‘Right you are. I’ll aim for a 2.00pm sit down. Will you tell Adina?’
‘Yes, Beryl, if you’ll tell the others, and I’ll deal with any callers during the afternoon, should there be any.’
24
DAY TWENTY-FOUR
Thursday 4th August 1949
‘He sounded like a lovely young man, Father. I must be getting old. But they do say, don’t they, that when policemen look young, that’s a sure sign you’re getting old. Now you can add young priests to the list. Although I only heard him speak, but you can tell what people look like from their voices, I always think. He sounded a charming person and he had a lovely way about him.’
‘Woah, woah, please, Mrs Maloney. Hold your horses. What did he actually say?’
He had been out cycling around the parish and, on his return, he’d just put his head around the door of the kitchen to ask if there had been any callers. As it was a Thursday, Father O’Leary had made his regular visit to the old people’s home in the village. He liked to join in their activities and he’d nearly become inveigled into a game of “strip dominos” until common sense told him he was having his leg pulled. He’d come away, tutting to himself. Old people of today!
Here he was, back at the parochial house, trying to debrief Mrs Maloney on a simple message. The process was becoming torturous and frustrating.
‘He will call back in an hour and speak to you then.’
‘How long ago did he call?’
‘Oh, I don’t know. Half an hour ago, maybe more. Would you like something to eat while you’re waiting, Father?’
‘Yes, please. That would be nice. I have to be getting on with my sermon, so if you don’t mind, I’ll have it while I’m working.’
He ran into his office, sat at his desk and removed his cycle clips. He got on with some work, and every now and then caught himself staring at the telephone. This is silly, he told himself. So, he chose to ignore it. Within a couple of minutes, the phone rang.
‘Beaumont Parochial House. Father Thomas O’Leary speaking.’
‘Good afternoon, Father. This is Father Michael Thomas calling from the staff office at Westminster Cathedral. I am looking, on behalf of the archbishop, into the death of a nun called Sister Margaret, who I believe was with you recently. Are you aware of the matter?’
‘Yes, Father. A sad situation indeed. I introduced her to the late Lord Jeremy Roding, who was the local lord of the manor. She was recently found murdered on his estate. Apparently, she was beaten to death with a garden spade.’
‘Yes. Well, I wasn’t told exactly how it happened, but I learned of this when the police came to see me a couple of days ago. They wanted to know more about this Sister Margaret and how she came to be in Beaumont. I have made enquiries and we simply know nothing of her.’
‘Well, Father, the first I heard of Sister Margaret was when I was contacted by Cardinal Pat O’Mara of the Special Assignments Unit of the Vatican. Pat O’Mara and I go way back to when we both entered the priesthood.’
‘I see. And how did Cardinal O’Mara know how to reach you, exactly?’
‘Pure coincidence. Of course, it was all about Sister Margaret and Lord Roding. Not me. Anyway, I had heard on the old “bush telegraph” that he carries out projects for His Holiness the Pope. He told me what he needed, and he swore me to secrecy. I was quite happy to do my duty.’
‘And this Special Assignment was about the conversion of Lord Roding. Is that correct?’
‘Yes, it was. I feel so guilty about it all now. She was effectively in my care. I was tasked to keep an eye on her.’
‘Did you ever speak to my late colleague Monsignor Tarquin Crecy about her?’
‘No. I’ve heard the name, but I’ve never spoken to him.’
‘Well, he passed away recently. I’ve been tasked by the archbishop to make enquiries into this case. In the first instance, we received a call from Lord Roding himself telling us about Sister Margaret following her death. I asked around at the time, but nobody here knew anything of her. He cited Monsignor Crecy, but, unfortunately, this was at a time just after the Monsignor’s death, so we couldn’t ask him about her either. Lord Roding maintained that the attachment was organised by Monsignor Crecy. Since the police contacted us I’ve made more enquiries, and, I must say, I am still no further forward. The woman is a complete and utter mystery.’
