‘I don’t follow, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Well, the law of averages suggests that you might actually meet someone with one similar passion but to find someone with two was asking far too much. Yet it’s exactly what happened to Diana and me. Each of us adored birds and music with equal veneration. Have you ever been to the Three Choirs Festival, Inspector?’
‘My job leaves me little time for leisure, I’m afraid.’
‘What a pity! Gloucester, Worcester and Hereford each have a cathedral that’s the perfect venue for choral music. It hangs in the air and stirs the soul. As for my future wife,’ he went on, ‘I couldn’t take my eyes off her. She reminded me of an illustration I once saw of Diana the Huntress.’ He chortled to himself, then saw Marmion’s blank face. ‘Evidently, you’re not a man with a classical education and, even if you were, you wouldn’t come to Elmstead Manor to talk about it. Forgive me boring you with my maudlin reminiscences.’
‘I wasn’t in the least bored, Sir Godfrey.’
‘You’ve had a wasted journey, I fear.’
‘I think it’s been rather fruitful.’
‘Really?’
‘What you’ve told me has been interesting. You and your wife deliberately chose to live a fairly isolated life that allowed you to pursue your own interests. Everything you needed was here. You said that you couldn’t remember the last time when either of you ventured anywhere near London.’
‘We hated the place, Inspector. And as it happened, rural seclusion is a safer choice at this moment in time. London is being bombed in daylight now as well as at night. The Germans are highly unlikely to divert their planes to Elmstead Manor.’ He raised a palm. ‘But I interrupt you. I apologise.’
‘Somebody posing as your wife stayed at a hotel in London.’
‘Yes, and it’s a confounded cheek!’
‘It was a calculation, Sir Godfrey. The woman involved could count on the fact that no other guests would know the real Lady Brice-Cadmore and be aware that she’d passed away.’
‘In other words …’
‘It was a safe disguise,’ said Marmion, ‘but it proves one thing.’
‘And what’s that?’
‘The false Lady Brice-Cadmore knew the real one, or was at least aware that she lived out here and rarely mixed in society.’
Sir Godfrey was appalled. ‘Are you saying that this person might have been a friend of ours?’
‘No friend would behave the way that she did.’
‘Then who is she?’
‘Someone who might have met you both at some stage and knew the kind of lives you led. If it’s not too much trouble, Sir Godfrey, there is a favour I’d like to ask of you.’
‘I’ll do anything that will help to snare this vile creature pretending to be my late wife.’
‘Well,’ said Marmion. ‘If I may, I’d like to borrow a photograph of Lady Brice-Cadmore.’
‘You can have one gladly.’
Hauling himself out of his chair, Sir Godfrey walked across to a desk and pulled open a drawer. After taking out a photograph album, he began to leaf through it slowly. Marmion waited patiently. He could see how moved the other man was by the sight of his wife in happier times. It was minutes before Sir Godfrey was able to make a decision. Extracting a photograph, he handed it to his visitor.
‘This is how I’ll always remember her,’ he said. ‘Diana had such a radiant smile. The camera caught it perfectly.’
Marmion studied the photograph. Taken in a garden, it showed a slim, striking, dignified woman smiling serenely at the camera. A pair of binoculars dangled from her neck on a leather strap.
‘We were about to go birdwatching,’ explained Sir Godfrey. ‘We had a couple of hides built in the woods years ago. Doesn’t she look beautiful? And she seems to be brimming with good health. You’d never have guessed that she had only a few months to live.’
‘This is very interesting,’ said Marmion.
‘Why?’
‘Mr Chell, the hotel manager, gave me a detailed description of the bogus Lady Brice-Cadmore. It could easily fit your wife.’
‘That’s monstrous,’ said Sir Godfrey. ‘Not content with stealing my wife’s name, this woman is trying to impersonate her. She must be caught as soon as possible, Inspector.’
‘She will be, Sir Godfrey.’
‘Diana has the right to rest in peace.’
