair on the opposite side of my desk, and to tell me how he knew I needed a chauffeur.
Settling himself, he spoke in that most delightful of American accents, of a man born and bred in Boston, 'Well ma’am, I got talking to your chauffeur last week when he was cleaning your Rolls. She’s a great car, a real beauty.’ And his dark eyes shone with enthusiasm. 'He said he was retiring shortly, and I need a job, so I thought I’d write and inquire. Of course, if you’re already suited, I’ll quite understand.’
With a slight sense of shock I realised he was offering me an easy way out, and I wondered how many others had taken it. Jean would have done, but I wasn’t Jean. I thought it appalling that anyone should be judged simply by the colour of their skin. 'No, I’m not,’ I sa
id. ‘I was about to advertise. Tell me, have you ever driven a Rolls?’
'Once, ma’am. In America. It was a real joy. But I can drive and maintain any motor. I just love cars.’
'So do I,’ I smiled, adding that I had a little runabout too, a green Austin 10, that my father had given me for my twenty-first birthday. ‘I drive myself quite often, but I prefer to be driven when my small son is with me, and on long journeys, and when I go out in the evenings, of course.’ I saw the hope in his eyes. 'Have you ever driven on the left side of the road?’
‘I’ve been driving here for six months, ma’am. My previous employer brought his family here on a long visit and I drove them all over the country. They went back to Boston a month since.’
I looked at him in surprise. 'Didn’t you want to go with them?’
'No, ma’am. I like England.’ Aware I was still puzzled, he drew in his breath and told me, ‘The fact is, I couldn’t go back. He fired me and refused to give me a reference.’ He spoke perfectly calmly, without shame or rancour.
‘Why were you fired?’ I asked in a similar tone.
'I said something he didn’t want to hear. Which I’d never done in the sixteen years I’d been with him. He told me to find my own way home.’
I stared at him unable to believe what I was hearing. 'But he gave you your return ticket, surely?’
'No, ma’am.’
'He left you without a ticket or the money to buy one?’ Black nodded. No matter what he’d done, I didn’t understand how any employer could leave a servant stranded in a foreign country. ‘Why?’
'That’s the way he is.’ He spoke in a calm matter-of-fact manner.
‘Did you like him?’
'No, ma’am. Can’t say as I did.’
‘May I ask why?’
‘Lots of reasons, ma’am.’
‘Such as.’
‘Well -- after I’d cleaned and polished the car, he’d deliberately skid it round a patch of land at the side of the house, throwing up dust, then tell me to clean and polish it again.’
