by Mark Ellis
“You alright, sir?”
Norton opened his eyes to see the outline of a helmet lit by the prostitute’s torch. The policeman had a torch of his own which he shone into their faces. The girl broke away. The men listened to the sound of her heels clattering on the icy pavement.
Running the light beam over him, the policemen took note of Norton’s expensive astrakhan coat. “You ought to be very careful out here in the blackout, sir. These conditions is paradise for the dregs of society. Some of these girls will pull a knife and rob you as quick as you can say ‘Jack Robinson’.”
“Thank you, Constable. She just came at me out of the dark and grabbed me. I’m so pleased you came along.”
“You be careful now. We don’t want to see any of our brethren from over the Pond murdered on the streets of London. Can I guide you anywhere?”
“I’m going to the Café Royal, constable. It’s not far now. I think I can find the way.”
“Alright, but you watch out, sir.”
Norton mentally thanked the constable for helping him to keep his evening on track. She was a sexy tart though. He would look out for her on another, more convenient night.
The Café Royal was throbbing with life. Norton ploughed his way, with some difficulty, through the crush. He caught sight of Douglas talking animatedly to two other men at the bar. Ducking his head down again he struggled towards them.
“It’s goddamed crowded tonight, Freddie.”
“Arthur. Glad you could make it.”
Douglas sported a bright red bow tie with his evening wear and was smoking a pungent black cigarette. “You know Vivian, don’t you?” Vivian Pemberton smiled a languid greeting.
“And of course my colleague, Edward Fraser.” A portly man with an unruly mop of curly brown hair and a small upturned nose reached over to shake Norton’s hand. “I think we need some more drink. Krug alright for you, Arthur?” Fraser waved at one of the barmen.
“Have you noticed that ladies seem to greatly outnumber gentlemen in this establishment?” Douglas wafted his cigarette at the melée.
“I’d say that’s a trend that is going to be further exaggerated if this silly war carries on.”
“Now, now, Vivian. I don’t think it’s wise to use words like ‘silly’ about the war in public, do you?”
Two bottles of champagne arrived in a large ice bucket.
“Cheers. Here’s to it.” Fraser raised his glass and the others followed suit.
“I think it is a silly war and the sooner Mr Chamberlain settles it peaceably the better.”
“I can see you’re in a combative mood tonight, Vivian. I think we’d better get a table.”
A waiter was called, a note was passed, and they were swiftly seated at a corner table as private as could be obtained. Two pretty young girls giggled and simpered at two much older men on the nearest table.
“Tell me, Freddie, we’ve known each other a while but the subject’s never come up, is there a Mrs Douglas somewhere?”
“Not yet, Arthur. I am spoken for though. Lovely girl. She’s in Shropshire at present. Probably going to stay there for the duration. Her father thinks London’s too dangerous. Still, leaves me some room for adventure.” Douglas smiled across at Pemberton who winked mischievously. “Before you arrived, Vivian was telling us about his new job at the Ministry of Information.”
“Oh, yes. You mentioned that the other night.”
Pemberton yawned. “It’s a bloody bore, Norton. Can’t really tell you much about it but I shall die of tedium if my current project doesn’t get completed soon. Every idea I have goes off for review by some committee of philistines who wouldn’t know art from a lump of coal. It’s very frustrating. All I can say is that if the military decision making of our war machine is subject to the same sort of bureaucratic delay and dithering as are my modest little propaganda film efforts, then I should be surprised if this fine establishment hasn’t been turned into a bierkeller by March.”
“Vivian, please.” Douglas glanced carefully around him. A white-haired gentleman on a nearby table gazed sternly at the group for a while before returning to his brown Windsor soup.
Douglas suggested ordering food and as the party muttered its approval of this idea, he put his hand on Fraser’s shoulder. “What’s wrong with you tonight, Edward? You’ve hardly said a word.”
“Oh, nothing, Freddie, nothing at all.”
“Well, buck up and get a bloody waiter over here will you? We’re all starving.”
