A Case of Suicide in St. James's

by Clara Benson

  She had just come to this conclusion when Captain Dauncey stopped to one side of the entrance to Oxford Circus station to light a cigarette. As he did so he glanced about, and there was such a furtive, guilty look about him as he did so that Gertie was quite startled. Quick as a flash she made up her mind and dashed after him as he entered the station. Inside the ticket-hall it was very crowded, which allowed her to get closer to him without being spotted. He purchased a ticket to Liverpool Street, and she did likewise, then followed him down onto the Central London line platform. A train was just drawing into the station, and she debated for a second whether or not to get into the same carriage as Dauncey, but decided against it—crowded as the place was, there was still a risk that he would see her—and got into the next one instead. Then the train pulled away and she immediately regretted it. What if he changed his mind and did not get off at Liverpool Street after all? The idea of losing him after all her trials of the morning was insupportable, and at every stop she jumped up and peered out through the door to make sure he had not got off, earning herself some odd looks from the other passengers. At Liverpool Street she leapt out, and to her relief saw him moving through the crowd on the platform to the exit. He emerged into the open and set off down the street, his pursuer keeping a discreet distance behind him. Gertie looked about her as she walked. This was an area of the city with which she was unfamiliar, and she felt a little nervous, since the people hereabouts were not of the sort with whom she was accustomed to mix. As far as she could tell, they were heading further East, and she began to wish she had worn more sensible shoes, for she had been on her feet all morning and they were beginning to ache. This part of town was run-down: they were not yet quite into the East End, but in an area in which businesses of the less salubrious sort seemed to operate, and Gertie suddenly realized that she ought to pay more attention to where they were going, for if she lost sight of Captain Dauncey, she would have great difficulty in finding her way back again. A pair of rough-looking men eyed her up and down most impertinently as they passed, and she was sure one of them muttered something disrespectful, although she could not hear exactly what he had said. Perhaps Freddy had been right, and she ought to have left well alone.

  She had just begun to make up her mind to look about for a taxi and return to the safety of the West End, when she saw Captain Dauncey slow down at last and turn into a shabby-looking office building. She had taken refuge in a doorway as she saw him turn, and she waited a few minutes in order to make quite sure that he would not come straight out again, then approached the building cautiously. A faded name-plate affixed crookedly to the wall outside informed her that these were the premises of the Stamboul International Export Co. Gertie hesitated a few moments, then took a deep breath and pushed the door open. She had no idea what she would say if Dauncey were just behind it, but she had come too far to back out now, and she was alive with curiosity. Fortunately, all that was behind the door was a dingy entrance-hall, containing only a small table on which a good deal of post had piled up. Gertie glanced at one or two of the envelopes, but none of the names were familiar to her, and several of the letters had been marked with the words ‘not known at this address.’ The entrance-hall ended in a flight of stairs, and she ascended them cautiously, thankful that her footsteps made no noise on the dusty carpet. At the top of the stairs was a corridor, at the end of which was a glass-panelled door, slightly ajar, through which she could hear the sound of voices. One was low and foreign-sounding, while the other was Dauncey’s. He sounded quite unlike himself, his voice hard and contemptuous. Gertie stood and listened.

  ‘—and you can tell him it’s the last time,’ Dauncey was saying. ‘I’ve had enough of it. It’s sick-making, d’you hear?’

  ‘You are paid well for it,’ replied the other. ‘Do not think we are unaware of the life you lead. We know very well that you enjoy the finest things, and have women looking at you and the nation adoring you. What more do you want?’

  Dauncey gave a sardonic laugh.

  ‘I want my honour back. I’m sure I used to be an honourable man once, many years ago, but look at me now. What have I become? A coward, who does things he despises because he can’t see another alternative. Well, this is the last time—I want no more of it!’

  ‘So you think? We shall see what Mr. Salmanov says,’ said the other man.

  Dauncey said something unrepeatable, and Gertie blinked.

