Forgotten Murder

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  ‘Not really,’ said Matthew with a shrug. ‘All I really know is that my mother knew her years ago, before she went out to Ceylon. I’m pretty sure she’s seen her since she’s been back. Did Mum mention anything to you, Julia?’

  ‘Not especially, no.’

  ‘I don’t suppose your mother would have kept letters from her by any chance?’ asked Bill.

  ‘They could be in storage,’ began Matthew, but Julia shook her head.

  ‘She had a big clear-out when she left Ceylon, Matthew. She told me so. She said it was quite dreadful how much rubbish one accumulated. She specifically mentioned old letters, theatre programmes and club menus and things of that sort.’ She looked at Jack and Bill. ‘If Mrs Davenham dropped her a line once she was back in London, though, that letter would be at the hotel, perhaps?’

  Jack shook his head. ‘There’s no letter from Mrs Davenham at the hotel, I’m afraid. We looked.’

  ‘You’ve searched my mother’s room?’ began Matthew indignantly, then stopped, suddenly worried. ‘Look here, Mr Rackham, has anything happened to her?’ He swallowed. ‘Anything untoward, I mean?’

  ‘We’d like to know where she is, that’s all,’ said Bill, trying to sound as reassuring as possible. ‘After all, you say that for her to disappear like this is unusual?’

  ‘She’s certainly never done it before. I can’t think where on earth she could be. If she was staying with a friend, say, surely she’d have let us know. To say nothing of letting the hotel know. She’s very punctilious about that sort of thing.’

  ‘In that case, we really need to find her. I don’t suppose you’ve got a photograph of her I can have?’

  ‘There’s bound to be one in storage,’ said Matthew. ‘I know she had at least one taken with my father and I imagine she kept that. It’ll only be a snapshot, though. She wasn’t a great one for posing for photographs. She never had a studio portrait taken. I can hunt out the snapshot for you, if you like. Why do you want it?’

  ‘Well, she might have suffered loss of memory, perhaps. A photo is always useful.’ He paused. ‘I’d be obliged if you could let me have it as soon as possible, sir. I think we ought to launch a missing person enquiry.’

  ‘Missing person?’ repeated Matthew, with an anxious look at his wife. ‘I hope that’s all it is. I don’t mind telling you, Mr Rackham, that this is all very worrying.’

  ‘What,’ said Jack, as soon as they were safely on the pavement of Cosby Place and out of earshot of the Rotherwells, ‘was all that about Mrs Davenham and a lost cat? Were you just making it up? About the cat, I mean?’

  ‘No, I wasn’t. After I left you on Saturday, I bumped into Mr Church. You’ve heard me talk about Charlie Church, my old inspector?’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  ‘Well, the thing is, Jack,’ said Bill, after he’d run through the story, ‘that Mr Church said he was going to leave a note with the porter asking this Mrs Davenham to contact the Yard when she returned. The way he saw it, Mrs Davenham would probably be a bit shirty about having her flat broken into and her locks changed. He thought she might very well blame Winnie and Ted Hinton and wanted to deflect any ill-feeling towards the Yard. There’s nothing like a bit of official involvement to take the steam out of a complaint and keep things peaceful between neighbours.’

  ‘And has she? Has she been in touch, I mean?’

  ‘Not as far as I know.’ Bill hesitated for a moment, then made up his mind. ‘Let’s go to Roxborough Mansions, Jack. If Mrs Davenham has returned, then we could do with asking her about Mrs Rotherwell. If not …’

  ‘If not, we might have another missing person on our hands,’ completed Jack softly.

  Roxborough Mansions, South Nyland Street, Kensington, proved to be a prosperous-looking, large, brick-built building. Jack walked up the steps and ran his finger down the list of residents. ‘Here we are, Bill. Mrs J. Davenham, number four.’

  They pushed open the street door and went into the hall.

  The porter put down his Racing Post and looked up from his desk. ‘Can I help you, gentlemen?’

  ‘I hope so. We’re looking for a Mrs Jane Davenham,’ said Bill.

  The porter shook his head. ‘I’m sorry, sir, but she’s away.’

  Bill swapped glances with Jack. This was what they had been afraid of. ‘Has Mrs Davenham left an address where we could get in touch with her?’

  ‘No, she didn’t, sir, but you can leave a message with me, if you like.’

