‘What’s her husband like?’ asked Keedy. ‘He’s an unusual man if he can cope with someone like Mrs Fleetwood.’
Rogan smirked. ‘Mr Fleetwood can cope with anyone,’ he said. ‘If you think his wife is a handful, you should meet him. He wears the trousers in that marriage, I can tell you.’
When he heard that Harold Fleetwood had called on him, Chatfield quailed slightly. Disturbing memories of the visit of Fleetwood’s wife flooded back. Before he asked for his visitor to be shown into his office, the superintendent sent for Marmion, feeling the need for moral support. In the event, both men were pleasantly surprised by the newcomer. He was a big, broad-shouldered man in his sixties, impeccably dressed and well groomed. He oozed prosperity. While his wife had been loud and demanding, Fleetwood was subdued and respectful. When he shook hands with each of them in turn, he looked deep into their eyes. Marmion felt that the financier was weighing him in the balance.
‘I believe that my wife came to see you yesterday,’ said Fleetwood. ‘Not unnaturally, she was in a state of high excitement. That probably made her more truculent than she needed to be. I apologise on her behalf.’
‘Mrs Fleetwood was entitled to know how the investigation was going,’ said Chatfield. ‘Unfortunately, she derided our efforts. What she perceived as our lack of progress irked her. She urged us to arrest a man named Fraser Buchanan.’
‘Did you question him?’
‘I sent someone to interview him, sir. Sergeant Keedy found no grounds whatsoever for making an arrest.’
‘Buchanan is a tricky customer.’
‘Are you also claiming that he was party to the murder?’ asked Marmion.
‘Not at all,’ replied Fleetwood. ‘He may be completely innocent, though I daresay it’s not beyond the bounds of possibility that he might have been involved somehow.’
‘Why do you say that, sir?’
‘I know him only too well, Inspector. As it happens, Mr Chell, the manager of the Lotus, has come up with a piece of information that may be relevant.’
‘What is it?’ asked Chatfield.
‘A young man named Ian Maitland used to be employed at the Lotus. For reasons I won’t go into now, Chell was forced to sack the man. Maitland had a streak of malice in him, apparently. To put it another way, he has an axe to grind.’
‘Is there any connection between this man and Mr Buchanan?’
‘Maitland works as a porter at the Roath Court Hotel.’
‘So?’
‘It’s owned by Fraser Buchanan.’
‘Is he likely to associate with a mere porter?’
‘He’d make use of anyone who served his purpose. Maitland worked at the Lotus when it first opened. He knows every nook and cranny of the building.’
‘I see …’
‘Thank you for telling us, Mr Fleetwood,’ said Marmion. ‘It’s something we need to look into, if only to eliminate this man.’
‘That’s fair enough,’ said the other. ‘I see that there was an appeal for help in the newspapers this morning, along with descriptions both of the murder victim and of the missing guest. Has anyone come forward as a result?’
‘Not yet, sir.’
‘Then perhaps the British public needs a little encouragement. My wife and I would like to offer a substantial reward to anyone who can identify the dead woman and tell us the whereabouts of the one who vanished from the hotel.’
‘That would certainly help,’ agreed Chatfield.
‘And it will definitely provoke a response,’ added Marmion, ‘even though most of it will be useless to us. The promise of money always brings in a lot of false claims. Hopefully, it will also elicit the details we desperately need.’
Marmion went on to give him a summary of the evidence they’d so far gathered. He told Fleetwood that full details of the post-mortem would only be released at the inquest. All he was prepared to say was that the victim had been poisoned. How the woman came to be in the hotel, he didn’t know but they were exploring a number of theories. Fleetwood was disappointed to be told so little about the investigation.
‘I was hoping to take good news back to my wife.’
‘We are working around the clock,’ said Chatfield. ‘Nobody could do more than that, sir.’
‘We want results.’
‘A case like this can only be solved by the slow, steady, patient accumulation of evidence. Following in my footsteps, Inspector Marmion has become a master of that process.’