  ‘Still, you will not turn down your payment, I think.’ The other voice had a mocking tone to it.

  ‘You think it’s funny, do you? Be careful, or one day I might lash out, and then you’ll be smiling on the other side of your face.’

  The foreign voice hardened.

  ‘You tell me to be careful? Then I tell you the same thing. You would be wise not to test me. I am not so stupid as not to provide myself with a weapon.’

  ‘Oh, so that’s the way it is, is it? I suppose I oughtn’t to be surprised that someone of your kind feels the need to carry one of those around with you. But don’t worry—you’ve nothing to fear from me.’

  ‘Then you have nothing to fear from me,’ said the foreign man politely.

  The voices diminished to a murmur, then a chair scraped and the sound of approaching footsteps could be heard. Gertie, caught off guard, leapt back and whirled around, looking for somewhere to hide. A few feet away was a window recess, across which a curtain was almost fully drawn. She darted into it, and immediately discovered she was not the only occupant. She jumped violently and only just managed to stop herself from giving a shriek of terror.

  ‘Why, Lady Gertrude!’ said Corky Beckwith, quite as though they had just encountered one another in the Royal Enclosure at Ascot, rather than behind a curtain in a seedy office building in Aldgate.

  She stared at him, one hand on her heart and the other clapped over her mouth, as the two men who had been talking came out of the office and went down the stairs. There came the sound of a door closing; evidently Dauncey and his associate had gone out into the street.

  ‘What are you doing here?’ hissed Gertie, once she was sure nobody was coming back. ‘I nearly died of fright!’

  ‘I was following you,’ replied Corky, with a rare foray into the bare-faced truth.

  ‘What on earth for?’

  ‘Very slow time of year, August. You see, all the politicians take the summer off, and crime rates tend to fall too. One might almost conjecture a connection between the two events, don’t you think?’ He gave her a view of his teeth and paused to savour his own wit, then went on, ‘At any rate, one must get one’s news where one can find it—mostly on the social side of things—and you’re always good for a few readers. We get a lot of letters about you every time we feature you, as a matter of fact.’

  ‘Really? What do they say?’ said Gertie curiously.

  ‘Perhaps that is not a subject for discussion at present,’ said Corky delicately. ‘One doesn’t wish to offend, but I expect you’re aware that many of our readers are rather uneducated, and have difficulty in appreciating the nuances to be found in the behaviour of the upper classes.’

  Gertie opened her mouth to reply, then thought better of it.

  ‘But why on earth did you follow me here?’ she said instead.

  ‘Well, after the hint you graciously vouchsafed on Saturday about yourself and young Pilkington-Soames, I wanted to find out more—whether, in short, the two of you are engaged, so I took it upon myself to ascertain the truth of the matter on behalf of the readers of the Herald and decided to keep you in sight.’

  ‘Do you mean to say you’ve been following me all morning?’

  ‘Yes, and a most instructive morning it’s been,’ he said. ‘Who would have thought one could spend as much as five and a half guineas on a set of cami-knickers and a nightdress? Even if they are Milanese silk with lace trimming.’ He leered. ‘I must say, peach was a very good choice. The pale yellow would have quite washed you out.’

  Gertie directed an o
utraged glare at him.

  ‘Do you always take this much interest in other people’s underthings?’

  ‘Oh, not I, not I. I couldn’t be less interested in the intimate raiments of the fairer sex. It’s for the readers, naturally. Their appetite for detail is quite insatiable, even where their curiosity demonstrates a certain lack of sophistication. They’re mostly interested in knowing the name of the young man on whom you propose to bestow your hand, but little snippets of information about your wardrobe are always very welcome.’

  ‘Readers, my foot!’ said Gertie rudely. ‘You’re nothing but a dirty-minded snoop.’

