by Dawn Harris
‘South of France,’ came the reply.
The captain chattered about the best route and the weather, and Greene revealed they’d been caught in the fog yesterday and made for the nearest port.
‘Any shops open today?’
‘The newsagents, I imagine. We bought what we needed just before the shops closed yesterday.’
‘You’re all set to go then?’
‘The minute my son gets back,’ he said. He’d watched Inspector Nabber and Bob Stokes walk off the boat, as if heading into Yarmouth itself, but had turned his back on them in order to speak to the captain. Thus he wasn’t aware that they’d sneaked on board while he was still talking.
‘Edward Greene?’ came the Inspector’s clear voice, his Welsh lilt a little more pronounced than usual.
Startled, Greene swung round, yet barely paused for breath before answering with perfect calm, ‘Sorry, my name’s Anderson. You want the previous owner. His name was Greene.’
‘We’re from Scotland Yard, sir. Do you have any identification?’
‘Of course. My passport is in the cabin. I’ll fetch it.’
‘We’ll come with you, sir.’
'There’s no need. I won’t be a minute. What’s this about anyway?’
'It concerns the robbery at Kelfield Hall. We’re searching every boat in the area. If you have no objection?’
‘None whatsoever. But I thought you were looking for a woman and a black man.’
'We were, but they’ve now been eliminated from our inquiries.’ Indicating the cabin below, he insisted, ‘After you, sir.’ Bob Stokes went with them, while Al and I rejoined the captain, so that we could identify Ginger when he returned.
A few minutes later Edward Greene was back on deck, handcuffed to Bob Stokes. Inspector Nabber followed, bringing the small suitcase Greene had carried out of Kelfield Hall. Bob Stokes told us later that when the Inspector went straight to the hiding places he’d discovered on his earlier search, Greene had tried to bolt up the gangway.
Edward Greene’s careful planning had convinced me this was how they’d lived. Doing the very occasional big robbery and then living off the proceeds. This one would have kept them in luxury for life.
Up on deck Greene demanded, ‘Who told you? No-one knew, except me and my boy.’ When he didn’t get an answer, he burst out, ‘How did you know where to look? Tell me.’
‘I’ve got second sight,’ I heard the Inspector say, and I had to smother a laugh. ‘Still, it’s not just robbery is it boyo? There’s blackmail and murder.....’
‘Murder?’ he gasped, the colour draining from his face. ‘I haven’t killed anyone. I didn’t see a soul in that house.’
‘I’m not talking about yesterday. I mean George Crawleigh. The man your son tried to rob.’
‘He died in a car accident.’ There was real puzzlement in his cultured voice.
‘He was murdered and you...........’
‘No,’ he broke in, all calmness gone now. ‘I’ve never hurt anyone. I don’t believe in violence.’ The Inspector shrugged with indifference. ‘It wasn’t me, I tell you. You’ve got it all wrong.’
It was then I saw Ginger returning with the Sunday newspapers. Greene had planned and carried out the perfect robbery and could easily have been safely at sea by now. But he’d wanted to read what the papers had written about him. Vanity that was about to cost him his freedom. Realising his mistake too late, he screamed at his son to run for his life. Ginger stopped and looked around, unaware the danger was on the yacht.
‘Police!’ yelled his father.
Ginger dropped everything and ran. As I jumped off the boat and chased after him, I heard his father give a strangled, agonised cry, but I didn’t look round. No doubt, like any other father, he could not bear the thought of his son being carted off to prison. I raced after Ginger as fast as I could, only to be rapidly overtaken by Al, whose long legs covered the ground much quicker than mine.
Following them through the narrow streets of this small town, I saw Al take a flying leap at Ginger, bringing him down with a bang in the main square. Landing right in front of a stout, elderly, white-haired lady walking her Jack Russell terrier. When I caught up with them, gasping for breath, Ginger was pinned firmly to the ground, with the Jack Russell snapping at his ankles.
Ginger yelled, ‘Get that bleeding dog off me.’ And he kicked at it viciously.
‘How dare you attack my dog,’ bellowed the woman, who promptly began beating Ginger across the back of his legs with a formidable looking walking stick, using astonishing violence for someone of her years.
