‘Thank you.’
‘Don’t mention it. Now I’m back to that projection room. You know where to find me if you need me, right?’
But Posie was already placing her first call with the Operator.
****
Nine
‘Chief Inspector Lovelace’s office, please,’ she told the receptionist on the switchboard at New Scotland Yard.
‘Wait a moment. I’m connecting you now.’
After a few seconds, Posie heard the familiar voice of the maverick Chief Inspector, Richard Lovelace, her long-time collaborator and her sort-of champion, come on the line.
He sounded more flustered than usual, as if he were in a hurry. When he heard it was Posie on the line she heard him let out a jagged sort of sigh.
‘Oh, it’s only you. Thank heavens for that.’
She imagined him standing in his horrible olive green office, paperwork everywhere, his tweedy waistcoat askew, running his hands through his thick, wild reddish hair, looking out through his triple-barred window with its sliver of a view over the Victoria Embankment, his mind wandering over how he would catch his next arch-villain.
‘You don’t sound very pleased to hear from me.’
‘Oh, I am. I am. I thought it might be the Assistant Commissioner on the line asking to check my speech.’
‘What speech would that be, sir?’
Richard Lovelace sighed again. ‘Oh, just this blasted Police Awards Ceremony I’m having to go to this evening.’ He mumbled over the next words a bit.
‘Actually, I’ve been awarded a prize, and you know, I’ve got to make an acceptance speech afterwards.’
‘Oh, my gosh! Congratulations! That’s amazing news!’ Posie wasn’t that surprised. The Chief Inspector was fast gaining a reputation for putting away virtually every big-time criminal in London. And on more than a couple of occasions she had helped him do just that.
‘Mnnn, well. I’m just about to go, actually. Got to get on over to the Inner Temple. So you’ve caught me standing here all dressed up in white tie like that dashing cad Robbie Fontaine: Mrs Lovelace is always going on about him, more’s the pity.’
‘I didn’t take you for a movie fan,’ said Posie cautiously.
‘Nor am I. But the missus is.’
‘Funny you should mention films, though. I’m at Worton Hall Studios right now. With Robbie Fontaine, as it happens.’
‘Oh, yes?’ said the Chief Inspector. ‘Then by rights you should be having the time of your life.’ Posie heard a rustling sound before the Chief Inspector resumed.
‘So why are you calling me Posie, EXACTLY?’
‘I need your help, sir. I’m in a bit of a tight fix.’
‘Can’t it wait until tomorrow? I’m literally just leaving.’
‘’Fraid not, sir. It can’t really wait even a few hours. Ideally I need your help this very evening.’
The Chief Inspector groaned, and shouted something at someone in the background. ‘Go on then. Give me your worst. But do it quickly.’
And Posie outlined the case of Silvia Hanro and the death threats as best and as quickly as she could, trying to explain who the suspects were as succinctly as possible, while not scrimping on detail. She explained that she was calling him for help against instructions.
Then she mentioned the grey, severed, frosty human finger.
When she had finished there was a silence on the end of the line, and before she could break it Inspector Lovelace groaned again.
‘Good grief! This is all we need. A dead movie star on our hands. It’s not just a mare’s nest, is it? You really think these notes are real?’
‘I do, sir. There’s a lot of venom behind them, especially the last one, and the timing is spot-on, what with this big party planned for tomorrow lunchtime. But I’m worried even before we get to tomorrow: there’s lots here that doesn’t fit. I don’t think that Silvia Hanro is telling me everything, for one thing. She doesn’t really want me here: that’s what I think.’
‘You think she knows who the notes are from?’
‘Maybe. I’m not sure, sir. She’s panicked, but not panicked enough, if you see what I mean.’
‘Right. What do you want from me now?’
Posie heard a ripping noise as a piece of paper was torn off between teeth down the line.
‘I’d like you to find out as much as possible about Miss Hanro’s background, and also about Brian Langley, and Robbie Fontaine. And could you check on the official police files relating to this stalker fellow, Hector Mallow, and the sister, Pamela Hanro? And there’s a fellow who works here – Tom Moran – can you check his records too?’
