‘You were wonderful,’ she said. ‘I’ve never heard you speak like that before, Ellen. There was such passion in your voice.’
‘I wasn’t going to let him sneer at the police.’
‘You were quite right.’
‘He just caught me on a raw nerve,’ said Ellen. ‘Until then, I’d been hypnotised by him. His argument was very convincing. If he hadn’t said that about the police, I’d have gone home believing every word of it.’
‘I’m the same. Mr Dacey had me in the palm of his hand, then, all of a sudden, I saw him for what he was – a nasty little man who likes to frighten people and who can’t stand anyone disagreeing with him.’
‘Oh, I’m so glad I went, Rene. It’s cured me of believing all that stuff about German agents flooding the country.’
‘When you challenged him, you shook him rigid.’
‘Good.’
‘And when we left and got a round of applause, some other people walked out behind us. That will have hurt him. Quentin Dacey is just a scaremonger. My husband was right about him, after all. He talked rubbish.’
‘Are you going to tell that to Bert?’
‘Yes – even though he’ll crow over me for days.’
‘I’m not even sure if I ought to tell Harvey that I went.’
‘If you don’t,’ said Rene, ‘then I will. Your husband ought to know about the way you stood up and defended him against those lies we had to listen to. He’d be proud of you.’
‘Maybe I will tell him, then.’
‘If it was me, I’d boast about it for a week.’
They giggled. Ellen was so pleased at the change in her friend. Rene Bridger had somehow shaken off the misery that usually made any conversation with her such an effort. For once, she hadn’t mentioned her son or lapsed into bitterness. As for Ellen, she’d forgotten about Paul for a while. They were no longer two women weighed down by their respective tragedies. Temporarily, they’d both been liberated from their obsessions and had the warm satisfaction of upsetting Quentin Dacey. All in all, the trip to central London had been a success.
‘So, what is it to be, Ellen?’ asked Rene.
‘I don’t follow.’
‘Are you going to tell your husband or not?’
‘Oh, I think I ought to tell Harvey,’ replied Ellen, ‘but I don’t think I’d dare to say anything to my daughter.’
‘Why not?’
‘Alice was very annoyed at me for even thinking of going to that lecture. She remembers the time when Joe risked his life in the Isle of Man in search of what he thought was a German spy. She feels that people like Mr Dacey only belittle what the police have done to make us as safe as they can. I’m relieved that Alice didn’t come with us today.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘All I did was to give Dacey a rude shock. If my daughter had been there, she’d probably have assaulted him.’
As she walked in step with her partner around their beat, Alice reflected on the difference between Iris Goodliffe and Jennifer Jerrold. One had yearned for male attention and, when someone finally showed an interest in her, had been only too willing to respond. The other was shy by nature and wholly inexperienced in dealing with the other sex. Jennifer shied away from men. Her life revolved around the church. Now that she was being stalked, she’d lost her nerve and simply wanted to run away, even if it meant losing a job she coveted. Iris had shown no signs of doing that. She was more robust than Jennifer, eager to carry on in the Women’s Police Force, despite the fact that it might bring her into contact with the very man who’d molested her.
The only thing that the two women had in common was the urge to keep their respective anxieties hidden. Because she cared about both of her friends, Alice had managed to draw a confession out of each of them.
‘I’m so grateful to you,’ said Iris.
‘Why?’
‘Everything is different now. Since you let me talk about my fears, they don’t seem too bad. When I leave the house, I don’t have to grit my teeth any more.’
‘Was it really that difficult?’
‘I was afraid that he’d … try again.’
‘There’s no chance of him doing that, Iris. I think Doug Beckett feels guilty at what he did – and so he should. You won’t be bothered by him again.’
‘The awful thing is that … I was so fond of him.’
‘You can’t carry on being fond of a man who treats you like that.’
‘I know that now.’ They turned a corner and strolled on. ‘Did I see you talking to Jenny Jerrold earlier?’