‘So when might we expect some good news?’ said Fleetwood, arching an eyebrow. ‘Next week? Next month? Next year?’
‘There’s no need for sarcasm, Mr Fleetwood.’
‘For you and the inspector,’ said the visitor, injecting steel into his voice for the first time, ‘this is simply one more murder investigation. It’s much more than that to me. It’s an operation to rescue my wife’s dream of running the best hotel in London.’ He got to his feet and rose to his full height. ‘Bear that in mind, gentlemen.’
‘We don’t need prompting, sir,’ said Marmion. ‘We’re as anxious to solve this crime as you and Mrs Fleetwood are.’
‘Our position is simple. We demand results, the sooner the better. As for that reward I mentioned,’ he went on, pointedly, ‘I’ll discuss the amount with the commissioner. Sir Edward and I are old friends, incidentally. We happen to be members of the same club.’
Turning on his heel, he swept out of the office and left the door wide open. Chatfield exchanged a glance with Marmion. They could see trouble ahead.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore had been so infuriated by the news that someone had been posing as his late wife that he was determined to do what he could to catch the impostor. The moment that Marmion had left Elmstead Manor, therefore, the older man had emptied drawers and burrowed into cupboards in order to find every photograph album or souvenir of his beloved wife. He also began a careful search through his diaries for the last five years. Somewhere in the mass of precious memories he gathered was, he believed, a clue as to the identity of the confidence trickster, the woman who’d not only stolen her name but who also contrived to look like Lady Brice-Cadmore.
By the following morning, his fury had still not subsided. He felt the need to see Marmion again and pass on what he felt were legitimate suspicions of certain individuals. To that end, he was driven to Swindon and bought a first-class ticket to Paddington. On the journey there, he reviewed the history of his courtship and marriage, taking solace from the fact that theirs had been a happy union based on similar tastes and a readiness by both parties to compromise. Whenever he heard favourite pieces of music or saw particular species of birds, he was reminded of special moments shared with his wife. Those moments had to be protected from interlopers. He owed it to his wife to do everything in his power to find the person who’d dared to impersonate her.
Sir Godfrey wanted revenge.
No sooner had Keedy returned to Scotland Yard than he was sent off on another errand. Marmion asked him to go to the Roath Court Hotel in search of one of its porters. Keedy was more careful this time. Having been embarrassed at his meeting with Fraser Buchanan, he didn’t wish to repeat the experience at one of the man’s hotels. Discreet research was in order rather than a direct confrontation. To that end, he went to the Roath Court and found it much larger and altogether busier than the Lotus. The plush lobby was a hive of activity. Guests were arriving or leaving, and porters were working at full stretch to carry luggage in and out of the building. Keedy chose an armchair from which to watch.
All that he knew about Ian Maitland was what Fleetwood had said during his visit to Scotland Yard. The porter was a young man. Scant though the information was, it turned out to be enough because only one of the porters was in his twenties. The rest were clearly older. Maitland turned out to be a smart, eager, good-looking individual with a sharp eye for a guest in need of assistance. He also had a willing smile. Keedy watched him handle heavy suitcases with ease. Ma
itland gave every indication of enjoying his work and earned himself regular tips for his pleasant manner and efficiency.
There was, however, another side to his character. When he thought that nobody was looking, Maitland would sidle up to one of his fellow porters and make a comment out of the side of his mouth. It was a technique Keedy had often seen being used by prisoners who were able to communicate to each other without appearing to do so. In Maitland’s case, his remarks always produced a snigger from his friends. The helpful young porter evidently had a vulgar streak.
Keedy bided his time until he saw Maitland standing alone by the lift. Getting up, he drifted across to him.
‘What’s the food like in this hotel?’ he asked.
‘I’m told that it’s excellent, sir.’
‘Don’t you know from experience?’
Maitland grinned. ‘I can’t afford to eat here on my wage.’
