The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  While they were waiting, they took the opportunity to look around the room. Horse brasses abounded and a horseshoe was nailed to one beam. There was also the faintest whiff of a stable in the air. Keedy looked at the framed portrait of Bunny Hassall, wearing a hard hat, hacking jacket, a pair of jodhpurs and some shiny boots as she sat astride her horse. In her hand was a glass raised in celebration.

  ‘Is that what they call a stirrup cup?’ he asked.

  ‘I wouldn’t know, Joe.’

  ‘Do you think that’s the horse that threw her?’

  ‘It could be Tosca, I suppose.’

  ‘How old do you think she is?’

  ‘Are you talking about the mare or Mrs Hassall?’

  ‘Mrs Hassall,’ replied Keedy with a grin. ‘She seems around my age, but she must be a lot older.’ He looked around covetously. ‘I’d love a place like this for me and Alice but – think of the cost.’

  ‘Don’t complain about police pay again,’ warned Marmion.

  ‘Sorry.’

  They heard the sound of the wheelchair coming back and resumed their seats. When Bunny entered the room, she had a thick record book across her knees. Pulling up between them, she held the book up.

  ‘This is the bible of the Old Berkshire Hunt Balls,’ she said. ‘If someone so much as put their head into the ballroom, their name will be in here.’

  ‘Go back four years, please,’ said Marmion.

  ‘I would love to, Inspector. I had two legs in 1913 and used to ride out every day. Also, of course, there was no war on.’ She flicked the pages of the book until she came to the right one. ‘Here we are. The names are alphabetical so the Farriers are … yes, right here,’ she said. ‘They bought three tickets.’

  ‘What was the name of their guest?’

  ‘Vesta Lyle.’

  ‘Miss or Mrs?’

  ‘It doesn’t say.’

  ‘Could you give us the Farriers’ address, please?’

  ‘Yes, of course. I know it off the top of my head.’

  As Bunny recited it, Keedy wrote it down in his notebook.

  ‘Thank you,’ he said. ‘We’ll go there immediately.’

  ‘I do hope I’ve been able to help. I think it’s unconscionable to steal someone else’s name as this woman did at the hotel. No wonder Godfrey was so upset.’

  ‘This photograph of his is valuable evidence.’

  ‘I’m glad. Please give him my love when you next see him.’

  ‘That may not be possible, I’m afraid,’ explained Marmion. ‘When I last saw Sir Godfrey, he was in a critical condition in hospital. They had grave doubts that he’d survive.’

  ‘Oh!’ she cried, a hand to her chest. ‘I’m so, so sorry. We’ve been friends for forty or more years.’ She turned away to hide her tears and only faced them again when she’d composed herself. ‘Godfrey was not simply a friend,’ she said almost dreamily. ‘We were very close at one time. In fact, he once proposed to me. I was extremely flattered, of course, but I turned him down. If you adore horses, you don’t want to spend all your time birdwatching. Diana was a far better wife than I could ever have been to him. She loved that festival they went to every year at some cathedral or other. That wouldn’t have suited me. The best sound in the world, I believe, is the pummelling of hooves on grass when you ride hell for leather. That’s music to my ears.’

  Having left one hotel in a rage, Griselda Fleetwood had walked a hundred yards or so to another. When she reached the Unicorn Hotel, however, she stayed outside for several minutes to give herself time to control her temper. Only when she felt calm enough for a confrontation did she go into the building and walk over to the desk.

  ‘I’d like to speak to Mr Buchanan, please,’ she announced.

  ‘I’m afraid that he’s not here,’ said the receptionist.

  ‘He must be. Not long ago, I saw him only two streets away. I was certain I’d find him here.’

  ‘He was here, it’s true, but he had to leave.’

  ‘Do you know where he went?’

  ‘I believe he was returning to the Roath Court in Piccadilly.’

  She glowered at him. ‘I know very well where it is.’

  ‘May I have your name, please?’

  ‘Why do you ask?’

  ‘I could tell Mr Buchanan that you were looking for him.’

  ‘Don’t bother,’ said Griselda. ‘I’ll tell him myself.’

  She hurried out of the hotel.

