by Mark Ellis
He shook his head and looked down at the lunchtime throng trudging through the snow and ice beneath him. Time for a walk to clear his head, he thought.
Turning out of the Yard on to the Embankment, he made for Parliament Square. It was as cold as he could remember and the Thames was frozen over in several places. His navy overcoat was getting a bit threadbare and the wind shearing off the river hit him like a knife as he rounded the corner at Westminster Bridge. He needed a new overcoat really, and some new suits, shirts and shoes would not go amiss. He’d been quite fussy and proud about his clothes and appearance for most of his adult life, but since his wife’s death he’d let himself go a little in that department – well, no, if he was being honest, he’d let himself go a lot. His brother’s wife Beatrice had nagged him about this and other things, and had recently started making small contributions of her own. Fortunately she had good taste.
The news posters outside the tube station had moved on from the most recent parliamentary cause célèbre, the forced resignation of the War Minister, Hore-Belisha, and were now focusing on Russia’s invasion of Finland. “Russians press forward. Finnish resistance fighting fiercely.” Merlin smiled to himself as he thought of his good friend, Jack Stewart, staunch socialist and supporter of the Soviet experiment. He looked forward to hearing him tie himself in knots trying to justify Stalin’s motives for the attack on the hapless Finns.
After a quick circuit of Parliament Square, he had got most of the A.C.’s bile out of his system and he stepped into Tony’s Café for a hot drink.
Frank Merlin had been born Francisco Diego Merino, the eldest of three children, in the Limehouse district of East London, in September 1897. His father, Javier Merino, a shepherd’s son from Northern Spain, had managed to escape a life of backbreaking rural poverty by making his way, at seventeen, to the bustling port of Corunna and going to sea. After twelve years of circling the globe on merchant vessels small and large, he had tired of the seaman’s life and had dropped anchor in the port of London. After a brief unhappy period when he had to scratch his living on the streets as a dancer and singer of romantic ballads, his dark good looks had caught the discerning eye of Agnes Cutler, daughter of Alfred Cutler, the proprietor of Limehouse’s largest chandlery store. Javier was personable and good with figures and his wife, as Agnes swiftly became, soon ensured that he was installed as her father’s right-hand man. In due course, on his father-in-law’s retirement, Javier became general manager of the store. Three children had arrived in quick succession – Francisco, Carlos and Maria. Shortly after his daughter was born, Javier, finally tired of the laboured efforts of his friends, neighbours and customers to pronounce his name properly, and Anglicised it. He became Harry, while for good measure his sons became Frank and Charlie, and his daughter Mary. A short time afterwards, Alfred decided to make his son-in-law his full partner and Javier took this opportunity to lose the Spanish surname as well. It reminded him of those damned sheep he’d had to chase around those arid, rocky, Spanish crags back when he was young. An intelligent, self-educated and well-read man, he had always loved the Arthurian legends. So Javier Merino became Harry Merlin, and Cutlers Chandlery became Cutler and Merlin’s Limehouse Chandlery Emporium.
Merlin was stirring his tea when a tall, burly young man with a mop of fair hair pushed through the door. The sight of his right-hand man always raised his spirits, and he couldn’t restrain a smile as Sergeant Sam Bridges lolloped clumsily in. He swiftly checked himself though, and feigned irritation. “‘See the conquering hero comes, sound the trumpets, beat the drums’ Huh! So much for my little moment of peace.”
“Sorry sir, but something’s happened in Barnes.”
The Chief Inspector sighed loudly and put down his spoon. “That’s a turn-up for the book then. Normally nothing ever happens there, excepting the final gasps of the Boat Race that is. What’s up?”
The Sergeant scratched a cheek. “A body, sir. They want us to go round there straight away.”
“By ‘they’, I suppose you mean the not-very-competent local constabulary?”
“Inspector Venables called me. Thought it looked suspicious and we might want to take a look. He might be wrong but remember you gave him a hard time about that Martins case in Richmond when he didn’t get us involved at the outset. I suppose he’s just being cautious.”