‘And you have the right to mourn her without having her identity stolen.’ Marmion got to his feet. ‘Thank you for your help, Sir Godfrey. This photograph will make our task much easier. I’m sorry to have brought such disturbing news. Next time, I hope, I’ll have happier tidings to pass on to you.’
CHAPTER SEVEN
Griselda Fleetwood astounded them. She was not only a highly intelligent woman, she had undoubted business acumen. Married to a wealthy financier, she also had independent means that allowed her to follow her own inclinations. Having had the urge to open an exclusive hotel, she waited for years until the right premises became available, using the intervening time to study the way that establishments of a similar size operated. As she talked about the success of her venture, Keedy took notes. Chatfield threw in the odd question, but they were listening to what was essentially a monologue.
‘The most vital decision I had to make,’ she told them, ‘was to choose the name for the hotel. I rejected dozens of possibilities before I settled on “lotus”. Are either of you familiar with Buddhism?’
‘No,’ admitted Chatfield.
‘The same goes for me,’ said Keedy.
‘In Buddhism,’ she explained, ‘the lotus has always been associated with purity, spiritual awakening and faithfulness. I regard those as feminine virtues rather than male attributes. The flower is considered pure because of its ability to emerge from murky waters every morning yet be perfectly clean. It’s miraculous.’
‘I never thought of it that way,’ said Chatfield.
‘That’s because you have a closed mind, Superintendent.’
He sat up instantly. ‘I refute that, Mrs Fleetwood. I’m known for my ability to adjust to any situation.’
‘My point, exactly,’ she said. ‘You can only react to events. You can never think ahead and show true initiative. Like most men, you have a blinkered approach to life.’
As the superintendent blustered, Keedy had to conceal his grin.
‘Steady on, madam,’ said Chatfield, affronted.
‘I was merely stating a fact.’
‘Let’s go back to your original claim that what happened last night at the Lotus Hotel was the work of a rival.’
‘It’s not a claim,’ she insisted. ‘It’s the only possible conclusion.’
‘We must agree to differ on that point.’
‘You don’t know the full story of what’s been going on.’
‘That’s true, Mrs Fleetwood. What you’ve told us has given us valuable insights. So far, you’ve named the owners of three hotels.’
‘Four, sir,’ corrected Keedy. ‘You’re forgetting the Unicorn.’
‘Very well, then,’ said Chatfield, irascibly. ‘It was four hotels. How well do you know these establishments, Mrs Fleetwood?’
‘I know them intimately.’
‘Have you ever stayed at any of them?’
‘I stayed at all four,’ she replied, ‘because they are identical in size and status to the Lotus. Before I committed myself to what was, after all, a major capital investment, I did my homework very thoroughly.’
‘That was very wise of you, Mrs Fleetwood,’ said Keedy.
‘The success of the Lotus is not entirely due to my commercial skills, of course. Catastrophic as it’s been in many ways, the outbreak of war was an unlikely bonus. It brought people flooding into the capital. London has always been a dangerous place for a woman to visit alone,’ she went on, ‘but that’s even more the case now. We have foreigners with dubious moral standards roaming our streets, not to mention soldiers − British and American − who
seem to treat the capital as if it’s there to provide them with opportunities for excessive drinking and debauchery.’
‘You hardly need to tell us that,’ said Chatfield, peevishly. ‘It’s the reason we police the city as tightly as we can. Unhappily, our resources have been badly weakened. We lost thousands of officers to the army.’
‘There,’ she said, pointing an accusatory finger at him. ‘That’s another example of your blinkered view. You only see the problem from your point of view, Superintendent. Put yourself in the position of a woman wishing to stay in London. It’s a frightening prospect. That’s why a hotel like the Lotus has such an appeal.’
‘Only for those who can afford such high prices,’ said Keedy.
‘That’s beside the point.’
‘When you visit London yourself,’ asked Chatfield, ‘do you always stay at your own hotel?’