‘Did you speak to Pat O’Mara?’
‘Yes, and he said that he knows nothing about her.’
‘Well, I can’t understand that at all. I’m sure it was Pat O’Mara I spoke to. I recognised his voice.’
‘Well, he is adamant. So, you see…’
O’Leary became agitated and jumped in. ‘So, are you telling me that, in the eyes of the Church, Sister Margaret was not a nun and therefore she is not our responsibility?’
‘Precisely.’
‘Well, I met her, and she convinced me. We even prayed together, and I can tell you this, Father: she knew the scriptures and the passport that she used to come to this country was a Vatican State diplomatic passport.’
‘And?’
‘And, it is in the hands of the police now, but, as I understand it, it was genuine in as much as it was authentic. But, apparently, it has never been officially issued by the Vatican. So, we just wash our hands of her, do we?’
‘That’s about the size of it, Father, yes.’
‘But look at the evidence, Father. Lord Roding said that it was organised by Monsignor Crecy.’
‘Yes, but they couldn’t testify to anything. They’re both dead.’
‘She was real. I met her and introduced her to his lordship.’
‘She’s dead.’
‘It was initiated by Cardinal O’Mara.’
‘He denies it. I’m sorry, Father, but that is the position the Church has to take.’
‘Will you tell this to the police?’
‘In fact, that is my next unpleasant duty. I am instructed by Archbishop Mahoney to telephone them tomorrow morning, so if you see them in the interim I would be grateful if you don’t tell them we have spoken.’
Father Thomas brought the call to an end. Tom O’Leary sat back in his chair. He was shocked. All his faith in the Catholic Church had drained away in the course of one telephone call.
*
‘Blimey, anybody would think you’d won the football pools, Mrs A!’ shouted James Davidson. Mrs Aldis was rooting around in the pantry, checking on various foodstuffs in preparation for Saturday’s celebration. As she went about her business she was singing “Wish me luck as you wave me goodbye” in a passable imitation of Gracie Fields. Mrs Aldis’ mood had certainly changed in recent days. Not only that, but without anybody to cook for but themselves, things in the kitchen were a lot more relaxed. James was certainly happier, since, at the behest of Mr Jenkins, he was not required to be at work until 8.00am rather than his usual time. Yet, and this he could not fathom, he would be paid the same wage as usual.
It was now midday, and, for some reason best known to herself, Beryl Aldis was in high spirits. Although alone, she danced a conga back into the kitchen.
James watched her in amazement, as she danced off into the scullery and returned carrying a bottle of sherry. Then, having selected two beakers from the cupboard, she poured drinks: one for herself and one for James.
‘Get that down you, boy. It’ll put hairs on your chest.’
James obeyed her to the letter. He downed it in one gulp and then coughed as though his rib cage was about to explode.
‘That’s bloody horrible!’
‘I didn’t mean down it in one, silly bugger! It should be sipped slowly and savoured.’
Beryl demonstrated the correct method of imbibing. ‘Ooh, lovely!’
She put her arm around James’s shoulder and hugged him.
‘Ooh!
My little James! We’re going to have such fun! For once we’re going to do as we like. I’m going to make us a lovely meal. Her ladyship’s not coming home until next week, so, apart from keeping the house clean and tidy, the time is our own.’
Beryl took the bottle, topped up her glass and grinned broadly. Suddenly, to young James, the reason for Beryl’s dancing became clear.
*
‘It’s only me!’ called Jenkins as he closed the front door behind him. ‘Are you up yet?’ He walked through to the bedroom where he saw Adina, who was sitting up in bed, in her dressing gown. She was examining some documents that were lying on the bedspread in front of her. At a glance, he recognised the Green and Green Solicitors letterhead and the two cheques she was holding in her hand.
‘I was just looking at the cheques the solicitor gave to us, Raymond,’ she said excitedly.
Raymond Jenkins suddenly became enraged. ‘I see. You’ve opened my envelope as well, have you?’