Merlin grunted and sipped his drink.
“The body’s female and young, so far as they can tell. Fished her out of the river. Not a pretty sight apparently.”
“Never are, are they? Can’t one of my inspectors handle it?”
“They’re all out on cases, sir. We’re the only ones available and…”
“Alright, alright. Have you got a car outside?”
On the journey, Merlin carefully examined his Sergeant’s face as he concentrated on the road. Bridges’ ruddy features had resumed their customary happy-go-lucky cast and the shadow that had darkened them recently seemed to have disappeared. He appeared to be back to his normal self, but Merlin wasn’t completely sure. The rejection had been humiliating for him, reinforcing the insecurities of a miserable childhood which Dr Michaels at Barnardos and, more recently, his new wife had done so much to help him overcome. Despite all the traumas of his upbringing he had turned out to be a bright, diligent, kind young man. Now the Army Board had made him feel a freak again. Perhaps it was a freakish thing to have six toes on one foot, but did it really make him unfit for military service? Of course now that Merlin had suffered his own rejection, he could not help but feel relieved that Bridges would continue by his side. But he’d have to keep a close eye on him.
A band of policemen were milling around at the river’s edge when they pulled up. A haze of tobacco smoke shimmered in the icy air above them. Merlin saw Venables’ hairless head jerking up and down in animated discussion with his colleagues and pushed past the small crowd of onlookers on the towpath.
Hector Venables was a large, ungainly man, whose prominent Adam’s apple jumped around his neck as if it had a life of its own. “There you are, Frank. I don’t quite know what to make of this one.”
“Now there’s a surprise,” Merlin muttered to himself under his breath.
Venables shook his head before leading the way under the bridge. A constable carefully pulled back the top of a white tarpaulin. Merlin tasted something unpleasant at the back of his throat. The woman’s left eye was closed and the other was missing. Her lips had contorted in death into a quizzical smile. Venables bent down to pull the tarpaulin completely off. The woman’s petticoat had ridden up her body and the policemen stared down uncomfortably at the grey-white flesh of the woman’s legs and her pink underwear. Merlin’s eyes slowly travelled from the large bruise on her right thigh to the livid mark poking out from beneath soggy strands of fair hair on her forehead.
Venables scratched his nose thoughtfully. “Not so pretty now but she might have been a bit of a looker.”
Merlin tried unsuccessfully to imagine the living face.
“Quite a young thing too, Frank.”
They heard steps echoing under the bridge.
“Here’s the sawbones.”
A portly, elderly gentleman in a battered deerstalker approached and nodded his greeting. After a cursory examination, Dr Sisson made a few notes, paused to take a pinch of snuff, then spoke in a high staccato voice. “I’ll take her away now if that’s convenient and I’ll give you my detailed views tomorrow morning.”
“What do you think, Doc? What about the eye. Think it’s …?”
The doctor clucked his tongue at Venables.
“No premature inspired guesses, gentlemen. I’ll do the work and then I’ll let you know.”
He threw the tarpaulin back over the body which two constables then carried carefully into the police ambulance parked nearby. The waiting crowd jostled for a view and there was a collective sigh when an arm slipped out from under the cover, as it disappeared into the back of the vehicle. The ambulance drove off and
the murmuring onlookers gradually dispersed.
“Who found the body, Hector?”
“Colonel Trenchard. Local man.” Venables nodded towards a riverside bench a few yards beyond the bridge, where the old man had been waiting with increasing impatience. They strolled over to him and Merlin made his introductions.
“Just tell us as simply as you can what happened, sir.”
“I was taking my morning constitutional, as always, down to the brewery and back. Done it pretty much every morning for the last fifteen years since I packed it in with the regiment. Leave at 0730 and back to Mrs Trenchard at 0900 on the dot. Never late, sir. Never. Until today that is.”
“And Mrs Trenchard would be where?”
“We have a place near Hammersmith Bridge on this side of the river. Lived there for years with the wife. Since the last nasty business in fact. Bought the house in ’nineteen. Got a great bargain. Bought it from this French chap. He thought he’d done very well on it but I’ve…”
“So you walk every morning from Hammersmith down to the Watney’s brewery in Mortlake and back, is that correct?”