‘Of course,’ she said, disdainfully. ‘Even if I come to town with my husband, I stay at the Lotus while he reserves a room at his club. Several of my married acquaintances do the same. They part with their spouses for a night or more so that they can have peace of mind at the Lotus.’
Keedy was on the point of saying that peace of mind would be in short supply at the hotel for a while, but he had second thoughts. Griselda Fleetwood was in a truculent mood. He didn’t wish to incur her hostility.
‘Who would stand to gain most from your predicament?’ he asked, looking up from his notebook.
‘Fraser Buchanan.’
‘And why is that?’
‘There are two reasons. Firstly, he owns the Unicorn which, like the Lotus, is favoured by guests from high society.’
‘It has a good name, then.’
‘It was unrivalled until I came on the scene.’
‘Did Mr Buchanan resent the competition?’
‘He resented the fact that it came from a woman.’
‘You said that there were two reasons why you picked out Mr Buchanan,’ said Chatfield. ‘What’s the second one, Mrs Fleetwood?’
‘That’s personal,’ she snapped.
And the conversation came to a dead halt.
Ellen Marmion was proud of the fact that her husband was a detective inspector in the Metropolitan Police Force. While his rank brought privileges, it also committed him to long hours working on major crimes. There were days when she hardly ever saw him until he tumbled into bed beside her in the small hours. One way of keeping herself occupied had been to dedicate herself to war work, but Ellen was still left with acres of free time to fill. When her domestic chores were finished, therefore, she’d become an avid reader of library books. Romantic novels had been her staple choice at first because they offered a pleasant escape from the realities of living on the Home Front in an increasingly destructive war. She had now tried to widen the range of her reading and had found John Buchan’s The Thirty-Nine Steps utterly engrossing.
On her way to the library to exchange the book, Ellen bumped into one of the women in her sewing circle. They exchanged greetings.
‘No need to guess where you’re going,’ said Rene Bridger, looking at the book in Ellen’s basket. ‘What are you taking back?’
‘It’s a wonderful story – The Thirty-Nine Steps.’
‘I know. I’ve read it. Did you fall in love with Richard Hannay? I did. He made me feel young again.’
‘I just couldn’t put the book down,’ confessed Ellen. ‘In a strange way, it sort of … cheered me up.’
‘Well, I can’t say that of the last one I read,’ said the other, glumly. ‘To be honest, it frightened me and made me worry for the future.’
‘Why is that, Rene?’
‘I’ll tell you.’
She took a step closer to Ellen as if about to impart confidential information. Rene Bridger was a short, fleshy woman in her fifties with frizzy red hair poking out from under her hat. Like Ellen, she’d sent a son off to war and feared for his chances of survival. Paul Marmion had returned, albeit in a damaged condition. Alec Bridger was buried under French soil. Her personal tragedy had made his mother more apprehensive than ever.
‘We’re going to lose this war,’ she whispered.
‘I don’t believe that. We’re going to win. We must.’
‘You have to face facts, Ellen. They’re already here, you see.’
‘Who are?’
‘The Germans, of course – that’s why the book upset me so much. It told the truth.’
‘What was it called?’
‘The Invasion of 1910. It made my flesh creep.’
‘Is it a novel?’
‘Yes.’
‘Then it’s simply a story that someone’s made up. You’re not supposed to take it seriously, Rene.’
‘I couldn’t help it. Read it yourself,’ said her friend. ‘It may be just a story, but it sounds horribly real to me.’
Ellen’s curiosity was aroused. ‘Who wrote it?’
‘He’s got a foreign name and I’m not sure how to pronounce it. But that doesn’t matter. He knows what he’s talking about, believe me. We’ve already been invaded by a silent enemy.’
Once her anger had subsided, Alice was filled with remorse. She felt that she’d let her friend down. Iris had been suffering for months yet Alice had been unable to relieve her pain. From Iris’s retreat into a kind of bruised silence, she should have realised that something serious had happened. Now that she’d finally been able to talk about it, Iris seemed to relax slightly. Alice, by contrast, was tense and rueful. She sought to make amends for her failure.