‘Yes.’
‘Has she told you why she thinking of resigning?’
‘Jenny said that it was because of her parents. When they heard about some of the incidents she’s had to deal with on night duty, they were horrified. What they really objected to was the bad language.’
‘You have to close your ears to that.’
‘Mr and Mrs Jerrold are very puritanical. They think that their daughter will be corrupted by the terrible things she sees and hears.’
‘Is that what Jenny told you?’
‘Yes, Iris.’
‘And do you believe her?’
‘Of course,’ said Alice. ‘Can you imagine her ever telling a lie?’
Relieved to see them back at Scotland Yard again, Chatfield sat behind his desk and listened to what the detectives had learnt in the course of their visit to Berkshire. Because of his seniority, Marmion did most of the talking, with Keedy making occasional interjections. With an inbred respect for anyone from the upper classes, the superintendent was profoundly shocked to hear that, in his younger days, Sir Godfrey had been something of a roué. He did, however, accept Marmion’s argument that he could well have met Vesta Lyle during his regular visits to the artists’ quarter.
‘What I can’t believe,’ he said, ‘was that she never got over whatever kind of liaison she may have had with him.’
‘Why else would she claim to be his wife?’ asked Marmion.
‘Let me finish, Inspector.’
‘I’m sorry, sir.’
‘One of the most interesting things about this woman is that she chose to become a Roman Catholic. People don’t do that lightly. It’s a big decision to make. Vesta Lyle willingly subscribed to a religion that gave her life a moral purpose and a definite structure. Neither of those things,’ said Chatfield with a sniff, ‘could you easily associate with a community of artists.’
‘She only converted to Catholicism when she was about to get married,’ said Keedy. ‘Perhaps she lived by different rules after that.’
‘So I would hope, Sergeant. As you both know, I was brought up in the Catholic religion and it’s shaped my whole life. Over the years, I’ve been very struck by what you might call the zeal of the convert. When someone becomes a Catholic, they can sometimes tend to be even more pious than the rest of us.’
‘Oh, I think you’re pious enough, sir.’
‘What I’m trying to say is that, when she went through a service of holy matrimony, she would have accepted the heavy commitments laid upon her. Any relationships she’d had with other men would have been wiped from her mind completely.’
‘I disagree, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘We take our vows seriously, Inspector.’
‘I’m sure that’s true of you and Mrs Chatfield, but yours is a much more conventional marriage. Vesta Lyle seemed happy enough to become Madame Dufays, yet she never used her husband’s surname. Nor did she spend a great deal of time at home. Mrs Farrier told us that her studio was a long way from the house. She couldn’t understand why her cousin didn’t work in one of the rooms in what was a very large house.’
‘There are all sorts of reasons for that.’
‘Yes,’ said Keedy. ‘Perhaps she wanted to stay close to other artists because it’s where she got her inspiration from.’
‘Possibly,’ said Chatfield. ‘Or it may be that her husband didn’t want the chaos and smell of an arti
st’s studio anywhere near him. From what you’ve told me about him, Alphonse Dufays sounds as if he might have been rather fastidious.’
‘That’s exactly what he was, sir,’ confirmed Marmion, ‘and it leads me to believe there may be another explanation.’
‘What is it, Inspector?’
‘When Vesta Lyle and her future husband first met, they must have seemed a rather incongruous couple. Each had a profession and was happy to continue in it independently. The wedding may have taken place in a Catholic church,’ he continued, ‘but I wonder if the union only existed on the surface.’
‘But they took solemn vows,’ Chatfield insisted.
‘I doubt very much if they kept them, sir. What I think they agreed to share was a marriage of convenience.’
Rex Chell had great admiration for Griselda Fleetwood but, whenever he was in a room with her, it seemed to shrink in size because of the sheer force of her personality. That afternoon, her husband chose to visit the Lotus Hotel so husband and wife were both in the manager’s office with him. Chell began to feel a touch of claustrophobia.
