by Mark Ellis
Bridges cast a puzzled look at his boss. “Miss Edgar means naïve, Sergeant, a little unsophisticated. Does Miss Harris work particularly closely with any of the Ambassador’s staff?”
“As I say, she is a member of a pool. Because of her efficiency, of course, some staff request her services in particular.” Miss Edgar leaned back in her chair and removed her spectacles. “On the day she went missing, for example, I remember Mr Norton getting into a real tizzy because he had some reports to get typed up and he wanted Joan to do them. Had a bit of a tantrum in fact, but he’s often doing that. Mr Norton, Mr Zarb, the Ambassador himself – they all had a preference for Joan because she was so quick and made few mistakes, if any.”
“I believe we met Mr Norton at the door. He has a senior position here, does he?”
“Well he doesn’t really have a formal position, not in diplomatic terms that is. He is a special aide to the Ambassador. Mr Kennedy brought him over to England from Boston when he took up his post in 1938. I understand Mr Norton performed important work for Mr Kennedy in some of his commercial ventures in the United States.”
“I see.” Merlin looked at his watch and then at Bridges. “I wonder if Mr Harris is in any better shape by now. You have been most helpful. Naturally, we shall have other questions for you and your staff if unfortunately it is indeed Miss Harris in the morgue. Would you mind if we took Morgan along as a second party to confirm the identification? He would be able to do that, wouldn’t he?”
“Certainly. No, I have no objection.”
The steady metronomic tick of the clock in the corner seemed to compound the slow passage of time. Lord Halifax had begun the meeting with his senior civil servants over three hours ago. The long minutes and hours had been monopolised by his droning voice as he analysed the situation in France and in Europe generally, and complained vehemently about the short-sightedness of several of his Cabinet colleagues. Douglas had managed to make a few pithy interjections, which seemed to meet with the approval of his boss. His office-mate, and junior, Edward Fraser, had also made some telling contributions, much to Douglas’ irritation. Now Fraser was speaking again, tentatively quoting Halifax’s arch-enemy, Winston Churchill. His Lordship’s face darkened and Douglas smiled to himself.
“I’d be most grateful, Mr Fraser, if you refrained from repeating that gentlemen’s words to me. I have little regard for Mr Churchill, as you know. He is a dangerous man who would lead us into oblivion if he ever got the chance.”
“But, sir, I think…” Halifax raised his withered left arm and glared at Fraser, who subsided back into his chair.
Douglas licked his lips and felt his stomach rumble. He was looking forward to his lunch at The Ritz, although his expected company was not up to much. Nevertheless when duty called, he obliged, and duty certainly did now call, as Halifax had explained to him in the private meeting which had preceded this one. He and Fraser had been cultivating the rather odd American chap he was meeting for some time, on Halifax’s instructions. Now he had been given the task of taking matters just a little further.
At last Halifax wrapped up the meeting. As he went out of the door he gave Douglas one of his wintry smiles. “How’s that charming fiancée of yours doing, Freddie? Hope you’ve found some time to see her.”
“Unfortunately not, sir. Her father’s keeping her out of London at the moment. A little nervous of bombs I’m afraid.”
“Ah. A pity for you, my dear fellow.” Halifax disappeared through the door.
“A pity, eh? What do you know, you old cripple?” Douglas muttered under his breath.
“What was that, Freddie?”
“Nothing, Edward. Nothing at all. Must be off. Important lunch. Tell you all about it later.”
Norton was flustered. Morgan was full of bullshit, the policemen had irritated him and he was going to be late. He snapped a command at the driver and the taxi lurched off into the traffic. Ten minutes later they drew up outside The Ritz Hotel and Norton fumbled some change into the taxi-driver’s hands and ran up the stairs. After searching the lobby bar and enquiring at the restaurant, he realised that he had arrived earlier than his lunch companion and so relaxed a little. He was shown to his table and ordered a dry Martini. Looking around him he saw that the room was almost full. In a far corner he recognised Nancy Swinton, who was looking smart in a navy-blue outfit. She was lunching with an older man with a shock of flowing white hair. His face was partially obscured but seemed familiar. Nancy had seen him and returned his smile, and Norton was on the point of wandering over to exchange a few words when his host arrived.