‘You don’t ask much, do you, Posie?’
‘Sorry, sir.’
‘I’m going to get Sergeant Binny to get this information for me, and bring it to me at the Inner Temple. Let me put my thinking cap on and we’ll puzzle this out as best we can, shall we? Can you meet me there at nine o’clock this evening? By the Temple Church? We’ll discuss it there. That’s the best I can do right now, I’m afraid.’
She heard the rustling and shouting again in the background as the Chief Inspector barked out some orders.
‘Don’t hang up!’ she called out desperately. She had a few hours to go before nine o’clock and she had decided to check out the people Silvia Hanro had told her about as quickly as possible, before the police records came in.
‘What is it now?’
‘Frightfully sorry, but is that Sergeant Binny just there? Can I speak to him?’
And within minutes Posie had spoken to the Sergeant, whom she also knew of old, and had got him to look in the Telephone Directory for the details of Brian Langley’s house in Richmond, and any listed home address which might exist for Pamela Hanro.
The Sergeant quickly gave her the address details for Brian Langley, but he was less successful with Pamela Hanro. She wasn’t listed.
On the off chance, Posie mentioned the suffragette connection, and asked Sergeant Binny to check whether there was any given address for Pamela in any of the old police files.
The Sergeant sighed huffily down the line. ‘I’ll call you back in ten minutes,’ he said, trying to keep some of the annoyance from his voice. He had obviously been looking forward to an early escape homewards, and was now lumbered with all manner of extra work, all of it Posie’s doing.
‘I really do appreciate it, Sergeant.’
‘Mnnnn.’
Posie checked her wristwatch after she replaced the receiver.
Yes: she had time.
She picked the receiver up again and placed a call with the Operator to a huge double-fronted Mews House on Pavilion Road, Chelsea.
She was after her old friend Rufus, Lord Cardigeon. Dolly’s husband.
When Manders the Butler answered, Posie had a moment of self-doubt. She hardly knew why she was pursuing this at all.
Was she losing her touch? Why was she so bothered about Dolly just now, and by those hulking great nannies? However much she had on her plate with the strange happenings at Worton Hall, and it felt a lot right now, those nannies kept coming to the forefront of her mind.
Posie made polite chit-chat with Manders and confirmed that the babies and the nannies had arrived home safely before coming to the purpose of her call. Rufus.
But it was not to be.
‘He’s not here, Miss. Was he expecting your call?’
‘Oh no, Manders. Can you tell me where he is?’
‘I can indeed, Miss.’
‘And?’
‘He’s at The House, Miss.’
‘The House? What house? Do you mean his club, Number 11, in St James’s? I thought he’d stopped going there?’
‘Oh, not there, Miss. The House. The House of Lords, Miss.’
‘But it’s the summer recess, Manders. Surely? They’re not sitting just now, are they?’
‘No, they are not, Miss. But the restaurant does a very nice three courser on a Wednesday by all accounts, and th
ere’s always the library, with that lovely view out over the river.’
‘I see. Well, thanks anyway.’
As she rang off, Posie privately thought that Rufus had simply exchanged one sort of private men’s club for another, perhaps to escape the noise of the two screaming twins, or to escape the baleful glare of the nannies, but she tried not to be disloyal and sounded as cheery as could be as she rung for the House of Lords and asked for Lord Cardigeon to be dragged from whatever hole he happened to be hiding in.
She hoped it wasn’t a hole which involved drink. Hopefully Posie wasn’t about to unravel some awful great knot in the middle of Rufus and Dolly’s private lives. It was the last thing she felt like doing.
He answered after a bit.
‘What ho, Nosy!’
Posie swallowed down her annoyance at this age-old nickname for her. Rufus sounded completely sober, thank goodness.
‘You sound pretty chipper, Rufus.’
‘Mnnn. What do you want, Nosy, ringing me up here? Bit odd. All quite all right, is it?’