‘Would you like me to speak to him?’ she volunteered.
‘No!’ cried Iris in alarm. ‘Please don’t do that.’
‘Someone ought to tackle him.’
‘I’ve already told you. I just want to forget it.’
‘But that’s not easy to do. You’ve been brooding on it for months already. It’s not going to go away, Iris.’
‘It’s got better over time. Besides, I don’t want anyone fighting my battles for me. I’m old enough to do that for myself. What I needed was some sympathy, that’s all. You gave it to me.’
‘I want to do more than that.’
‘You’ve done enough, Alice. In fact—’
She broke off as they came around a corner and saw two young boys fighting. One was on his back on the pavement while the other was straddling him. Both were punching each other hard. Iris moved in quickly to lift one boy off while Alice helped the other up from the ground. The two of them were tousled and panting for breath. When they continued to issue threats to each other, Iris took over, silencing them with a dire warning, then telling them how ashamed they should be. By the time she’d finished admonishing them, both hung their heads in disgrace. Iris sent them off in opposite directions.
‘You see?’ she said. ‘I can act decisively when I need to.’
‘Dealing with a couple of young boys is one thing, Iris. When it’s a fully grown adult like Doug Beckett, it’s a different matter. You were in real danger with him.’
‘I don’t need reminding, Alice.’
‘What will you do if he does cross your path?’
‘I’ll ignore him.’
‘I couldn’t do that. I’d have to confront him.’
‘Yes,’ said Iris, woefully, ‘but you wouldn’t have let yourself get into the position that I did. You’re much more experienced at dealing with men. I’m hopeless. The awful truth is that I was so grateful that someone actually liked me that I was completely off guard.’
‘I fancy that you’ll be more careful in future,’ said Alice.
‘Oh, yes!’ resolved her friend. ‘From now on, I won’t even look at a man.’
Murder on the premises had shaken the Lotus Hotel to its foundations. The manager had quelled the worst fears of the guests but even he couldn’t dispel the general air of uneasiness. Chell was grateful that the body of the victim had been discreetly removed by the police. He could now try to restore a degree of normality. When Marmio
n returned to the hotel that afternoon, the manager took him into his office before any of the guests could see him.
‘Did you have to rush me in here like that?’ asked Marmion. ‘At most murder scenes, people find the sight of a Scotland Yard detective rather comforting. It shows that the crime is being dealt with.’
‘I’d rather it was dealt with behind closed doors,’ said Chell. ‘Have there been any developments?’
‘Yes, sir, there’s been a rather surprising one.’
He told Chell about the discovery that Lady Brice-Cadmore had died three years earlier and that the person staying at the hotel under that name was therefore an impostor. The manager was astonished. Marmion described his visit to Elmstead Manor and his conversation with the widowed husband. He then took out the photograph and handed it over. Chell’s eyebrows twitched. After staring at the photograph for some time, he looked up.
‘This is uncanny,’ he said.
‘Why?’
‘In some ways, she looks like the guest who has been passing herself off as Lady Brice-Cadmore. She’s younger than her – there’s no question about that – but the likeness is clear.’ He gave the photograph back to Marmion. ‘Our guest could be her older sister.’
‘Lady Brice-Cadmore had no sisters.’
‘Then who was the woman staying here?’
‘It’s a question I’ve been asking myself, sir. In stealing someone else’s identity, she was committing a crime and it’s therefore logical to assume that she may have been involved in the murder of your uninvited guest. But,’ said Marmion, ‘I keep thinking about that taxi she ordered.’
‘It wasn’t needed.’
‘She obviously thought it would be. Had she been an accessory to a murder, then means of transport would surely have been laid on for her by someone else so that she could melt away into the night. But that didn’t happen, did it? The taxi turned up here on time.’
The Unseen Hand Page 4