‘What did the editor say?’ asked Griselda.
‘He was full of apologies,’ replied her husband, ‘and claimed that he’d had no intention of damaging your business. I got much the same reply from the others. They all lied through their teeth.’
‘It’s a credit to you that they agreed to see you,’ said Chell. ‘If most people go to Fleet Street to protest, they rarely get through the outer door. I know that because I’m one of them.’
‘My name carries weight,’ said Fleetwood.
‘And so it should,’ added his wife. ‘You’ve been an outstanding public benefactor over the years, Harold. You’ve got influence. I just wish that some of it rubbed off on me.’
‘You’re one of the most influential women in London.’
‘I don’t feel it.’
‘You’re an example to others, Griselda.’
‘Oh, I don’t think that any woman would be misguided enough to change places with me at the moment. When this hotel was launched, I won plaudits for my enterprise. There’s no sign of them now.’
‘You were praised for your originality, Mrs Fleetwood,’ said Chell, ‘and this hotel will always reflect that. As soon as the police catch the killer, the Lotus will recover instantly.’
‘The killer owns a hotel two streets away,’ she howled.
‘Have the police hauled in Buchanan for questioning yet?’ asked Fleetwood.
‘No, they haven’t.’
‘Then I’ll have to speak to Sir Edward again.’
‘Leave it for a while, Harold. I tackled Superintendent Chatfield earlier and left him in no doubt about my disgust with the way the investigation is going. I also pressed him to go after Buchanan.’
‘It won’t be easy. He’s too cunning to have left a trail.’
‘Mrs Fleetwood was wondering what he’ll do next,’ said Chell.
‘He’s bound to exploit the unfortunate situation we’re in.’
‘It’s one he created for that very purpose,’ she snapped. ‘Buchanan wanted us laid low so that he can kick the life out of us.’
‘He won’t get away with that,’ said Fleetwood.
‘Who’s to stop him?’
‘I am, Griselda.’ He slapped his thigh. ‘There’s no time for delay. I’m not prepared to wait a moment longer. I’ll get over to Scotland Yard right away and demand to see the commissioner. By this evening,’ he promised, ‘Fraser Buchanan will be in police custody.’
Buchanan was seated behind the manager’s desk at the Roath Court Hotel when there was a knock on the door and it was opened by Ian Maitland.
‘You sent for me, sir,’ he said.
‘Ah, yes.’
‘I gave you something yesterday.’
‘Why, so you did,’ said the other, rising to his feet and taking out his wallet, ‘and I was very grateful. What was your name again?’
‘Maitland, sir – Ian Maitland.’
‘I’ll remember that name.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘Meanwhile, I want you to have something for services rendered,’ said Buchanan, opening his wallet and taking out some five-pound notes. ‘That’s all I have at the moment. There’ll be lots more to come when I’ve been to the bank. Here you are, Maitland,’ he said, handing the money over. ‘You’ve earned it.’
‘I was very glad to help, sir.’
After discussing the case from every possible angle, they came back once more to the murder victim. Chatfield let his dismay show through.
‘We’ve learnt a lot about Vesta Lyle,’ he said, ‘but we still have no idea who the murdered woman was or how she came to be in the Lotus Hotel.’
‘I’ve been thinking about that, sir,’ said Keedy.
‘And what’s the result?’
‘I’ve settled for a possible answer.’
‘Carry on.’
‘She was in that hotel room because she was invited there by the woman calling herself Lady Brice-Cadmore.’
‘That could well be true,’ said Marmion.
‘Why invite someone to a room,’ asked Chatfield, ‘and then disappear? I accept that it’s unlikely Vesta Lyle was the killer, but what proof is there that the murder victim was, in fact, a guest?’
‘Think about the hotel register, sir,’ said Marmion, realising what Keedy had worked out.
‘I’ve never seen the thing.’
