by Mark Ellis
“Thank you, ladies.”
“I hope Emily and I have been of some assistance, gentlemen.”
As the front door closed behind them, Merlin caught sight of Mrs Bowen’s bosom heaving violently as she strode purposefully along the pavement towards them.
“Get in the car, Sergeant. And make it snappy.”
Merlin was reading about the British Expeditionary Force when the A.C. breezed into his office. Charlie Merlin was a Lieutenant in the BEF and was somewhere in France. The Times was, not surprisingly, unenlightening about troop movements on the Continent and he put the newspaper down none the wiser. Charlie’s wife Bea had heard nothing from her husband since Christmas and was naturally getting agitated. Merlin would have to make time in the next few days to go and see her and little Paul.
“Well done, Frank.” The A.C. beamed at him.
Merlin returned a disconcerted look. “For what are you congratulating me, sir?”
“Solving the Birdcage Walk hit and run, of course.”
“Oh, right.”
The previous night there had been a note on his desk from Johnson – he had a positive identification on the driver of the car. There were further details but he hadn’t read them.
“I gather Johnson’s going off to pick the chap up later today?”
“Er, yes, sir.”
“Good officer, Johnson.”
“Yes, very good.”
“Reminds me of you when you were younger.”
“Does he?”
“Yes.” The Assistant Commissioner scratched his neck and gazed out of the window at a nearby barrage balloon. His temporary mood of jollity passed. “Any progress on the Barnes case?”
“We have been carrying out our interviews at the Ambassador’s residence.”
“Haven’t upset anyone I hope?”
“I don’t think so.” Norton’s angry face briefly materialised in front of him.
“Learned anything useful?”
“There are some interesting characters but I don’t really have any clear leads. I’m going to investigate one of the embassy chauffeurs. We seem to have caught him out in a lie – said he’d never been close to the victim, but one of the other chauffeurs says he saw them together at lunch just before the girl disappeared.”
“A lover’s tiff that went wrong?”
“Perhaps. This fellow’s a bit of a ladies’ man. The girl was pretty and the initial evidence points to her having a reasonably active social life. That’s about all I’ve got at present.”
The A.C. clasped his hands together and flexed them above the desk. “Any mileage in the security aspect?”
“The girl had sight of confidential embassy information. She was obviously aware of the political outlook of the Ambassador and his staff but that’s pretty much common knowledge. No doubt there’s plenty of sensitive information that she was privy to which is not common knowledge and which might provide a lead, but I can’t see the Embassy helping me with that.”
“I suppose not.” The windowpanes rattled loudly. “I think you’re barking up the right tree by pursuing her personal life. I’m sure that’s where the answer lies.”
Clouds were being chased rapidly past the window by the strong wind that had suddenly got up. The barrage balloon was now straining hard at its tethers.
“When is this bloody war going to get going, eh, Frank?”
At lunchtime Merlin shared some cheese sandwiches with Bridges at his desk.
“Any apologies about the food by the way?”
“No. Iris said I was upset because I drank too much beer with the meal. She’s going to have a go at another Indian recipe next week.”
“She’ll have to reckon with me if she does.”
“I’ll tell her.”
The klaxon of a passing barge boomed out as Merlin licked his fingers.
“Want me to follow up anything the old ladies told us, sir?”
“They didn’t really tell us much, did they? I wonder what bad luck brought them to Mrs Bowen’s fine establishment.”
Merlin swung his feet onto the desk. Bridges wondered again whether he should tell the Chief Inspector about the hole in his shoe. “How’d you mean?”
“Mrs Simpson was clearly brought up in circumstances of position and wealth. How did she end up in those dreary lodgings? Miss Foster seemed of a different class, though. Perhaps she was her maid once. Well that’s doubtlessly irrelevant. The only thing I think we need to follow up is the story about the late return home. Better check with the Irish girl, that it was her seeing Miss Harris home. And it would be interesting to see what was in that letter.” Merlin looked at his watch, ran a hand through his hair and lowered his legs to the floor. “Let’s get over to Kensington.”