‘Fine. Look, Rufus. I’m in Isleworth, at a film studio, at Worton Hall, and I’ve got Dolly here with me.’
She heard a sharp intake of breath, a slight whirr of panic. So there was something.
She hurried on:
‘The babies are fine, safe at home: don’t worry. But look here, it’s really none of my business, but is everything all right with Dolly? She seems a bit down. And what’s the score with those great man-lookalike nannies? Don’t tell me they’re just for fun, or to help with the nappies and the baby purees. You may have pulled the wool over poor Dolly’s eyes but you haven’t done so with me. They’re not real nannies, are they? They’re bodyguards, aren’t they?’
There was silence from the other end of the line.
‘Is Dolly in danger, Rufus? Is this your clumsy response to a kidnapping threat or something?’
There, she had said it. It was out. Her completely over-the-top hypothesis.
She was met with yet more silence. She felt distinctly uneasy. Posie found herself gripping the edge of Bertie Samuelson’s immense desk.
‘Rufey? Just what exactly is going on here?’ she said sharply. ‘You need to tell me.’
‘I can’t talk on this line. Who knows who might be listening? But all I can say is for goodness’ sake keep a close eye on Dolly, will you? Don’t let her out of your sight. Bring her home.’
‘Now come on, surely that’s coming on a bit strong?’
‘No. It isn’t. All I can say is that there is a real danger. So I need you to help me.’
Posie felt all of the air go out of her, like a great balloon. So, her worst fears had been realised. What sort of trouble was Rufus facing now? Who exactly were they up against?
‘Another thing, Nosy. Dolly knows nothing about this. Don’t let on. She’ll be scared out of her wits.’
Posie didn’t exactly agree: the Dolly of old had been one of the pluckiest girls she had ever met, but who knew, perhaps things had changed? She had no choice but to help out. She sighed.
‘Fine. I’ll do as you say, Rufus. For now.’
‘Thanks, Nosy.’
‘Tell me, are the police involved? I’m meeting the Chief Inspector later, if you’d like me to put in a word…’
But the line went hissy and she heard Rufus ringing off. Seconds later the telephone rang again and she snatched it up, expecting to hear Rufus. Instead it was Sergeant Binny, sounding considerably happier. He had obviously made short shrift of the suffragette records.
‘Got what you need here, Miss. It was surprisingly easy to find. Miss Pamela has been at the same place since 1918. And this address is definitely the current one, as she’s required to report in once a year with all of her current details.’
‘Why’s that?’
‘Proper little firecracker, this one is. Miss Pamela got bailed out several times by family members, but the seriousness of her crimes means she’s on our records for life. Got up to all sorts, mainly in 1913. Proper little devil, especially with a packet of matches: arson, criminal damage, you name it, the lot. She ran with that crowd who were suspected of setting fire to the Tea House, at Kew Gardens. But she got away with it as nothing was ever proved. From a very good family too, by the looks of it. Top-drawer. A Hyde Park address for the parents, before the war, anyhow. Got a pencil for her current address, have you?’
‘Yep. Go for it.’
The Sergeant listed an address in South Kensington, a street which sounded slightly familiar to Posie. She wrote it down carefully.
‘Something juicy for you.’
‘Oh?’
‘Mnnn. Your Miss Pamela Hanro doesn’t work by the way, not officially, despite the fact she’s unmarried. But she does have a child. An adopted child. Says so on our records. From the Foundling Hospital in Bloomsbury Fields. Adopted in the autumn of 1918. A girl. Odd, isn’t it?’
‘Indeed.’ Posie raised an eyebrow, just to herself. Pamela Hanro sounded just as interesting as her famous sister. Perhaps more so.
‘I wasn’t sure if you needed to know that, but it doesn’t hurt to go armed with the full facts, now, does it?’
‘Thank you. I owe you one, Sergeant.’
‘You do, Miss,’ said the policeman in a sad, beleaguered tone, as if he had heard it all before.
Which of course, he had.
****
Ten
Posie checked her watch again.