When I politely suggested she might be overdoing it, her cold green eyes swivelled round and latched onto mine in a manner that made it clear she wasn’t accustomed to having her actions criticised. ‘Who the devil are you?’
Without thinking I said, ‘My name is Lydia York, and I..........’
‘Lydia York?’ she thundered, taking a close look at my face. 'You’re that woman the police are looking for.’ And, right on cue, the local constable came running into the square to see what all the commotion was about.
His face fell on seeing the elderly woman, but she didn’t give him a chance to speak. ‘Constable, arrest these people at once. This woman is Lydia York, and that’s obviously her accomplice,’ she added, pointing her walking stick at Al. 'The criminals who stole that jewellery from Kelfield Hall.’
‘That’s utter nonsense,’ I protested. 'The owners are friends of mine.’
‘Then you should be ashamed of yourself,’ she bellowed.
Ignoring her, I addressed the constable. ‘This ginger-haired man is the real thief. He’s the one you should lock up.’
Ginger who, thanks to Al, had his nose pressed hard against the pavement, whined, ‘That wasn’t me. It was those two. Her picture’s in the papers. They’re the ones wanted by the law.’
The law hesitated and I explained I’d actually seen Ginger and his father drive off with the stolen jewellery, and told him, ‘Inspector Nabber from Scotland Yard has already arrested the father. When this man ran off we---’
‘Inspector Nabber?’ the constable broke in, scoffing in disbelief. ‘I suppose you think that’s funny, madam. Nabber, indeed. Enjoy making up ridiculous name for coppers, do you? Well, let’s see if you’re still laughing when we lock you up at the police station.’ He formally arrested us, pulled out a pair of handcuffs, and told Al to stand up.
Al obeyed, the constable put the handcuffs on him, and reached out to take my arm. I jumped back and indicating Ginger, who was scrambling to his feet, 'You are going to arrest him too.’
‘He’s not wanted by the police.’
Ginger was all set to make his getaway but the Jack Russell had other ideas. Barking ferociously it snapped viciously at Ginger’s heels, forcing him into a corner.
‘Constable,’ I said, ‘that man is a criminal. If you let him go you will either be kicked out of the service, or remain a constable all your life.’
The elderly lady came down on my side, insisting her dog only ever attacked villains. Ginger swore he was innocent, the dog kept up his vicious assault, and then the police Sergeant appeared on the scene. He listened briefly to the constable, handcuffed Ginger to Al, and the five of us walked to the police station, with Ginger protesting his innocence all the way.
I walked with the Sergeant, who said that, if my story was true, his voice inferring he didn’t believe one word of it, then the Inspector and his prisoner would be at the station by the time we got there. Which was what I expected too, but there was no sign of them.
I couldn’t understand it, but it removed all uncertainty from the minds of the two policemen, and without more ado the three of us were locked up together. The handcuffs were taken off, and Ginger was told politely that he must wait until they’d checked him out. Then the Sergeant turned to Al and myself, rubbed his hands together in considerable glee, and said, ‘Just wait until the chief constable hears we’ve arrested the vill
ains who robbed the King and all those rich people at Kelfield Hall.’ And he left, slamming the door behind him with unnecessary force.
Hearing the key turn in the lock, Ginger instantly demanded of me, in a belligerent manner, ‘Where’s my father?’
'The Inspector arrested him,’ I said, sitting on the rock hard bed. ’For robbery and murder.’
‘Murder,’ Ginger gasped. ‘We didn’t kill anyone.’
This was exactly how his father had reacted, and frankly I believed him, but I had to be sure. ‘What about George Crawleigh? The man whose wallet you tried to steal.’
'I didn’t touch him. I tripped see, and bumped into him. Anyway, the papers said he died in a car crash.’
'Yes he did, but it wasn’t an accident. His car was forced off the road.’
‘That wasn’t us,’ he protested, wide-eyed with fear.
‘The Inspector thinks it was.’ I let that sink in, then remarked in a casual way, ‘And he knows about those letters you picked up in Hyde Park.’
‘What letters?’ he demanded a little warily.