“Arthur. Sorry I am late. I got stuck in a frightfully boring F.O. meeting with his lordship and only just managed to extricate myself.”
“No need for apologies. I was a little late myself.”
A waiter rushed to help Douglas into his seat.
“Entertaining evening at the Pelhams, wasn’t it, Freddie?”
“Indeed, and I enjoyed the after-dinner fun as well.” Douglas winked then noticed Norton’s empty glass.
“A dry sherry please, Pierre. And another of whatever my friend’s having.” Douglas surveyed the room to see which of the great and good were lunching today, catching the eyes of several diners and acknowledging them with cheerful nods. In one case he stood up and bowed. “The Marquis of Londonderry. Fine man. Very sound on our current difficult situation.”
He sat down and continued his scrutiny of the other diners. “Isn’t that the charming Nancy Swinton who was with us the other night? Looks a picture. Lucky Lloyd George. The old man’s still got some steam in him, eh?”
“Ah, that’s who it is.” Norton knew that Britain’s former prime minister had been very keen on the opposite sex throughout his long career but surely he wasn’t at it still?
“Only joking, Arthur. I think LG is a long-standing friend of Nancy’s family, so I’m sure their lunch is perfectly innocent. In any case, I believe that the goat in him has finally been put out to pasture. Well this is grand, is it not? The Ritz in all its glory and the menu and wine list as good as always. You can hardly tell there’s a war on, can you, with everyone here in their luncheon finery?”
“Good of you to invite me when you must be very busy.”
“Busy, yes. But, you know, it’s funny – even in this mad situation, most of the senior officials still maintain their prewar practice of starting the working day at 10.30am or 11.00am. Amazing, isn’t it? I tend to get in to my office around 9.00am and am regarded as something of, how do you Yanks say it, an oddball?”
“You surprise me. I know the Ambassador always makes a very early start, but he’s exceptional even in the American context.”
“A human dynamo from what I hear.”
The waiter arrived with menus and the men carefully assessed their options. Eventually both chose the roast beef and Douglas suggested a bottle of Brouilly as accompaniment.
“Lightly chilled please, Pierre, as usual.”
Over lunch they discussed various acquaintances they had in common and exchanged idle gossip about their respective organisations. Douglas told a few amusing and indiscreet stories about his superiors at the F.O. while Norton ran through a few war stories, much diluted and edited, from his commercial experiences with the Ambassador.
Afterwards, they found a quiet corner in the lounge and ordered coffee and cigars. “Care for a brandy, Arthur?”
“Sure, but isn’t it getting late for you? Aren’t you needed back at the office?”
“Not really. Work can be done in or out of the office and enjoyable as this lunch has been, there is an element of associated business.”
“Oh. How so?”
“I mentioned the other evening that I needed to talk to you about something. You are a man of influence with the Ambassador and my friends and I at the F.O. are keen to see him continue with his fine work.”
“I’m happy to do anything I can. What is it that particularly interests you?”
Douglas lea
ned forward. “As we all know, he has been a strong supporter of Mr Chamberlain since his arrival in 1938.”
“He admires the Prime Minister enormously.”
“And he has been a strong proponent of peace, of, er, using all efforts possible to reach a negotiated settlement of some sort with Germany.”
“So he has and it’s cost him some too. He’s always had his enemies here and I’d say in some way they’ve had the upper hand in recent months. But more important to the Ambassador, his views have led to some poor publicity back in the USA, and he’s very unhappy about that.”
“I can quite understand.” Douglas took a long pull from his cigar. “Wonderful cigars. Of course, if this war continues to develop we won’t be able to get them through the German blockades. And plenty more besides. There will be massive shortages, more rationing. It will be very unpleasant and that’s even without taking account of the bombing.”