As they came out of the office, they bumped into a slight young man with a small black moustache and a well Brylcreemed short back and sides.
“I understand from the man upstairs that you’ve sorted out the hit and run, Peter. Well done.”
“I don’t know about that, sir, but I have got a suspect.” Johnson was a Geordie and Merlin instinctively liked him. One of his father’s suppliers had been a Geordie and he’d always had a kind word and a toffee for young Frank.
“Haven’t had a chance to read the note you left me yet. I should be back around five. You can tell me everything then.”
Johnson shifted uncomfortably on his heels. “I was hoping that you could give me some advice, sir. The situation is a little delicate.”
“Can it wait a bit?”
“I suppose it can if it has to.” Johnson turned reluctantly and disappeared down the corridor.
“The A.C. says Johnson reminds him of myself when younger. Can’t see it myself but he’s a good copper. He’ll have to do something about that moustache, though.”
Miss Edgar was supervising the installation of some additions to the lobby’s floral display.
“I’m sorry gentlemen, it’s Morgan’s day off and I have no idea where he is. No not there, you silly girl. Over here beneath Mr Adams.”
“How about Miss Donovan? We’d like a chat with her if possible.”
“Kathleen has called in sick. Someone dropped a note off to say she had the flu and wouldn’t be in today.”
“Ah.” Merlin couldn’t restrain himself from raising an eyebrow at Bridges.
“Have I said something amusing, gentlemen?”
“Certainly not Miss Edgar. Could you tell us where Mr Morgan lives?”
“He shares lodgings with some of the other servants in an adjacent building. I suppose you might find him there at this hour. Ah, Priestley.” Morgan’s colleague scurried through the front door.
“Have you seen Morgan?”
“Not since yesterday, miss.”
“Any idea where he is?”
“No. I’ve been running an errand for Mr Zarb.”
“Well, perhaps you could show these officers to the lodgings. He might be in his room. No Mary, not there, put the flowers beneath the second Mr Adams not the first.”
Priestley shrugged his shoulders and stepped back through the door. He turned right at the bottom of the steps. Clumps of snow had been shovelled up against the railings and the pavement was dotted with icy puddles. Merlin walked straight into one and grimaced as the freezing water seeped through the hole in his shoe. They followed Priestley around a corner and halted outside a bright red door.
“This is the staff annexed.” Priestley pushed at the unlocked door and as they entered, the clatter of pans and smell of boiled cabbage told Merlin that they were not far from the Ambassador’s kitchens. The chauffeur led the way through a warren of corridors, up a narrow staircase and finally to a door which was slightly ajar. He knocked politely. “Johnny. Are you there? I’ve brought the coppers to see you.”
There was no reply and Priestley looked enquiringly at the policemen.
“Let’s go in.”
It was dark and a sickly smell filled the room. “Sergeant, open
a window for God’s sake. Where’s the light?”
Bridges went to the far side of the bed to pull back the curtains and open the window latch, while Priestley scrabbled around for a switch.
The light he eventually switched on revealed an overturned chair, a bed and beside the bed a body. Morgan’s bulging eyes gazed lifelessly at the ceiling, his handsome features grotesquely distorted. Stained and broken teeth snarled out from his twisted, gaping mouth. Bright flecks of blood were spattered over heavily-bruised cheeks. His right hand rigidly grasped his neck. Above the hand was a big red gash from which a bloody mess had evidently poured onto the carpet.
Priestley groaned, staggered, retched and ran out of the room.
“Madre de Dios! Open the window, Sergeant.” Merlin took a couple of deep breaths before kneeling down and examining the dead man’s wounds. A medical qualification was not essential for diagnosis of what had happened to Johnny Morgan – “His throat’s been cut.”
“Quite a thorough job too, sir.”
“Look at the bruising, Sam, and his nose is broken and there are a couple of teeth missing – he took a good walloping beforehand. A hard death. Any sign of a weapon?”