‘Yes, I didn’t think you would mind, darling.’
‘Well, I do. It’s my business, not yours. You had no right to do that.’
‘It’s all our money. It belongs to both of us, I’m your wife, remember? His lordship wanted us to be happy together. You trust me, don’t you?’
‘That’s not the point. One cheque is for you and one is made out to me, and it was done like that for legal reasons.’
‘OK, if you feel like that, Raymond. You keep yours and I’ll keep mine. I’ll put it in my own bank account. I know where I stand. I suppose you will want to spend it on your lady friend, won’t you?’
‘Don’t be silly, Adina. You don’t know what you’re talking about. I have no lady friend.’
Jenkins snatched his cheque from her hand, folded and tucked it in his waistcoat pocket. The red mist had come down heavily, she had unwittingly cited a home truth, and he felt like strangling her, but he retaliated with words.
‘Anyway, it wouldn’t surprise me one little bit if you caused his lordship’s death. You and your special treatment. You probably gave him too much excitement, I expect. You dirty cow!’
Adina poured forth a stream of Romanian invective and burst into tears.
‘Don’t say that, Raymond,’ she sobbed. ‘I did not touch him. I went downstairs to see Beryl and when I came back to the room he was lying over the side of the bed.
‘Really?’ said Jenkins, cynically.
‘Yes, I was out of the room when he died.’
‘Well, we only have your word for that, my sweet!’
‘He was such a nice man. He did not deserve to die.’
‘Just remember, Adina, one word from me and I could get you into serious trouble.’
‘But you still love me, don’t you Raymond?’
Good, thought Jenkins, I’ve got her on the back foot. All I have to do to keep her where I want her is keep turning the screw.
‘Of course, I still love you, silly girl.’
She grabbed his arm and pulled him down onto the bed. He laid alongside his wife and wrapped his arms around her. He knew that he still cared for her, but he was damned if he was going to trust her. It took him some time to calm down and relax. His mind was racing, and the fact was that, whether it was Adina or Fanny, he was tending to love the one that he was with. Emotionally, he was a mess, but he was prepared to ride his luck and see where fate would take him.
Raymond knew Adina had a ruthless streak that, he had always imagined, must have entered her psyche as a result of her wartime experiences. He reflected on the fact that they probably deserved each other and should never have children. God only knew what kind of monsters they might create. They cuddled for a while, and then Jenkins remembered the meal that he and Beryl were planning for the staff.
‘By the way, Adina, Beryl and I are holding a dinner for the staff at 2.00pm on Saturday to celebrate Lord Roding’s life. I think you should be there.’
‘I don’t feel so well at the moment, but I will come to the dinner party, if it makes you happy, Raymond.’
‘It would. I know his lordship would want you to be there. Who knows? You might even enjoy it.’
Adina had her doubts on both counts, but she would show her face.
Before that, though, Adina had her own plans. There was a cheque for three hundred pounds that was burning a hole in her handbag. She was due to meet her “Romanian friend” in Colchester for coffee that very morning. The poor fool was deeply in love with her and she knew he would do anything she asked. She would ensure that he would pay the cheque into her bank account as soon as possible. She would soon need the money. Her future depended on it.
25
DAY TWENTY-FIVE
Friday 5th August 1949
Raymond thought it advisable to telephone her ladyship straight away about the household account, rather than take a chance on her calling him during the luncheon the following day. Besides, he wanted to be able to relax and enjoy the occasion himself. He knew that she would be quite reasonable about the fact that the staff were having their own wake, should she hear of it, but, depending on her mood or mindset, she could turn nasty. He would require a clear head for this conversation.
Cooper dialled the number for the Bedford Square residence. As luck, would have it, Fanny was at home.
‘Good morning. Raymond here.’
‘Good morning, Raymond. How are you, my darling?’
‘Fine, thank you. And how are you today, my lady?’