“That’s it. This morning I set out at the usual time. Bloody freezing morning. It’s going to be the coldest January for years apparently. My neighbour…”
“Just stick to the walk please, Colonel.”
“Right-ho. Sorry. Anyway, got down to the brewery in good time. Then on my way back encountered this dreadful sight. Poor dear!”
The Colonel’s eyes watered and he produced a purple handkerchief into which he blew noisily. “Awful sight. I wasn’t sure what it was at first. A boat passed by and drenched me. I was trying to dry myself when I noticed something. Thought it was a piece of wood. Her hand that is, which is all I could see at first. Then the rest of her came to the surface. Seen worse sights at Ypres, but still…”
“Could the body have come from the boat, sir?”
“Well, do you know, I don’t know, Sergeant. I suppose it might have. There was a lot of splashing, when the waves hit the bank and when they hit me. I didn’t notice what turned out to be the body until after the boat had passed, so it’s possible.”
“What kind of boat was it?”
“Just a normal old river barge. Didn’t really get a good look as I was attending to my soaking trousers. Couple of fellows on the back of the boat but I couldn’t really describe them. Think there was a flag, now was it blue or blue and white? Blue and white I think.”
“Did you see anyone else around?”
“No. Another boat passed a little later on the other side. I was the only one on the towpath straight after I found her. I walked along to the local police station over there. First person I saw was the bobby at the desk. I told him what I’d found and after that there’s just been a lot of bloody tedious waiting around.”
“Sorry about that, sir. I think we can get you off home now. Just give the Sergeant here your address.”
The old man rose stiffly. “Best of luck catching the bugger who did it, gentlemen. Anything else I can do, just call. I may be getting on a little but I’ve still got all my faculties, you know!”
The girl hurried across the Gloucester Road in the fading winter afternoon light, dodging crawling lorries and taxis struggling to make their way through the gloom. She was carrying a basketful of small cakes and biscuits which she had bought at the little bakery around the corner. She turned down a side-street and was soon back at the staff entrance of the large house in Princes Gate. The Ambassador was away in America, but there was still plenty of work to do. She’d been at her typewriter all day and was glad when Miss Edgar had allowed her to go on this small shopping errand.
A modest celebration was to take place. Miss Edgar, who was in charge of the administration of the Ambassador’s residence, had given permission for a tea party for one of the Ambassador’s chauffeurs, whose twenty-first birthday it was. Below stairs of course, but as Kathleen Donovan saw it, it was very decent of Miss Edgar, who was forbidding to look at but had a kind heart. She’d even contributed to the pot Kathleen had collected from among the other secretaries, butlers, maids and chauffeurs. The birthday boy was Johnny Morgan, a dark, attractive young Welshman. Nearly all the girls in the residence had a soft spot for him. Even Miss Edgar treated him with a trifle more indulgence than she offered elsewhere. He was also a favourite of the Ambassador, for whom he had been working for the past year.
She skipped down the creaking staircase and joined a group of some twenty people in the small parlour next to the kitchen. “Here are the cakes, everybody.”
“Thank you, dear,” said a tall, bespectacled woman wearing her hair coiled in a tight bun. “Please set them down on the table. Now come along everyone. Tuck in. Come on, Johnny Morgan, make the most of your birthday. Your next one could be in uniform and I don’t mean the one in which you drive Mr Kennedy.”
“Don’t say that, Miss Edgar. I’m sure it’ll all be over this time next year.” Morgan’s smile expanded into a broad grin. “The Ambassador says that Mr Chamberlain will have to agree a truce with Mr Hitler and there’ll be no real fighting as everyone will realise we haven’t got a hope in hell on the battlefield.”
“That’s enough of that. Just because it’s your birthday doesn’t mean you’re at liberty to repeat the Ambassador’s private thoughts. Everyone here will kindly forget those remarks. I am sure whatever Mr Kennedy said was not intended in a defeatist way.”