Bridges searched under the bed and around the room while Merlin continued to look closely at the body.
“There’s a razor here in the washbowl. It looks clean though.”
“Don’t touch it. We’ll leave it for forensics.” Merlin rose to his feet with a grunt. Morgan’s battered, lifeless face smiled bizarrely up at him. “Better find a phone and get the usual crew here.”
“This must be connected with Miss Harris, don’t you think, sir?”
“Two of the Ambassador’s employees dead within a week. Does seem a bit of a coincidence, doesn’t it?”
By the time Morgan’s room had been thoroughly searched, the body removed, all relevant items bagged, the fingerprinting work done and the residence staff questioned about their last sighting of Morgan, it was late. Various people at the residence had seen Morgan when he went off duty at around 6pm the previous evening but no one had seen him later. To Merlin’s annoyance, no one had heard, or would admit to hearing, any noise in Morgan’s room. The arrangements in the servant’s quarters were such that Morgan’s room was in something of a cul-de-sac, quite a way from other rooms, but the commotion from such a violent attack should have been noticed by someone. No one had seen any strangers in the corridors. No one had been seen asking after Morgan. The knife had yielded no clues. The police doctor had given his view that death had occurred very late in the evening or very early in the morning. Apart from that he and Bridges had pretty much drawn a blank.
Worried that Kathleen Donovan might somehow be at risk, Bridges had sent a constable around to her lodgings but there was no sign of her, and her landlady hadn’t seen her since the morning of the previous day. Merlin had got back to the Yard too late for Johnson. He’d have to deal with that tomorrow.
He was in no mood for another long walk home and grabbed a car from the pool. He was dead beat and as he pulled into his street all he could think about was his bed. When he got out of the car and heard a loud shout he realised that this was not yet to be.
“Hola, Frank, you old dago. Where’ve you been? I’ve been waiting here for ages.”
“No fires to put out then, Jack?”
“You know there aren’t any bloody fires, clever dick. This phoney war is a pain in the arse! Anyway, I’m off duty now and I’ve tomorrow off. I thought it would be rude not to start a day’s leave with a major hangover so I popped round here to see if you were up for one yourself.” Jack Stewart had a rumbling Scottish brogue which was one of many things about him that women seemed to find attractive.
”You know you never get hangovers-it's the poor sods who drink with you who get the hangovers.”
Stewart laughed, “Come on then. It’ll only take five minutes to get to The Surprise.”
Merlin sighed wearily. “A couple of drinks and a pie, Jack, but that’s it. I’ve got far too much on to allow myself a binge. So I’ll come if you promise to be a good boy and let me go early.”
“Spoilsport. Alright then. Let’s be off. You can tell Uncle Jack all your troubles and I’ll make sure you’re back in beddybyes in good time.”
He sat down at a table at the back of the pub and smiled to himself. Jack Stewart could be annoying sometimes but more often he was a laugh. They were opposites in many ways. Stewart was a muscular, gregarious, handsome charmer with the gift of the gab and a Rabelaisian hunger for pleasure. Merlin was a loner, perhaps more of one now than he’d ever been. They’d met through football, on opposite sides. Stewart had marked him out of the game for eighty minutes before Merlin had slipped a tackle and scored the winning goal. Stewart had insisted on dragging him on a pub crawl as retribution and he’d been around ever since. He could be coarse and blunt but his charm somehow made that excusable, and Merlin always bore in mind the deprived childhood Stewart had had in the slums of Glasgow. Rather like Merlin’s father, despite an almost complete lack of formal education, Stewart was exceptionally well-read, fiercely intelligent and great company. And, of course, he’d come up trumps when Alice had gone.
Merlin leaned back and surveyed the scene. Two blowsy women who had clearly had more than enough to drink were in his immediate sightline. One of them, whose face was not totally unattractive, gave him a lopsided grin. “Alright, darling? Aren’t you drinking then?”
“My drink’s on the way.”