  Bill shook his head. ‘Thanks, but we need to see Mrs Davenham herself. I’m Chief Inspector Rackham of Scotland Yard and this is Major Haldean.’

  The porter’s eyebrows shot up in alarm. ‘If this is about Mr Hinton having to force the door …’

  ‘We know all about that,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘This is nothing to do with the Hintons, the door, or the lost cat.’

  The porter spread his hands wide. ‘I’m sorry, gents, I can’t help you. Mrs Davenham went away about a week ago, it would be now, and I haven’t seen or heard from her since.’

  ‘Could we have a look inside the flat?’ asked Bill. ‘I understand the lock was changed and you have the key.’

  ‘Yes, I have sir. I suppose it’s all right, with you being from Scotland Yard, an’ all.’ The porter took a key from a drawer and led the way along the corridor. ‘Has anything happened to Mrs Davenham, sir?’

  ‘We just don’t know,’ said Jack easily. ‘We hope not but it’s unusual for her to be away for this long without letting you know, isn’t it?’

  ‘Well, it is, sir. A couple of nights, yes, and no harm done, but I’ll have to have a word when she returns.’

  They arrived at number four and the porter opened the door. Although neat, the flat was dusty after a week’s neglect. The flat was of a fairly standard construction, with a sitting room, dining room, bedroom, bathroom and kitchen, all very much lived-in, with ornaments on the mantelpiece, pictures on the walls and clothes in the wardrobe.

  The clothes were good quality and fashionable. A favourite shop seemed to be Debenhams and Freebody’s, but, Jack observed with raised eyebrows, there were two dresses from Callot Soeurs and one from Vionnet.

  To shop in Paris argued a woman with some money behind her. If she had shopped in Paris, she must have a passport, but there was no passport, address book or bank book or, indeed, any private documents at all. The waste-paper bin was empty, with no receipts or bills to show where she might have gone for a meal or out for the evening. Nothing, in fact, much to Bill’s disgust, to show where Mrs Davenham had been, where she might be now, or how she could be contacted.

  Was this deliberate? It was difficult to tell. After all, for all they knew, Mrs Davenham might be in Paris at the moment. That would explain her absence and the lack of a passport and bank book but why hadn’t she informed the porter? Maybe he was making a mystery out of a perfectly ordinary occurrence, but he didn’t like the way Mrs Davenham had simply vanished. There was one thing for sure; judging from the things she had left in the flat, she obviously had every intention of coming back.

  Leaving Bill to question the porter, Jack sat down in an armchair and started to flick through the papers and magazines in the paper-rack.

  Mrs Davenham took the Herald, but there was an odd copy of the Daily Mail and the Sketch as well. The latest paper, which didn’t look as if it’d been read, was dated Tuesday the 20th. Last week. The magazines were superior ladies’ magazines, all for the previous month. Vogue, Beau Monde, The Windsor.

  ‘She obviously didn’t have a servant,’ said Bill.

  The porter shook his head. ‘Not in these flats, no. The larger flats upstairs, the family flats, some of them keep a maid, but these flats are really only for one person or a couple.’

  Mrs Davenham, it turned out, had lived in Roxborough Mansions for the best part of a year. Although pleasant, she kept herself to herself. She certainly liked her privacy, thought Jack. The fact she’d changed the locks testified to that.
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  ‘Did Mrs Davenham live alone?’ continued Bill. ‘Or was there a Mr Davenham?’

  The porter grinned. ‘I don’t know about a Mr Davenham, but the lady wasn’t alone, as often as not, if you get my meaning. Oh, nothing rowdy. The management wouldn’t stand for that, but she certainly had a visitor.’ He frowned. ‘I did hear the name but I can’t call it to mind.’

  Jack knew Bill was still speaking but his voice seemed to fade as he gazed in astonishment at the magazine he’d taken from the rack. ‘Blimey, Bill!’

  Bill spun round. ‘What is it?’

  Jack held out the brightly coloured magazine. It wasn’t really a magazine, it was a brochure with an idyllic family outside an idyllic house. Resthaven – Make this house your Home.

  ‘Good grief!’ said Bill, taking the brochure. ‘I’ve seen this before! You’ve got a copy, Jack.’

  ‘Yes, we have,’ said Jack, sitting back in the armchair. He cocked an eyebrow at the porter, who was obviously bewildered by the excitement the Resthaven brochure had created. ‘This visitor Mrs Davenham had. Can you describe him?’