She still had twenty minutes before Bertie Samuelson’s driver could pick her up. She’d have to find Dolly, and steal her away from Silvia Hanro, a task she wasn’t looking forward to.
Coming out of Bertie Samuelson’s office, she pulled the door to and locked it with the master key. Outside, on the white corridor all was quiet except for muffled sounds coming from the hallowed grounds of the projection room.
Beguiling though she was, Posie had no desire to see Silvia Hanro on screen again quite so soon, and she stepped lightly along the corridor, away from the head of the staircase, in the direction of the rows of doors behind which lay the rooms and flats for the film crew and movie stars.
Without really knowing why, Posie found herself unlocking the first door she came to. Inside was a mean sliver of a white room, furnished with just a single white bed and a wooden desk, the small high window closed and curtained. It was obvious the room wasn’t in use. The next room was identical, and empty, and Posie had almost lost interest by the time she automatically opened the third door. This room was the same as the two before, but occupied, obviously by a man. A pipe and tobacco were thrown carelessly across the desk, and a stash of paperback novels were piled over by the bed. Rumpled, soiled, dark clothes were thrown across every surface, and a glass bottle of milk stood curdling on the windowsill. An unpleasant unwashed-body smell pervaded the room. She closed the door again quickly, feeling a terrible snoop.
The next door led to another occupied room, unremarkable but for the familiarly sharp smell of lingering pine-wood with that strange undercurrent of burning. A neat pile of white clothes had been left folded on the desk chair. This was obviously Tom’s room, and Posie suddenly felt an awkward sense of shyness overcome her.
Even so, she crept into the tiny room and had a good look about, but there was precious little to see. The real-life romance between Tom and Silvia didn’t encroach here; they were obviously very careful, even behind closed doors, for not a single bleached blonde strand of hair or a daub of kohl or anything remotely feminine was in evidence.
Next door was another occupied room, and there was more to see here, although it, too, was very neat. It was obviously occupied by a woman, and a small mirror had been set up on the chest of drawers, together with a musky Penhaligon’s travel candle in a little leather holder, its wick burned almost right down.
A framed and signed professional photograph of a male movie star in the style of around the time of the Great War stared out moodily from the top of a desk, the man’s jet-black ha
ir swept back harshly from his face and a semi-scowl making his eyes look intense.
There were a good many magazines fanned out across the top of the desk, mostly the Picture Post but a few film magazines thrown in too for good measure. Coming closer Posie saw that a few of the magazines were opened on spreads which featured pictures of the royal wedding between the Duke of York and his bride, Lady Elizabeth Bowes-Lyon, which had taken place a mere three months earlier.
In several places the bride’s fabulously daring dress, now being copied up and down the country by ambitious seamstresses, had been circled around with a pencil, and in another magazine the entire dress had been cut out.
Underneath all of this was a fat wedding scrapbook.
A bride, Posie breathed to herself, with very little joy and a jolt of what felt for a horrid moment like jealousy. The person whose room this is is about to be a bride. She skimmed through the magazines unhappily.
The whole royal wedding in April had passed Posie by in a cloud of awkwardness. She had tried to pretend to herself and to everyone else that it wasn’t happening; despite the fact that the new royal couple had enchanted the nation, and that the Duchess of York’s lovely face in its jaunty bridal cap and veil had looked out from almost every woman’s magazine for a period of weeks on end. Weddings and high-profile weddings in particular, were just a little too close for comfort right now.
Just as Posie was replacing the magazines, a sharp, shrill voice caught her out:
‘Who the very devil are you? And what are you snoopin’ about in here for?’
A flabby, gingery woman of about forty filled the doorway with her very substantial form, blocking out the bright light from the corridor, her quivering arms placed firmly on her hips in a gesture of disbelief, anger blazing from her blue gimlet eyes.
Posie stared and then realised that she had probably invaded the woman’s own room. The white cook’s hat and institutional apron gave away her profession and Posie suddenly remembered what Reggie had said about Brian Langley having taken on all of Worton Hall’s permanent kitchen staff. It made sense for the cook to stay in residence.
Murder of a Movie Star Page 9