Just as the main course was being delivered, the table was approached by a tall man with olive skin, dark eyes and a small goatee beard. Douglas rose in greeting.
“Count. Good to see you.” The newcomer clicked his heels and bowed. “A pleasure to see you again also, Signor Douglas.”
The Count smiled engagingly at the party, revealing a set of immaculate teeth which almost matched his white dinner jacket.
“Arthur, may I introduce Count Ricardo Giambelli.”
“Delighted to meet you, Count.” The Italian’s teeth flashed out again from beneath his appropriately Roman nose.
A waiter brought over a chair and Giambelli seated himself between Douglas and Norton, declining the offer of food. A fresh glass of champagne was poured.
“The Count is chef de cabinet at the Italian Embassy.”
“So you are Arthur Norton?” The Count flourished a black handkerchief with which he mopped his brow. “I have heard of you from my Ambassador, who is a good friend of your admirable Mr Kennedy.”
“I know that Mr Kennedy was highly appreciative of all the help your embassy gave him when he travelled with his family to the Pope’s Coronation.”
“Ah, yes. Your Ambassador is a good Catholic man with good Catholic views. Good political views I believe, as well.”
“I am sure they are well known to you and your embassy.”
“And are his views also your views?”
“The Ambassador and I are as one in our political outlook, Count.” Norton’s features assumed a steadfast appearance.
“Indeed, Mr Norton. That is good to hear. Signor Douglas mentioned something of this to me already.”
Douglas nodded, leaned forward and lowered his voice. “We are in close touch with the Count’s department at present. Some interesting ideas are being put forward by his Excellency and his colleagues. I think that Mr Kennedy would be keen to hear them.”
“I’d be delighted to learn about them whenever you think appropriate but…”
The house orchestra struck up “The Lambeth Walk” while a statuesque blonde squeezed past their table and attracted everyone’s attention. The Count laughed. “I think, my friends, we should concentrate on pleasure tonight. But I would be happy to meet at any time which is convenient. I have taken up golf. Do you play golf, Mr Norton?”
“I play a little.”
“Well, I am sure you are much better than me but perhaps we might play a round this weekend. I am a member of a club in Surrey. What do you say?”
“It would be a pleasure.”
“Bene. I shall look forward to it.”
“Good. That’s fixed then.” Douglas patted Norton on the back. “Now, gentlemen. Any ideas about the rest of the evening? Shall we stay here or try somewhere else? I thought we might go on. Arthur and I know one or two good places, don’t we, my friend?”
Morgan shivered as he put his latchkey in the lock of the outside door. His condition was not solely due to the freezing night air. He might be flesh and blood and he might have done his nephew several good turns but Morrie Owen gave him the creeps. When he looked at Uncle Morrie’s bloated features he found it hard to believe that his mother was in any way related to him, let alone his only sister. Megan Morgan was a short, trim woman, with the remnants of what everyone in the village said had been a very pretty face. His nan and gramp were small too. There was no accounting for it. There was one thing they had in common though. Brains. His mum was bright and Morrie was as sharp as a r
azor. What were the words he’d heard some of the Americans use about the Ambassador? A very sharp cookie. That was Uncle Morrie too. Hard as nails as well, but smooth, oh so smooth, when he wanted to be. He did not want to get on the wrong side of his uncle, that was for sure.
The mechanism was stiff as always and he had to rattle the key in the lock a few times before the door gave. He’d spent the evening losing money steadily at the snooker hall. It was late and someone had diligently turned off all the lights. He groped his way through the hallway, up the stairs, and along the warren of corridors to the bedroom. All he could hear was his own footsteps and the whistling of the wind outside. He rummaged in his trouser pockets for the other key. There’d been a bit of a rumpus when he’d insisted on having a lock on the bedroom door. No one else did and some of the others had complained vigorously. Miss Edgar had a sweet spot for him though and she’d turned a blind eye. He needed security. Thanks to his uncle he was a busy man and he couldn’t afford any slips. What if he forgot and left something dodgy in the room? Priestley, for one, was always nosing everywhere. The thought of his uncle’s reaction if he compromised him in any way made him shudder. The key slid smoothly into the lock and he entered the room. He switched on the light, hurried over to the fire and dropped a coin into the meter. After ten minutes the room had warmed up enough for him to take his coat off. Sitting down on the bed, he remembered with pleasure what he’d been doing at roughly the same time the previous night. What a body that girl had! And a sweet face – such a sweet face. Perhaps he could engineer a return engagement next week? Provided his uncle didn’t keep him too busy. Slowly the circulation returned to his fingers and toes and he bent down to untie his shoe laces.