  Claude Chatfield was responsible for deploying detectives on a number of cases and was adept at choosing the right men to investigate particular crimes. He was reading through a report of a daring robbery in Hatton Garden when he was interrupted by a visitor. Sir Edward Henry had just walked into the superintendent’s office.

  ‘I thought you’d still be with the Home Secretary,’ said Chatfield. ‘Your meetings with him tend to go on for hours.’

  ‘I expected the same thing to happen today, but I was misled. Having been told that I’d be party to a discussion of some significance, I discovered that it had no significance at all.’ His eyebrows arched in unison. ‘Such are the ways of Cabinet ministers.’

  ‘We’re glad to have you back, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Do you have any news for me?’

  ‘If you’re referring to the theft of thousands of pounds of jewellery, I have some excellent news. Three arrests have been made and all the property stolen from Hatton Garden has been recovered.’

  ‘That’s very commendable, Superintendent.’

  ‘One of those arrested – you will not be surprised to hear – worked at the shop concerned. I wish every crime could be dealt with so swiftly.’

  ‘So do I,’ said the commissioner. ‘It might stop the press hounding us the way that they do. What of this business at the hotel in Chelsea?’

  ‘It’s still in its early stages.’

  ‘I’d hoped for some progress – and so had Harold Fleetwood.’

  ‘You may tell him that Inspector Marmion is both diligent and tenacious. He won’t give up until he’s solved the murder and the disappearance of the hotel guest. In fact,’ said Chatfield, ‘he’s driven to Berkshire in order to find out the real name of the lady who’d been staying in that room.’

  ‘That could be a vital piece in the jigsaw.’

  ‘There are still many other pieces to find, Sir Edward.’

  ‘What about the victim herself?’

  ‘She, alas, remains an enigma.’

  ‘Has the newspaper appeal for help brought no information in?’

  ‘There’s been nothing of real value. It’s very strange. You’d have thought that somebody would have noticed she was missing by now.’

  ‘I don’t envy Marmion. It’s a baffling case.’

  ‘Those are the ones he likes best, Sir Edward.’

  ‘Typical of him – he’s a first-rate detective.’

  ‘That’s because he’s learnt from me,’ boasted Chatfield. ‘But even Marmion is by no means infallible.’

  ‘Who is?’ asked the commissioner. ‘But we must make allowances for Marmion. His son ran away from home and they haven’t a clue where he might be. That must prey on the inspector’s mind.’

  ‘I’m sure that it does in private. However, it won’t stop him doing his job properly. When he’s hunting down a killer, nothing else matters to him – not even his family.’

  While Ellen thought every day about the disappearance of her son, it was her daughter she missed most at that moment. The sound of the air raid had awakened her dread. She needed Alice there to talk sense to her and to still her fears yet again. It was not to be. Her daughter was already on a bus somewhere on the other side of London. At least, that was what she thought. As she was hunched on the sofa, Ellen was jerked out of her foreboding by a loud knock on the door. Alice had come back, after all, to rescue her mother from her rising terror. Rushing to the door, Ellen opened it wide and got ready to give her daughter a grateful hug.

  She was th
warted. Instead of Alice, it was Rene Bridger who was standing outside. Ellen felt a searing disappointment.

  ‘Is anything wrong?’ asked the visitor.

  ‘I was … expecting my daughter.’

  ‘Then I won’t keep you long, Ellen,’ said the other. ‘I’ve been thinking about what you said earlier. You’d decided to go and hear that man speaking tomorrow.’

  ‘I’m in two minds about it now, Rene.’

  ‘Why is that?’

  ‘It’s a bit complicated. Look,’ said Ellen, standing back, ‘why don’t you come in and have a cup of tea?’

  ‘I thought you were expecting your daughter.’

  ‘I was but … I doubt if she’ll come now. She’d have had to cross London and that air raid would have put her off. Come on. I was just about to put the kettle on when you knocked on the door.’

  ‘In that case …’

  Darkness was starting to cover everything when they left Bunny Hassall’s cottage and headed towards Wantage. They were both impressed by the way she’d coped with her disability and managed to keep so buoyant. The woman in the wheelchair was an example to everyone seriously injured by an accident. Robbed of many things in life, she was making the most of those that still remained.