‘Don’t start that “lady” lark again, Raymond. You know how it embarrasses me. Plain Fanny will do.’
‘There’s nothing plain about you, Fanny.’
‘Thanks, Raymond. You always say such lovely things. I must say, you’re lucky to catch me. I was just on my way out to South Kensington to the gallery, but my taxi hasn’t arrived yet.’
‘Another exhibition?’
‘No, a meeting. Marcus wants more money.’
‘Funny you should say that,’ said Jenkins. ‘Only I rang to ask you to transfer some money into the household account to cover bills and staff wages.’
‘OK, but I’ll just have to speak to the solicitor about that. I need to get him to free up some funds, but the will is taking some time to go through and they might have to wait for another week or so. If you give me the household bank account details, I’ll arrange to have a money transfer made from my private account. How much do you want?’
‘Thirty quid should cover it. Only, we haven’t paid our suppliers for a few weeks now and they’re starting to get a bit chirpy.’
‘Can’t have that, can we? Bloody vultures. They wouldn’t have dared to complain when his lordship was alive. I’ll go to the bank this morning.’
‘If you would, please, Fanny.’
‘Anyway, when are you going to come up to see me, Raymond, darling? I’m missing your hugs.’
‘Well, perhaps we can arrange for you to attend another social function.’
‘I’ll look at the calendar and see if there’s anything due to come up.’
‘When are you coming back to Beaumont?’
‘I have to be back for Tuesday. I got a call from Geoffrey Green, the solicitor, this morning. He wants to read the will and it’s not before bloody time, I must say.’
‘So, the post mortem has been held, has it?’
‘Yes. His lordship died of natural causes. It was a pulmonary embolism. A type of stroke involving his lungs.’
‘So very much in keeping with his respiratory illness, then.’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘Do you want me to be a witness at the reading of the will, again?’
‘Yes, Raymond. I’d be grateful if you would. Only, this time, he wants me to go to his office in Colchester. Why the lazy sod can’t come to the Hall, I don’t know.’
‘Perhaps your money is too heavy
for him to carry.’
‘Yes, if it’s in threepenny bits,’ Fanny laughed aloud. ‘Anyway, I’ll speak to you soon, darling. Young Maisie is waving to tell me that the taxi’s outside. I must dash now. Bye.’
The telephone went dead.
Jenkins sat and thought for a few minutes. It was obvious to him that their relationship was not doomed after all. He smiled, got to his feet and walked down to the cellar to select some bottles for the luncheon. He believed that his life was back on track.
*
‘Have you got anything I can be getting on with, Sarge?’ said Linda Collins, ‘I’m up to date with all of my enquiries and I haven’t had any new jobs for a few days now.’
‘It’s always like this towards the end of an enquiry,’ said Ian Mills. ‘If there hasn’t been an arrest and the enquiry runs out of steam, we start to reduce the size of the team. Other jobs come in and they start to take priority.’
‘Yes, life goes on,’ said Rogers attempting to act the sage in front of Linda, who was one of the few officers who was junior to him.
‘We’re not quite at that point yet though,’ continued Mills, ‘The boss has called a meeting for 11.00am and I’m hoping we might pick up some new work from that.’
At the appointed hour, the whole team were assembled, and, for once, nobody was missing.
They stood up as Cooper came into the main CID office. Hot on his heels came Brian Pratt, who had just put the phone down from speaking with Father Michael Thomas. He didn’t look happy. Cooper, who had obviously picked up on his agitation, gave him a quizzical look.
‘I think we’d better let you go first, Brian, before you bust a gut.’
‘Thanks, governor. I’ve just put the phone down from speaking to Father Thomas at Westminster Cathedral. He was delegated the task of making enquiries to pin down and identify Sister Margaret. It seems that nobody there has heard of her and she is not on any record.’
‘So, Monsignor Crecy takes his knowledge of her to the grave,’ said Cooper.
‘Has Father Thomas been in touch with the Vatican?’
Devotion to Murder Page 24