Several of those present smiled to themselves. The Ambassador’s defeatist views were well known within the residence and embassy and outside. Indeed, at that very moment, Mr Kennedy was back in America doing his best to ensure that his President did not commit national resources to such a hopeless case as Britain.
Kathleen’s green eyes lingered on Morgan’s face. Although she knew that he was a milkman’s son from a small mining village outside Swansea, his high cheekbones and chiselled features gave him an aristocratic air, or so it seemed to her. She was a looker herself, with silky red hair, striking green eyes and a warm, welcoming mouth. Her old friends at home in Kerry called her Maureen because of her resemblance to the Hollywood film star Maureen O’Hara. A more recent friend in the Ambassador’s residence, Joan, another pool typist, had made similar comparisons. She laughed along with the teasing and compliments, but, looking intently at herself in the mirror in her digs, she worried that her face was too bland, plain even. She had never had a boyfriend and was nervous in male company. Johnny Morgan was nice to her, though, and she didn’t feel quite so shy with him. He was nice to all the girls, to Dora, Virginia, to Joan… Looking around suddenly, she wondered where Joan was and asked Miss Edgar.
“No idea, dear. She didn’t turn up for work on Friday, nor today, and I’ve had no message about her being ill. I’m a little annoyed as there’s a backlog of work for her. Mr Norton has a pile of reports he wants typed to be sent to the Ambassador.”
“Do you know, Johnny?”
“What?”
“Where Joan is. I thought she’d be here to celebrate your birthday.”
“Maybe she’s not well or something.”
“Didn’t you see her for lunch on Thursday? How was she then?” Priestley, one of the other Embassy drivers, joined them.
Morgan fumbled in his pocket for a cigarette. “Not me, Bill. I haven’t seen Joan for a week or so.” He turned towards the main door. “Sorry. This tea is running through me like nobody’s business. Back in a minute.”
Henrietta, an upstairs maid, lifted her pert nose. “I suppose that’s the vulgar behaviour you must expect in wartime when the best service jobs are going to miners up from the valleys.”
“I expect it’s nothing. A cold perhaps or some small problem at home,” said Priestley, who was a small, pale man with buck-teeth. “Funny though. I could have sworn I saw the two of them going into the café round the corner on Thursday.” He greedily demolished a teacake. “My missus keeps on at me to get some spectacles but I don’t think there’s really a nee
d. Probably saw him with another of his floozies.” Kathleen blushed. “Well we all know what Johnny’s like, don’t we?” Priestley wiped his mouth on his sleeve. “Anyway, I don’t think it’s right for a chauffeur to wear glasses, do you? Don’t think the Ambassador would like it either.”
Morgan returned and flashed a winning smile in Kathleen’s direction. “Fancy a drink after?”
“I don’t know. I was going to try and get home early and…”
“And what? Don’t be a spoilsport. Just a quiet one. To properly celebrate my birthday. What do you say?”
“Alright then. Just a quick shandy.” Morgan patted her shoulder and she felt a warm tingle run down her back. The mystery of Joan’s whereabouts faded from her mind.
CHAPTER 2
Wednesday January 24th
Merlin awoke in his Chelsea lodgings with a groan. His mouth was as dry as the Sahara Desert. He sat up in his bed, pulled back the heavy grey curtains and looked out of the window. He was living in a pleasant part of town but he couldn’t say his view was that wonderful. He could see the backs of two terraces of houses, separated by a row of tiny gardens. In the distance he could see the steeple of a church covered in scaffolding. Problems with the roof apparently. Turning inwards he gazed blearily at his small bed-sit. The Bush radio he’d spent a couple of guineas on at Christmas sat heavily on his bedside table. He had an old red armchair that needed recovering next to the table and not much else. A dark brown wardrobe and chest of drawers stood by the washbasin opposite the door. Another Van Gogh print, the one of the starry night, hung out of alignment next to the mirror above the sink. His battered old record player sat on the floor by the window. There was little comparison with his and Alice’s cosy quarters in their old Fulham house.