“I can’t see it happening. Surely everyone will see some common sense and come to a settlement. I don’t think the common man here really gives a fig about Hitler’s designs on the countries of Eastern Europe, provided Britain and its Empire are unaffected.”
“Quite. And as I was saying the other night, we are sure that Hitler will be quite happy to guarantee not to interfere with us and the Empire provided we allow him some breathing space in the East.” Moving his chair forward, Douglas drew to within inches of Norton’s face. “Confidentially, as your Ambassador probably knows, we are continuing to get feelers from Germany to confirm this. A deal can no doubt be struck. Perhaps we’d have to give up a few small colonies but who cares if we avoid the disaster of war?”
“You know we can agree on that. The Ambassador, as you are well aware, is adamantly against a US entrance into the war and without American help, if Germany chooses to target all its military power against Britain, I wouldn’t give a cent for your chances.”
“Precisely. Now you mentioned a moment ago that the Ambassador was unhappy with some of the bad press he’s been getting back home.”
“Yes, although he’s still got plenty of supporters in the press as well.”
“Beneficiaries of the famous Kennedy largesse, no doubt.”
“No, that’s not the case. The Ambassador does not…”
“Hold your horses, my friend. Just my little joke.” Douglas re-lit his cigar. “Am I right in thinking that Mr Kennedy has ambitious domestic political aspirations?”
“I don’t know about that.”
“Come on, Arthur. Don’t be coy. We’ve seen the American press speculation. Mr Kennedy would like to take on Mr Roosevelt and become America’s first Catholic President.”
“So some think, although I’m not really at liberty to discuss his plans.”
Douglas’ lips moved to form a thin smile. “Very well. All I’d like to say is that I and several of my colleagues at the F.O. fully support the Ambassador’s outlook. I’m talking here about colleagues at the highest level, Arthur. We’d like him to know that many in the government, indeed in the country, still value his forceful expression of this outlook, and his influence in bolstering American isolationism. If he has presidential aspirations, we applaud and support them. Some of my superiors are unfortunately inclining to the views of the warmongers amongst us, Churchill et al. However, I believe our views will prevail and that by the end of the year we shall have an international settlement. Who knows, maybe that settlement will be presided over by President Kennedy! At the F.O. I have access to a good deal of very interesting information. If certain political ambitions do in fact exist, some of it may be of use, if you get my drift. I know that the Ambassador’s access to inside information has been considerably restricted of late, since his views have become, let’s say, less popular with some elements of the government.”
Norton drained his brandy glass. “So, Freddie, in plain English you’re saying that you support the Ambassador’s views and are keen to see him continue to promote them. In this context, you may be in a position to give him some pieces of information which could be of political use to him. Have I got the drift?”
“Bingo, Arthur. And with you as the essential link. Indeed, it may also be that circumstances arise to offer the Ambassador the opportunity to be very directly involved in bringing about a peaceful resolution to the political situation. Of course he has his influence with the current incumbent of the White House to exert and then imagine the possibilities ahead of an election – Joe Kennedy, master diplomat and peacemaker. What about that, eh? In fact, there’s something – well we shouldn’t discuss it here. I’d like to introduce you to someone. Perhaps, if you’re free tomorrow night…”
“I will make myself free.”
“Good. An interesting person. I’ll call you later to make arrangements.”
The two men were now alone save for an elderly couple playing cards in a far corner. Nancy and her retired goat had long since departed.
“One more for the road, Arthur?”
“Sure. We can drink to Anglo-American cooperation.”
“To that and… well, why not, to the Thirty-Second President of the United States, Mr Joseph P. Kennedy.”
“Morning, guvnor.”
A bearded man in a stained white coat greeted them and led Merlin and his two companions through the swing doors into a small, white-tiled room. In its centre, harshly illuminated by a flickering bright central light, was a trolley bearing an object covered in a sheet. They all stood for a moment at its foot, the only sound apart from their breathing the steady drip of a tap in a basin in the corner. A strong smell of chemicals pervaded the room and for a moment Merlin thought he would need to sneeze. The silence was broken by a whimper from Joseph Harris. “Is that ’er then?”