‘Well, I have and the first thing I noticed was that Lady Brice-Cadmore – as she claimed to be – had stayed there before. She may well have stayed at other hotels, of course, but she chose the Lotus because it was more suited to her purpose.’
‘And what was that purpose, Inspector?’
‘I’m not sure, but I can hazard a guess.’
‘What is it?’
‘Let’s go back to the post-mortem report.’
‘Yes, it’s that detail about the French clothing that intrigued me,’ said Keedy. ‘I wondered about that. Then I remembered how many French people fled to this country in search of safety. It could well be that the murder victim was one of them.’
‘It’s conceivable,’ agreed Chatfield. ‘It would explain why we’ve had no success with our appeal to the public for help to identify the woman. Had it been carried by French newspapers, we might have had more encouraging results. I’m sorry, Sergeant,’ he said, ‘I’m holding you up. Please go on.’
‘This is all supposition, of course,’ warned Keedy, ‘and I may be way off course, but the most telling detail for me in the post-mortem report was the fact that the deceased was a virgin.’
‘That startled me as well. She was a married woman.’
‘Was she?’
‘You saw the wedding ring,’ said Chatfield, ‘and she wore other rings that must have been gifts from her husband.’
‘That was the assumption we both made,’ recalled Marmion.
‘Suppose that we were wrong?’ asked Keedy.
‘It wouldn’t be the first time.’
‘Suppose that she was not married at all?’
‘Then where did she get that wedding ring from?’
‘I’m just coming to that, sir. Forgive me if I’m going slowly but the truth is that I’m thinking this through as I speak. I’m also chiding myself for being so easily misled.’
‘By what?’
‘By lots of things.’
‘If you have a theory,’ said Chatfield, tetchily, ‘spit it out.’
‘It’s still forming in my mind, sir.’
‘Hurry up, man.’
‘Where would you find a virgin with a wedding ring?’
‘I’ve got no time for guessing games, Sergeant, especially one that descends into vulgarity.’
‘Let him speak, sir,’ advised Marmion.
‘I thought that must be it,’ declared Keedy. ‘It has to be the answer. You’d find her in a convent with a ring that signified she was the bride of Christ.’
> Chatfield was affronted. ‘Are you claiming that she was a nun?’
‘I think she might have been in the past.’
‘No, I refuse to accept that. To enter a convent is the most solemn undertaking possible. And if this woman was French, she must almost certainly have been a Roman Catholic. No member of an order would be permitted to dress the way that she was.’
‘That’s why I’m suggesting she might no longer be a nun.’
‘Think of that expensive French apparel,’ said Marmion. ‘They’d never be allowed to wear that – or to have those rings. When they go into a convent, they renounce temptation of any kind.’
‘They probably wear hair shirts,’ said Keedy.
‘Don’t be facetious.’
‘Well, it wouldn’t surprise me, Superintendent.’
‘I think that this conversation has taken a distasteful turn,’ said Chatfield, ‘so I’d rather not continue it. I refuse to believe that someone who pledged herself to an order of nuns would ever betray its sacred principles. Tell me this, Sergeant,’ he demanded. ‘What possible reason would she have to sneak into a hotel in the middle of the night?’
‘Perhaps she wished to be with the woman she loved, sir.’
Chatfield came close to blushing.
When the bus brought them out of central London, they were in a buoyant mood. Rene Bridger couldn’t wait to tell her husband what had happened at the lecture. As soon as they reached their stop, she more or less bounded off. Ellen didn’t go straight to her own house. She walked instead to the public library and combed the shelves until she found the book that she was after. When she opened The Invasion of 1910, she saw that the handbill advertising Quentin Dacey’s lecture was still there. After slipping it into her handbag, she replaced the book on the shelf and left the library. The first thing she did when she got back home was to tear the handbill into tiny pieces and washed them down the drain. The photograph of Quentin Dacey disappeared into a watery grave.
The Unseen Hand Page 20