I gave him a withering look. ‘Unless you want to swing for something you didn’t do, you’d better start telling the truth.’
He muttered sulkily, ‘We didn’t murder no-one.’
‘But you did pick up those letters.’
He gave a shrug. ‘What if I did? There’s no law against it.’
‘Then there’s no reason why you can’t tell me about them, is there?’ He didn’t answer and I asked who the letters were for.
‘Sir Oswald Mosley,’ he muttered grudgingly.
‘Did your father know what you were doing?’
He shook his head. ‘He hated Mosley.’
Al, who had been listening quietly, asked, ‘Why?’
‘What’s it to you?’ he sneered. ‘Mosley wants rid of your lot. And a good thing too.........’
‘Keep a civil tongue in your head,’ I ordered, ‘or I won’t make even the slightest effort to save your horrible scrawny neck. Now answer the question.’
He glowered at Al, but did as I said. ‘Dad hates violence, that’s why. He had enough of that in the trenches, see.’
‘Yes, I do see,’ I said, recalling far too vividly what my eldest brother, an army officer, had told me of his experiences in the war. ‘Now, about these letters, did you hand them to Mosley himself?’
He shook his head. ‘I was told to go to Lyons Corner House and give them to some bloke.’
So it was true. The man I’d seen with Muller was involved, and I had to suppress a shudder. ‘Did you know this man?’
‘No.’
‘How did you recognise him?’
‘He wore a carnation in his buttonhole the first time.’
How unoriginal, I thought. And I asked, ‘Is he a Blackshirt?’ But Ginger didn’t know, and exasperated that he’d said nothing that would help Mr. Taverner, I insisted, ‘You must know something about this man.’
He shrugged but I didn’t miss the shiftiness in his eyes. Nor did Al, who instantly threatened him in the manner of an American gangster, ‘Talk buster, or I’ll break your arm.’
Ginger gasped. ‘You can’t do that.’
I looked at my chauffeur. ‘Can you Al?’
‘Easy.’ Quite deliberately he cracked his knuckles and stepped forward in a threatening manner.
Ginger leapt back with a squeal. ‘His name’s Ebenezer.’
‘How do you know that?’
‘Mosley said. But I don’t know his other name – honest. I’d never seen him before.’
Al took another step towards him and Ginger shrieked, 'It's the truth. I swear. I only did it for the money.’
That I did believe, and thanks to Al we did have his Christian name. Fear lingered in Ginger’s eyes and I took full advantage. ’What did he do with the letters?’
‘How do I know? Gave them to Mosley, I suppose.’
‘Why didn’t you do that?’
‘Mosley said it was to protect the woman’s reputation.’ And he sniggered. ‘These toffs are always having affairs.’ I didn’t comment; instead I asked why Mosley picked him for the job and learned he ran a lot of errands for him. ‘He pays well.’
I went back to the robbery then, and when I asked whose idea it was, he said, ‘Dad’s. All I did was to drive the car. He can’t drive, see.’
‘When were you due to pick up the next letter?’
‘On Tuesday.’
‘The day after tomorrow?’ He nodded and I said, ‘You didn’t tell Mosley you were leaving the country then?’
He snorted. ‘Don’t be daft. Course I didn’t.’
‘So he expects you to collect it from Hyde Park as usual?’
He gave an indifferent shrug. ‘Suppose so.’
At that moment we were interrupted by the Sergeant, who came in, shut the door and addressed me. ‘Thought you’d like to know,’ he said with a wide grin, 'Superintendent Burns, who’s in charge of the case, is on his way over to the island now. Chuffed to bits he was when I told him we’d captured you two. It’s a real feather in our caps.’
‘Well, bully for you, Sergeant,’ I said, not bothering to hide my sarcasm. ‘Is there no word of Inspector Nabber?’
‘Now Mrs. York, you know as well as I do that there’s no such.....’
‘Have you sent anyone to see Captain Lucas-Brown? He’d confirm everything we’ve said.’
‘I’m sure he would, madam,’ he agreed with a good-natured chuckle. ‘Only we don’t have time to go on a wild goose chase today.’
‘What about me?’ Ginger burst out.