  ‘Not at all. I refer you to my by-line. Albert Caulfield Beckwith is the name. Sometimes they even spell it right.’ He regarded her sideways. ‘Incidentally, since we’re here and the subject has already been introduced, I don’t mind confiding to you that money has been wagered back at the office on the outcome of your hitherto faltering approaches to the married state, and before you go I’d consider it a great favour if you’d be prepared to give me some inside information.’

  Gertie stared, open-mouthed.

  ‘Do you mean to say you’re running a book?’

  ‘Why not? One must have a little harmless amusement, you know.’

  ‘On whether I’ll get engaged?’

  ‘Oh, we know you’ll get engaged. You do it so often one could almost set a clock by it. It’s the name of the next lucky fellow we’re looking for. The general consensus at the Herald is that you have the young Viscount Delamere in mind—’

  ‘Ugh! No fear of that!’ interjected Gertie, appalled.

  ‘—but thanks to my presence at the air show on Saturday, I have knowledge of which my colleagues are unaware, having seen you and Freddy together. Still, in view of the present circumstances, I see that I may have been mistaken, and that your lively eye may in fact have come to rest upon an altogether different personage.’

  He gave her a significant look. Gertie was puzzled for a second, then realized to whom he was referring.

  ‘Do you mean Captain Dauncey? Don’t be absurd!’

  ‘Then why are you here?’

  This was a perfectly reasonable question, to which Gertie had no answer. Fortunately, Corky’s mention of the air show gave her an idea.

  ‘Well, you see, I forgot to ask for his autograph on Saturday, and when I happened to see him on Bond Street I decided it might be my last chance. He’s awfully famous, isn’t he?’

  She giggled. It was one of her better giggles, but it did not fool Corky for a second.

  ‘Come now, you don’t think I was born yesterday, do you? I know what you’re doing. Why, it’s quite obvious that Freddy has told you all about our little conversation at the air show, and he’s sent you out to do his dirty work for him while he sits idle, waiting to see what you come up with.’

  She was about to deny it, when it struck her that discretion was the better part of valour, and that Corky presumably knew nothing of their investigation into the murder of Douglas Westray. It was better that he remain in the dark on this question, so she lowered her eyes and said:

  ‘Yes, it’s true: I did say I would try and find out what Captain Dauncey was up to.’

  ‘I knew it! I knew he would try and steal a march on me. Well, you may tell him that I’ll have none of it. Dauncey is clearly up to something—I heard it all just as well as you did—but this is my story and if Freddy won’t share then I won’t either—you may tell him that!

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Gertie impatiently, for by now all she wanted to do was get away from him. ‘I’ll tell him whatever you like.’

  She pulled aside the curtain and emerged from the recess. Corky followed her, and they went out into the street together. Gertie looked about. To her relief, there was no sign of Captain Dauncey. She spied a taxi coming towards them on the other side of the road, and before Corky could suggest coming with her, dived into the traffic.

  ‘Are you engaged or not?’ he called after her. ‘Do tell, won’t you? There’s a tenner in it for me.’

  She ignored him and jumped into the taxi.

  ‘Grosvenor Square,’ she said to the driver, then got in and sat back to think over all she had learnt that morning.

  Chapter Fifteen

  At the same time as Gertie was following Captain Dauncey into the depths of East London, Freddy was sitting at his desk in the Clarion’s offices. Although he was physically present at his place of employment, little work was being done. Instead, he was leaning back in his chair, idly firing ink pellets at the ceiling with a ruler, and pondering the riddle of Douglas Westray’s death. At present the mystery seemed to consist entirely of loose ends, with nothing to tie them together. The shoes, the pen, the comb, the attempt to run him over, the fact that nobody had heard the gunshot, the question of whether Lois Westray had seen Captain Dauncey on the balcony, Tatty’s suspicion that somebody had overheard her conversation with Douglas in the smoking room—all these things and more swirled indistinctly in his head, refusing to form themselves into a pattern. Was it all really as complicated as it seemed? His investigations had led him here and there, but when all was said and done he could not help thinking that the answer must lie with Douglas himself. Who benefited from his death? Nobody, as far as Freddy could tell—or at least, not to the extent of killing him. He had not been rich, and such enemies as he did have—who were not enemies in the strongest sense of the word—had no reason to do away with him. But if it was not a matter of love or hate or money, then why had he been killed? Freddy considered his brief acquaintance with Douglas, who at the time had seemed more of a minor nuisance than anything else, a pebble underfoot which needed sweeping away without much thought. Was that what had happened? Had he been got out of the way for some unknown reason?