Merlin nodded to the attendant who pulled back the sheet.
The head and upper part of the pale, lifeless body was revealed and raised a collective sigh from the visitors before Harris cried out, “Oh God! That’s our girl. My beautiful sis’. What have they done to you, Joanie?” Tears began to stream down Harris’ unshaven cheeks.
“You’re sure?”
Harris wiped his nose with his coat sleeve and nodded. “Look. There’s her little mole there on her shoulder.” He reached out to touch the small brown mark and stroked it tenderly. When he withdrew his hand he balled it into a fist. “I’ll get the bastard who did this. I’ll swing for ’im I will.”
“There’ll be no need to do that. We’ll find the culprit, I promise you. Sergeant, send Morgan in will you?”
Bridges gently pulled Harris away from his sister and through the door.
Morgan’s jauntiness disappeared when he saw the trolley.
“Her brother’s certain it’s Joan but I thought you’d better have a look anyway. Do you recognise her?”
Morgan shook his head. “I, I don’t know for sure.” His breath caught as he reached his hand out to the dead girl and then withdrew it sharply without touching.
“Mr Harris recognised this mole. Do you…?”
Morgan continued shaking his head. “Never seen her back, naked like, so I don’t…”
Morgan’s face now had a sallow tinge and Merlin saw that his hands were trembling.
“Very well, no doubt we can get someone else in the family to confirm the identification if we have to.”
Out in the corridor, Joseph Harris was being sick. Bridges had a comforting hand on his shoulder, while with his other hand he tried to manoeuvre a bucket into the line of fire. They waited in embarrassment for him to finish. The morgue attendant produced a glass of water which Harris knocked to the floor. “Don’ want no bloody water. Don’ wan’ nothin’ but fer you people to leave me alone. No ’uman dignity in there, is there? Jus’ a slab of meat. Poor lil’ Joanie.”
He’d seen plenty of dead bodies of course. Plenty of messy ones too. In the Somme he’d seen scores of men blown to smithereens by shells or shot to pieces. One of his best mates had had his head blown off right next to him. One second A
rchie was shaking his head with laughter at some awful joke Merlin had made and the next he had no head to shake. He’d seen all sorts of death in his years as a policeman – men and women strangled, knifed, poisoned, battered to death. From the physical viewpoint, as bodies went, Joan Harris’ wasn’t too awful – the ravages of a few days in the river, some bruises and now of course the stitched-up incisions of a pathologist. Even so, it never got any easier, and the young ones were the most upsetting, however damaged. Most upsetting of all, of course, was Alice’s. She’d lost weight but in fact she hadn’t looked that bad at the end. A good-looking corpse, if there was such a thing.
Merlin shook his head, slapped his left hand with his right and refocused on his plate. He gazed unenthusiastically at his meat and veg. His appetite had disappeared. The Sergeant, however, seemed to have had few difficulties with his steak and kidney pudding and was now polishing off a large piece of treacle tart, oblivious to his boss’s self-flagellation. Merlin took a deep breath.
“So what do we know about this poor woman, Joan Harris? A nice, cheerful, country girl, betters herself by taking a secretarial course and elocution lessons. Escapes a poor country family. Obtains what, for her, must have been a very exciting job with the American Ambassador, which she gets just after Mr Kennedy takes up his post in, er, when was that?”
“March nineteen thirty-eight, sir.”
“Right. And despite her humble background, she turns out to be a star turn of a secretary. A Paganini of the typewriter in fact.”
“Paga – who sir?”
“A virtuoso violinist, Sam. Never mind. Anyway, she lives in what I guess are modest lodgings in Hammersmith.”
“Yes, sir.” Bridges finished off the last piece of tart and sighed with satisfaction.
“She’s sociable. She’s pretty ‘in a common sort of way’, as Miss Edgar puts it. I’d be surprised if she didn’t have a boyfriend or boyfriends. Being good at her job, senior Embassy officials request her specifically for typing work, and she’s fully cleared in security terms, so will no doubt have seen a lot of confidential stuff.”