  ‘I don’t think I could do that,’ confessed Keedy.

  ‘What are you talking about, Joe?’

  ‘Mrs Hassall – she’s so philosophical.’

  ‘That was never your strong point. You’re a man of action.’

  ‘She was a woman of action until that fall. By the way, is Bunny her real name?’

  ‘Anything is possible among horsey people,’ said Marmion with a smile. ‘They’re a strange breed.’

  Following the directions given to them, the driver took them to a small village and pulled up on a triangle of land outside a churchyard. Maurice and Gwendolyn Farrier lived in one of a cluster of houses nearby. The first thing that Keedy noticed was a pub further down the street. He turned hopefully towards Marmion.

  ‘Don’t even think about it, Joe.’

  ‘I’m thirsty.’

  ‘We’re on duty.’

  ‘Nobody will ever know.’

  ‘I will,’ said Marmion. ‘Now let’s find them, shall we?’

  The Farriers lived in a rambling house with a large front garden. Built of red sandstone, its only external feature of interest was its solidity. Invited in, the detectives found the atmosphere slightly menacing. They were taken into a capacious but rather gloomy living room. Farrier saw them looking at the array of silver cups on the sideboard.

  ‘Gwen and I are enthusiastic dancers,’ he said, proudly. ‘We’ve been lucky enough to win various competitions over the years.’

  ‘That must keep you fit,’ said Keedy.

  ‘We do exercises every day.’

  It was borne out by their appearance. Both in their late fifties, they were slim, well dressed and patently in excellent health. Keedy could just imagine them gliding effortlessly around a ballroom.

  ‘Have you really come all the way from London?’ asked Gwendolyn.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘When you hear what’s happened, you’ll understand why.’

  He gave them a highly edited version of events at the Lotus Hotel and told them about the visits to Major Garroway and to Bunny Hassall. Producing the photograph, he handed it over to Farrier.

  ‘It was actually given to me by Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore,’ he said, ‘but it was Mrs Hassall who discovered that the lady next to him in the photo was a Vesta Lyle. Apparently, she was your guest at the Hunt Ball four years ago.’

  ‘Yes, she was,’ confirmed Farrier.

  ‘Can you tell us about her, sir?’

  ‘My wife is the best person to do that. Vesta is a relative of hers.’ He passed the photograph to her. ‘Or, at least, she was.’

  ‘What my husband means,’ said Gwendolyn, ‘is that we haven’t seen anything of Vesta for years. She turned up at short notice and … well, made herself at home. Technically, she’s my cousin, but since she spent most of her time in France, I saw very little of her. We kept in touch with the odd birthday or Christmas card.’ She studied the group photograph and picked out her relative at once. ‘Yes, that’s Vesta. I remember it being taken. I also remember that Vesta paid for a copy of it herself – heaven knows why. Most of the people in it were strangers to her. That was in 1913,’ she continued, handing the photograph back to Marmion. ‘After that, she just sort of drifted out of our lives.’

  ‘Did she say why she’d come to see you?’

  ‘Yes, her husband had died. He was French, incidentally, but she never took his name, which was Dufays – Alphonse Dufays. For professional reasons, she preferred to be known by her maiden name.’

  ‘What sort of professional reasons?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Vesta is an artist. For anyone with a serious interest in painting, she once told me, Paris was the place to be. She wanted to mingle in the Bohemian world of French painters. It sounded rather romantic.’

  ‘I daresay there was a romantic appeal,’ said Farrier, ‘but Vesta had a realistic streak. She knew that most artists lived in abject poverty, so she looked for someone who’d support her financially. That’s why she married Alphonse. She was quite honest about it.’

  ‘What did her husband do?’ said Marmion.

  ‘He was something important in the French government. He adored Vesta and loved the idea of subsidising a talented artist. Nobody was more thrilled than Alphonse when her paintings began to sell for quite large amounts of money. I suppose he felt that he was getting a good return on his investment.’

  ‘As she became more well known,’ said his wife, taking over, ‘Vesta travelled all over Europe. She even had an exhibition in Poland one year.’