‘It must be galling for you, watching all these wealthy people come and go. In your position, I’d be envious of them.’
‘I simply do what I’m paid to do, sir,’ said Maitland, evenly. ‘Are you staying here?’
‘No, but a friend of mine is. He’s arriving this afternoon. I wanted to do a little research before he actually arrives.’
‘The Roath Court is one of the finest hotels in London.’
‘That’s what it says in the advertisements.’
‘It’s true, sir.’
‘Have you always worked here?’
‘No,’ replied the other, ‘I started off, at the age of fourteen, doing odd jobs at the Regent Palace. When my friends joined the army years later, I tried to go with them but I got turned down because I’m almost blind in one eye. So I stayed at the Regent Palace until I got a promotion to a smaller hotel in Chelsea.’
‘Which one?’
‘You won’t have heard of it, sir. The Lotus is exclusively for women – rich, well-bred ladies who are used to high standards. I got bored there after a while and applied for a job here. There’s a lot more going on at the Roath Court.’
‘My friend will be glad about that.’
‘We’ll look after him,’ said Maitland with a confident smile.
His gaze was then diverted by an elderly man who’d just entered the lobby with a bulky suitcase. Maitland went quickly off to help him. Keedy left the hotel quietly. He’d learnt enough.
There was a discernible difference in Iris Goodliffe. In manner and appearance, she was much more alert and inclined to laugh at anything she thought remotely amusing. Alice Marmion was pleased to see the change in her friend and glad that she’d been largely responsible for it. Having bared her soul to Alice, Iris had felt a sense of release. The irony was that, while one woman felt liberated from her obsession with an unpleasant experience in her private life, the other had become more and more entangled with it. Iris had been the victim of a frightening sexual assault. In Alice’s opinion, simple justice dictated that Douglas Beckett should be punished in some way. When she raised the subject yet again, it was waved away by her beat partner.
‘I don’t want to hear Doug’s name ever again,’ she said.
‘He molested you, Iris.’
‘You hardly need to tell me that. I’d rather put it behind me and concentrate on happier things – your wedding, for instance.’
‘That’s not until next year.’
‘You can never start planning early enough.’ She nudged her companion. ‘Are you going to invite Gale Force?’
Alice gave a hollow laugh. ‘What do you think?’
‘She’d love to come, I’m sure.’
‘It’s my wedding, not my funeral.’
Iris let out a cackle of joy, something she hadn’t done for a long time. People looked in their direction, wondering what had produced such a high, sustained, piercing noise. The two policewomen carried on walking. Iris became serious.
‘I hope that he is able to come,’ she said.
‘Who?’
‘Your brother, of course. According to you, he used to like Joe a lot and a family ought to be together at a time like that.’
‘We’re not really sure if Paul is still part of our family,’ said Alice, softly. ‘He’s turned his back on us.’
‘He loves you too much to do that.’
‘I wish that were true.’
‘He’ll surely get in touch with you at Christmas.’
‘Will he?’
‘Paul is your brother.’
‘We know that – he doesn’t.’
‘Oh, I feel so sorry for you, Alice.’
‘There’s no need,’ said the other, brightening. ‘In marrying Joe, I’ll get what I want more than anything in the world. Paul is the one to feel sorry for. He’s got no money, no purpose and no future to speak of. He’s drifting through life like a tramp.’
‘I always used to think that tramps led an adventurous life. They shuffle off all responsibilities and have the freedom of the open road.’
‘Open roads are subject to rain, sleet and snow. I don’t see any adventure in that. Paul’s life must be a daily struggle.’
‘He’ll survive,’ Iris predicted. ‘He’s like you. He’s got inner strength. And didn’t you tell me once that he was good-looking?’
‘Well, yes, I suppose that he is.’
‘Then he won’t be alone for long, will he? Handsome young men are few and far between. Most of them went off to war. Paul will have his pick of girlfriends.’