  Involuntarily Freddy’s thoughts went to Captain Dauncey. If any of the people present at the dance that evening might have been said to be careless of life in general, Dauncey was the man. He was certainly careless of his own life, but did that attitude extend to the lives of others? Might he have swept Douglas out of the way if he found him to be an obstacle? Had Douglas known something to Dauncey’s disadvantage that made him dangerous? If so, what? But set against the idea of Dauncey as murderer was the incident at the air show, in which he had lost control of his plane. Had someone tampered with the Nugent Nuthatch, as Lord Browncliffe had claimed? If so, was it to prevent the aeroplane from selling well—or had the aim been to put Dauncey out of the way too? Was Dauncey the next intended victim?

  And then there was Tom Chetwynd, who had fallen out with Douglas because of his engagement to Tatty. The fact that Douglas had attempted to win her back might, in other circumstances, Freddy supposed, have been a good enough reason for murder, but in this case it did not fit, since Tom seemed strangely unenthusiastic about the marriage, and had quite openly shown that he knew Tatty was still in love with her former fiancé. That did not speak of a crime committed out of rage or jealousy.

  Freddy rubbed his chin, puzzled. None of it made sense. Still, there was no use in spending all day brooding in the office. Freddy had a story to write for which he had to go to Kensington, so he abandoned his ink pellets, fetched his hat and went out. He performed his duty for the paper, and after that took a train to Hammersmith, the site of the Westray factory, where Douglas had worked.

  The building was a tall, square building situated at the end of a narrow street. Freddy entered and asked the porter whether he might speak to Leslie Penbrigg. Mr. Penbrigg was in the canteen having a bite of lunch, it seemed, but he would most likely be finished soon. At length he appeared, and brightened when he saw his visitor.

  ‘Freddy!’ he said. ‘This is a surprise. What are you doing here?’

  ‘Hallo, old chap, I thought I’d come and look you up. There’s something I want to ask you.’

  ‘Certainly,’ said Penbrigg. ‘We’ll go into my workshop.’

  ‘You mean the centre of operations, where all the clever think
ing goes on?’

  ‘Oh, well, I shouldn’t say that, exactly,’ said Penbrigg, modestly.

  He set off along a corridor towards the back of the building. Freddy glanced through the doors as they passed, catching glimpses of people busy at work. Through one door was a huge, high-ceilinged room, and he stopped to look in. It was a large, bright space, with tall windows at one end that let in the light. Set out in neat rows in the middle of the room were trestles, on which were laid wooden structures which Freddy recognized as the beginnings of aeroplane wings. At each trestle stood one or two men in white aprons, bent over their work with drills and planes and glue. Against the wall stood neat stacks of completed wing frames. The floor was covered in wood shavings.

  ‘As you can see, this is where we assemble the wings,’ said Penbrigg.

  ‘Are these for fighter planes?’ asked Freddy.

  ‘No, these ones are for civilian use,’ replied Penbrigg. ‘You know, delivering mail and suchlike.’

  The next room was equally large and high, with a balcony running around three sides. From the ceiling was suspended part of the fuselage of an aeroplane.

  ‘That’s the Ocelot,’ said Penbrigg, a touch of pride in his voice. Sir Stanley is hoping we’ll receive a big order soon, since it performed so well at the Heston air show.’