  ‘Did you ever see anything of her work?’ asked Keedy.

  ‘Oh, yes. She gave us one of her paintings when she was here.’

  Keedy looked around. ‘Is it hanging in here?’

  ‘No,’ said Gwendolyn. ‘I’m afraid that it wasn’t to our taste.’

  ‘The truth is,’ added Farrier, ‘that it’s up in the attic. It was a depiction of a picnic on the banks of the Seine. We could see that it had a lot of artistic merit.’

  ‘Then why did you hide it away?’ said Marmion.

  ‘None of the people in the painting were wearing any clothes, Inspector. We felt that it was out of place in what was originally built as a vicarage.’

  ‘Was the artist aware of your disapproval?’

  ‘No, no, of course not,’ replied Farrier. ‘We told her how grateful we were. The irony is that the painting might be worth a lot of money, but we’d feel too embarrassed to offer it to a dealer. Also, of course, there’s always the chance that Vesta might come back here.’

  ‘That seems highly unlikely now, sir.’

  ‘Do you think that she’s dead?’

  Marmion pursed his lips. ‘We’re ruling nothing out.’

  Fraser Buchanan was working alone in the manager’s office when the telephone rang. He was astonished to hear that Griselda Fleetwood was waiting in reception. Buchanan asked for her to be conducted to the office. He then got up, took his jacket from the hook on the back of the door and slipped it on again. After checking his appearance in the mirror, he opened the door wide. Griselda was only yards away. She responded to his warm smile with a ferocious scowl.

  ‘Come on in, Mrs Fleetwood,’ he said, standing aside then closing the door once she was in the room. ‘This is a lovely surprise.’

  ‘What are you playing at?’ she demanded.

  ‘I’m not playing at anything.’

  ‘My husband came here earlier and you said something to upset him. He was furious.’

  ‘Yes, he did get rather hot under the collar.’

  ‘What did you tell him?’

  ‘I told him the truth, that’s all,’ said Buchanan. ‘You came to see me and, after a pleasant discussion, we were on first-name terms.’

&nbs
p; ‘That’s not strictly true.’

  ‘Then our memories of the event differ.’

  ‘I merely came to seek your advice.’

  ‘And I gave it freely – do not open a hotel.’

  ‘That wasn’t what you said at first,’ she reminded him. ‘You were very interested in my idea. It appealed to you. Then I turned down your offer of putting money into the venture. Once I did that, you decided that you’d do your best to frustrate my ambition.’

  ‘You were a rival, Griselda.’

  ‘Don’t you dare call me by my Christian name!’

  ‘You can’t expect me to encourage your fantasy.’

  ‘It wasn’t a fantasy when you saw its potential and offered to invest in it. You couldn’t be nicer to me then.’

  He smiled. ‘I like being nice to you, Mrs Fleetwood.’

  ‘It’s too late to turn on your charm now. I’ve just come to tell you what a loathsome human being you really are. I’ve spoken to the police about you, so they’re well aware of your dirty tricks.’

  ‘I do not condone murder,’ he said, seriously. ‘I may have caused the Lotus some minor inconveniences but that’s as far as I’d go. I give you my word of honour that I had nothing whatsoever to do with the problems besetting you.’

  ‘Then why did you stop outside the hotel earlier on to gloat?’

  ‘I just happened to be passing.’

  ‘You’re a liar, Mr Buchanan.’

  ‘You can call me “Fraser” if you prefer.’

  ‘I know what I’d like to call you, but I never sink to obscenities.’

  ‘That’s a sign of good breeding,’ he said, smirking, ‘though I suspect that your husband would have no qualms about showering me with expletives. Let me give you the same warning I gave him. If you wish to make an accusation against me, I’ll call in the manager so that I have a witness. You might care to know,’ he cautioned, ‘that I have an exceptionally good lawyer. Slander and libel are his specialities.’

  The conversation was over. The blistering anger that had taken her there was suddenly denied an outlet. Still convinced that he was in some way behind the murder at the Lotus, she realised that she’d have to be patient and wait for the police to prove it. Mastering her fury, she went across to the door and opened it.