Alice winced. What she hadn’t told her friend was that Paul had been sacked from his job on a farm in Warwickshire because he’d got involved with the farmer’s daughter. Her parents were angry that an itinerant worker like Paul had dared to take an interest in the girl when he had nothing whatsoever to offer her.
‘My brother’s had bad experiences with girlfriends,’ she confessed. ‘In any case, what woman would want to share the kind of life that he leads? He’s on his own, Iris, and it will stay that way.’
Harvey Marmion was not surprised to see Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore but he was worried about his condition. To reach the detective’s office, the old man had climbed two flights of stairs and they’d taken their toll on him. He was breathing heavily and looked frail. Marmion helped him into a chair and asked if he would like a cup of tea. Sir Godfrey waved the offer away. What had taxed his strength, he claimed, was the large leather satchel he’d brought with him. When he’d got his breath back, he put it on his lap and took out some diaries and photograph albums. He stacked them on the desk.
‘We don’t have time for reminiscences,’ warned Marmion.
‘I’ve brought you evidence, Inspector.’ He tapped the pile in front of him. ‘Somewhere in here may be the woman that you want.’
‘How do you know?’
‘Well, it stands to reason that she must be someone who actually met my wife. How else could she take such trouble to look like her?’
‘That’s true, Sir Godfrey.’
‘It prompted me to search the family archives. I found two women who do have more than a fleeting resemblance to my wife and an entry in my diary that refers to one of them.’
‘What date was that entry?’
‘It was four years ago.’
‘That was before Lady Brice-Cadmore died.’
‘I know. Fate can be so cruel. In the year before her death, my wife had never looked so beautiful. She was blooming. It seemed impossible that she’d pass away in the following January.’
‘Had there been no warning signs?’
‘None at all, I fear. That’s what made it so hard to bear.’
‘You have my profound sympathy,’ said Marmion.
‘Thank you, Inspector.’
‘Now then, what exactly have you brought me?’
‘I’ve brought you something that I hope may be of use to you,’ said Sir Godfrey, opening an album and flicking through the pages with a trembling hand. ‘Here we are,’ he added, stopping at a photograph of a group of people standing in front of
some trees and wearing outdoor clothing. He turned the album around so that Marmion could see it. ‘My wife is beside me in the centre.’
‘I recognise her from that photograph you kindly lent me.’
‘Now look at the woman on the extreme left.’
Marmion did as he was told. ‘You’re right,’ he said. ‘There is a resemblance to Lady Brice-Cadmore. This lady is the same height, weight and roughly the same age. What’s her name?’
‘Cecily Prentice. She was only an acquaintance, really. My wife took pity on her when Cecily suffered a tragedy. That’s how she came to be on that birdwatching expedition with us, you see. We felt sorry for her. After that, she faded out of our lives.’
‘You mentioned a tragedy.’
‘Yes,’ said the other, grimacing. ‘It was a bad business in every way. Her husband was, as far as we knew, a decent, dependable man who indulged his wife in every way. What none of us realised was that he was a compulsive gambler. Year after year, the cards fell in his favour but, eventually, his luck ran out.’
‘What happened?’
‘He was suddenly up to his neck in debt and in a state of panic. He didn’t know which way to turn. Unable to cope with the disgrace, Nigel Prentice shot himself. His family were left virtually penniless.’
‘It was kind of your wife to come to the widow’s aid.’
‘That was the sort of woman she was, always ready to help those in need. In fact,’ recalled Sir Godfrey, ‘if I remember aright, the coat that Cecily Prentice is wearing in the photograph once belonged to my dear wife. I can give you an exact date of that birdwatching expedition because I recorded it in my diary. We saw the most extraordinary range of species.’
After leafing through a diary, he found the correct page and held it out to the inspector. Marmion made a note of the date before looking back at the woman in the photograph. He estimated that she was roughly the same age as Lady Brice-Cadmore and, having studied her gravestone, he knew that the latter had been fifty-six when she died. Sir Godfrey was substantially older than his wife.
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