The agreeable images of Kathleen faded as his mind turned again to his uncle. Much as he feared him he had decided he wasn’t going to do any more of that other stuff. No matter that Uncle Morrie paid him double-whack. There was a limit.
He rose from the bed, removed his tie, collar and studs and walked over to the basin. The wind was now howling rather than whistling but this didn’t stop him hearing the floorboards creaking outside. He can’t have been the last one in after all. The cold tap was running and he splashed his face a few times before giving his teeth a good clean. Outside the creaking had stopped but he walked to the door, which he hadn’t yet locked, and poked his head out into the corridor. Seeing nothing, he closed the door and looked on the bed for his key. He found it, turned and walked straight into a fist. He felt something in his nose crack before he was hit again. Blood was streaming into his eyes and he swung his own fist weakly into empty air. Two sickening blows to his stomach were followed by another to his face. He was vaguely aware of the loosening of teeth. Struggling to breathe he flailed uselessly with his arms before he felt his legs being kicked from underneath him. One eye was completely closed but through the bloody haze of the other he saw something glinting. He was pushed flat on the floor. Was there one shape above him or two? He couldn’t tell. A boot landed in his groin and he doubled up. He would have cried out but he didn’t have the strength.
CHAPTER 5
Thursday February 1st
The inhabitants of Hammersmith were just awakening to their morning cuppas when the two policemen arrived at Joan Harris’ lodgings.
“I’ll leave it to you to knock on the door, Sergeant. I think I’d prefer to get a more distanced view of Mrs Bowen at this early hour of the morning.”
“Right you are, sir. Better take off the hat. It’s so smart she might jump on you when she sees it.”
Bridges rapped the door knocker sharply once, then once again. The door opened a crack and they could hear whispering. A hesitant female voice spoke out. Merlin thought he detected a hint of West Country in the accent. “I am afraid Mrs Bowen is out. She said she’d be back from the shops within the hour.”
“Would that be Miss Simpson or Miss Foster? I’m Detective Chief Inspector Merlin. It’s you we’ve come to see. Did Mrs Bowen not tell you?”
The whispering continued behind the door.
In due course the door opened to reveal two elderly ladies. One was tall and thin with a grey bun and spectacles. The other was short and round with saucer eyes and a tight perm of dyed-brown hair. The taller woman inclined her head. “Please come in.”
In the hallway Merlin shook hands, took off his hat and pointed it in the direction of Mrs Bowen’s front parlour. When they were all seated, the taller lady introduced herself as Eleanor Simpson and her companion as Emily Foster.
“I presume Mrs Bowen has informed you of the tragedy which occurred while you were away.”
Miss Simpson removed her spectacles and started cleaning them with her handkerchief. “Mrs Bowen told us about what happened to the poor girl when we got back from Malmesbury yesterday. She did mention that you might need to speak to us, but we didn’t know that you would be here to do that today.” Miss Simpson spoke in the clear ringing tone of one who had been born to command obedience. Merlin wondered what unhappy events had led her to these second-rate lodgings in a dingy quarter of Hammersmith. Her companion smiled nervously and wrung her hands. “Yes, yes, so sad. Such a lovely girl.”
“I’m sorry to catch you unawares but we got a message last night that you had returned and thought we’d better get round here first thing to see you. I’m afraid we haven’t got an awful lot of background information on Miss Harris and we need every scrap we can get.”
“Of course, Chief Inspector. How can Emily and I help you?”