“Have you got a nice friend with you then?”
Stewart emerged from the scrum at the bar with two pints of Courage and his usual whisky chaser.
“You have got a nice friend, haven’t you?” The two women cackled to each other.
“Aren’t you going to offer us a little drinkie then?”
He sighed, took out his CID badge and waved it in front of them. “Sorry ladies but I’m engaged on official police business. My friend there is Sherlock Holmes’ nephew and I’m about to seek his advice about a murderer who’s copying Jack the Ripper and cutting up ladies he meets in pubs around this part of London. Perhaps you could excuse us just this once.”
A look of hurt shock mingled with elements of fear and disbelief registered on the ladies’ faces. “Sorry, I’m sure,” said the plainer of the two as they picked up their handbags and scurried off.
“That wasn’t very nice of you, Frank.”
“An early night I said, Jack, and an early night it’s going to be. You can go and find them when I leave if you’re so keen.”
“One of them wasnae half bad. Didn’t think much of yours though.” Merlin shrugged and took a sip of his beer. “Crowded tonight again.”
“‘Morituri te salutant’ – those who are about to die salute you.” Stewart looked quizzically up at the ceiling. “No that’s not it. What’s the phrase I’m looking for?”
“‘Drink, drink and be merry for tomorrow you may die’?”
“Something like that. A misery at the station was pontificating today that the government expects 100,000 deaths per night in London when the bombing starts. I calculate that would mean the entire population of London would be wiped out within three months if they kept it up every night. If that’s really the case, no wonder everyone’s keen to drink or fuck themselves into a stupor before the curtain comes down.”
Merlin laughed. “Which particular stupor are you focusing on?”
“I don’t see any reason why I can’t do both, do you?”
“None at all. I don’t think I’ve got time for either.”
Merlin leaned back in his chair and began to relax as the alcohol had its effect.
“Come on then, feel free to unburden yourself to Uncle Jack. You’ll be better for it.”
Merlin trusted his friend implicitly and had respect for the insights Stewart occasionally brought to bear on his cases. He explained the latest developments in the Barnes case. He had told Stewart about the first murder on their previous night o
ut. When he’d finished, Stewart rose. “Another beer is needed, I think.”
“I haven’t finished this one yet.”
“You will have by the time I emerge from this jungle.”
“It’s my shout now, anyway.”
“Och, don’t worry about it. You can pay next time when we go out for a proper drink.” Jack tapped his nose. “I’m no mug, you know.”
Stewart returned with meat pies as well as drinks and Merlin bit into his hungrily.
“And your next line of enquiry?”
“I have to find Kathleen Donovan. We need to know that she’s safe and perhaps she knows who Morgan was seeing last night.”
“No sign of her in her lodgings then?”
“No. I’ve put a high priority search order out but with the administrative chaos here at the moment, I’m not very optimistic. They could put Will Hay in charge of running London these days and he’d do a better job.”
Stewart moved his chair into the table as a portly Chelsea pensioner in full regalia squeezed past him. “I know that you’re not making much progress in this case, and that’s frustrating, but you seem more concerned than usual – or is it just that you’ve been eating too many of those awful sweeties and your facial muscles have collapsed?”
“Ha, ha.” Merlin leaned forward and lowered his voice. “It’s the political angle. Two messy murders of US Embassy personnel – low level personnel but nevertheless Embassy people. We’re undermanned and overworked and I’ve got my boss on my back. I’ve already had warnings about not upsetting the Americans in my investigations, given the delicate nature of our relations with the US and our potential reliance on them in the future. I’ve got two nasty murders to solve, the country’s up against the wall and at present I can’t really see the wood for the trees.” Merlin sat back. “There I go, mixing my metaphors again.”
“I see.” Stewart gulped down his chaser and sucked his lips. “Apart from recommending a substantial intake of alcohol, I’m not sure I can give you much help.” Merlin sat up and shook his head. “Let’s forget all that. Tell me what you’ve been up to. Any news on the romantic front?”