‘That’s for the Superintendent to decide.’ The Sergeant, cheerful as ever, locked us in again, and I sank back onto the bed, wishing I knew what had happened to Inspector Nabber. I’d watched him take charge of the stolen jewellery and arrest Edward Greene. But that was nearly two hours ago. So where the devil was he?
CHAPTER TWENTYTHREE
Half an hour later the constable brought us the Sunday newspapers. ‘One each,’ he said with a grin. ‘We like to look after our prisoners.’
My picture was plastered over every front page. They’d used photographs taken at my wedding, with me looking deliriously happy; and another when I’d danced with the King. The only time I ever had -- at a Charity Ball.
According to the report I read, we were wanted by the police because a maid, who’d finished her meal, had gone to her employer’s bedroom to repair a hem, found madam’s jewellery box open and empty, and spotted us riding off on the tandem. When the other rooms were checked, and the enormity of the crime became clear, the butler tried to telephone the police, only to find the line was dead.
Edward Greene’s plan relied on all the guests going out, and on the servants following their normal routine. If I’d known Johnny was safe I would have gone on the boat trip too, and wouldn’t have seen the Greenes, or associated them with the robbery, and they would almost certainly have got away with it.
The newspapers reported that Arthur and Jean were not available for comment, but Uncle Freddie had rushed to my defence, insisting it was ludicrous to suggest I was involved in this robbery.
Readers learnt I came from an obscure middle class family in Devon, and was the youngest of five children of a paper manufacturer. My first class honours degree from Oxford was mentioned, but the main emphasis was on my whirlwind romance with Archie, his tragic death, and that Tim was heir to eighty year old Sir Frederick York, the highly respected owner of Easing House. Much was made of Archie’s war exploits and they all gave an account of how he’d won the Victoria Cross.
Wounded by a bullet in his shoulder, he’d shot down the pilot who’d injured him, and two others who’d attacked him. With his own aircraft on fire, he’d crash landed in a field, and dragged his unconscious observer to safety seconds before the aircraft blew up. He was quoted as saying, ‘I only did what any pilot would have done.’ The public had loved him for it. A modest hero.
He’d once tol
d me that he was so dazed from loss of blood and hitting his head when he crash landed, that he couldn’t actually remember pulling the observer out. Which he’d thought a great joke.
The report stated I had been in Peter Crawley’s house when he was murdered, and that I was a friend of Mr. Harold Taverner, who would shortly face trial for Peter’s murder. Information about Al was reduced to a single sentence, which pleased him. Coloured American chauffeur was at least accurate, he said.
Left with nothing to do my mind turned to Johnny. Aware I had to keep calm and act sensibly, I tried to push the redhead out of my mind, but it wasn’t easy.
At lunch time we were given cheese sandwiches and tea, with the unwelcome news that Superintendent Burns from Scotland Yard would be here shortly. There was still no sign of Inspector Nabber, and I was idly toying with the notion that he’d run off to the Caribbean with the stolen jewellery, and would never be seen again, when the Sergeant returned and said I was to go with him.
‘Am I to be questioned?’ I asked politely, as I followed him down the corridor.
‘You’ll see.’ Tight-lipped and tense, he showed no sign of his earlier euphoria. Instead he opened a door and ordered brusquely, ‘In here, if you please, madam.’
He waited for me to enter the room, but did not follow me in, and the instant he’d shut the door behind me, the man standing looking out of the window, swung round. 'Ah, there you are cariad,’ Inspector Nabber beamed. ‘I wondered where you’d got to.’
He’d never called me cariad before, and I rather liked the way he said it, as if I was an esteemed colleague, worthy of high approbation. But it didn’t stop me demanding, ‘Where the devil have you been? You do know we’ve been arrested?’
‘Everyone on the island knows that. Spread like wildfire it has.’ And he chortled, ‘Don’t worry, I’ll see you get a cell of your own.’
‘You must be joking,’ I burst out, banging my fist on the desk between us. ‘I am not staying here.’
He shook his finger at me in jest. ‘You can’t just walk out, you know. Not when you’re under arrest. Superintendent Burns wouldn’t like it.’