“Perhaps you could both give us your impressions of Miss Harris?”
Miss Foster looked anxiously at her friend. “I’ll start, shall I?”
“Yes, Eleanor, go ahead; you are so much more observant than me.”
“I doubt that we’ll have much of interest to tell you. We occasionally encountered the poor girl on the staircase and once or twice had tea together. She seemed a bright young thing. Pretty with it too. Generally, she kept herself very much to herself. She seemed kind. I do remember once when Emily fell on the stairs, Miss Harris was most attentive and offered to go out to the chemist for bandages etcetera. Do you remember, dear?”
“Oh, yes, very kind, a very kind young girl.” Miss Foster’s eyes watered and she caught her breath.
“I understand Mrs Bowen runs something of a tight ship here. Lock-up at 10.30pm, I believe. Do you know if that ever inconvenienced Miss Harris?”
“You mean did she ever stay out past her allotted curfew?”
“Yes.”
“It has not been our habit while staying in Miss Bowen’s establishment to spy on other lodgers.”
“Oh no, not at all.” Miss Foster’s cheeks quivered as she shook her head to and fro.
“I wouldn’t suggest such a thing, ladies. I was just wondering what you might have observed in the normal course of events.”
Miss Foster shook her friend’s arm and whispered something behind her hand.
“Yes, well tell them, dear.”
Miss Foster cleared her throat. “I was saying that there was an occasion when Miss Harris did arrive home after curfew. I know because she threw some pebbles at my window to attract attention.”
“And what did you do?”
“I opened my window of course. Joan asked me if I could slip down stairs and open the door to let her in.” She removed a green handkerchief from a sleeve and delicately blew her nose.
“You let her in?”
“Of course. I couldn’t let the girl freeze outside.”
“Was she on her own?”
“She came in on her own.”
“But did you see anyone outside who’d brought her home?”
“Oh.” Miss Foster looked into the distance somewhere above Bridges’ head. “I did hear another voice, I think.”
“A man’s voice or a woman’s voice?”
“I don’t know if I can rightly say. It might have been a woman’s. You know, her friend’s.”
“Which friend is that
?”
“You know, her friend from work. I don’t know her name. A sweet thing with red hair. She came here a few times with Joan. But then again, it was very late. I’m not sure. It could have been a man’s voice. They were whispering, you see.”
“Any sign of an accent?”
“I don’t know that I can remember, Inspector. Oh dear, I’m not being much help, am I?”
“On the contrary, Miss Foster. Apart from this red-headed friend from work, did either of you ever see Miss Harris with other friends or acquaintances?”
The ladies both shook their heads.
“Did you notice her going out in the evening very often?”
“I suppose we did see her go out in evening wear a few times. That sort of thing stays in the memory, doesn’t it, dear?”
“Yes, Eleanor. And very nice she looked too, I must say. Reminded me of you in Watley Court, so many years ago. Do you remember the Hunt Ball, when was it, just after the Jubilee when…”
“Did either of you ever feel that there was something worrying Miss Harris? Did she ever seem preoccupied in any way?”
“No, but…”
“Yes?”
“It’s just an impression and it might be my imagination, but when she first came here she seemed very cheerful. More recently, if I think about it, her demeanour was, well, less happy. She didn’t seem quite as full of the joys of spring as before, shall we say. Don’t you agree, Emily?”
“Oh yes. I think I do. She seemed to be frowning a lot recently and there was one time when she seemed very flustered. Not so long ago either. Just after New Year I think. I came in here and she was reading a letter. When I entered, she put the letter back in its envelope and ran to her room. There was something odd. She smiled at me as she passed but then I am sure I heard her sobbing as she ran up the stairs.”
“She never talked to you about what had upset her?”
“Oh, no, no.”
“Is there anything else you can tell us?”
As the ladies again shook their heads, some strands of hair dislodged themselves from Eleanor Simpson’s tight bun and for a moment Merlin glimpsed the pretty young girl of the Hunt Ball long ago.