  ‘I dunno,’ said the porter. ‘Tallish chap, well-built, grey-haired …’

  ‘Spoke with a Scottish accent?’ asked Jack.

  ‘Why, yes he did, now you come to mention it.’

  ‘Was his name Laidlaw, by any chance?’

  The porter gazed at him. ‘Why, yes it is! How did you know that?’

  Jack replaced the brochure in the rack and stood up. ‘I’ve met him before. Bill, shall we go and meet him again?’

  ‘That,’ said Bill, ‘sounds like a very good idea.’

  The clerk who answered the telephone of Ezra Wild and Sons regretted that Mr Laidlaw had been out all morning at Resthaven and wasn’t expected back in the office. However, if Chief Inspector Rackham would care to get in touch with Mr Laidlaw at home, the address was 1, Cossington Terrace. The telephone number was Chelsea 260.

  ‘Thanks,’ said Bill, scribbling down the address and number. ‘You’ve been very helpful. No, there isn’t anything wrong. It’s just a routine enquiry in connection with another matter.’

  He hung up the receiver and grinned ruefully at Jack. ‘People do think the worst when they hear it’s the police on the telephone.’ He picked up the phone again. ‘Now for Mr Laidlaw.’

  A richly fruity voice answered the phone. Mr Laidlaw wasn’t at home but was expected shortly. If Chief Inspector Rackham would care to leave a message?

  ‘I’ll be round right away,’ said Bill, cutting off the butler’s protests and hanging up the receiver. ‘Come on, Jack. Get your hat and let’s go.’

  ELEVEN

  Cossington Terrace was a row of Victorian houses with imposing doors, high windows and – yes – the odd turret poking out of the roof. The builder had obviously taken on board the Victorian craze for Gothic architecture with keen, if perhaps misplaced, enthusiasm. Number 1, the largest house in the terrace, was a bit like a castle crossed with a cathedral.

  A monumental butler answered the door. ‘Chief Inspector Rackham and Major Haldean to see Mr Laidlaw,’ said Bill. ‘I telephoned earlier.’

  The butler, who appeared to be the same vintage as the house, regarded them doubtfully. ‘Indeed, sir.’

  Jack knew what the man was thinking as clearly as if he’d shouted it. Policemen, of whatever rank, shouldn’t be admitted by the front door but belonged round the back, at the tradesman’s entrance.

  ‘I gave Mr Laidlaw your message and he left instructions to admit you,’ said the butler, in a tone of some regret.

  ‘Well, show us in, man,’ said Bill with some asperity. The look had not been lost on him.

  The butler bore up manfully. ‘If you would come this way, sir,’ he murmured in sepulchral tones. ‘I will inform Mr Laidlaw you have arrived.’

  He led them through the wide hall and showed them into the drawing room. The drawing room, with its high ceilings, elaborate plasterwork and gigantic fireplace, wasn’t, in any sense, a cosy room, but it was light and airy and painted, Jack was glad to see, not in Victorian deep reds and cabbage greens, but in modern sky blue and terracotta.

  An enormous oak sideboard held, together with usual decanters and syphons, an array of silver-framed photographs – a young man in Royal Flying Corps uniform was there, together with a few of a little boy and, prominent amongst these, a middle-aged, rather lost-looking woman with a black ribbon on one corner of the frame.

  ‘That must be Laidlaw’s brother,’ said Jack quietly, looking at the pilot in the photograph. ‘This poor little chap must be the son who died of flu, and I imagine that’s Violet, his late wife.’

  Bill looked at the sad display and winced.

  ‘Poor beggar,’ he murmured. ‘Judging from the house, he’s obviously well-off, but money isn’t everything, not by a long chalk.’

  The door opened and, with a slight feeling of guilt, they stepped away from the sideboard as Andrew Laidlaw came into the room.

  ‘Chief Inspector?’ he said, as he strode across the room, hand outstretched. ‘Major Haldean, I must say I was surprised when Ellicott, my butler, said to expect you.’

  He glanced down to the sideboard and smiled faintly. ‘I see you’ve been looking at the family photographs.’ He indicated the lost-looking woman. ‘That’s my poor wife, Violet. She passed away earlier this year, in February.’

  ‘I’m sorry for your loss, sir,’ said Bill sincerely.

  Laidlaw looked solemn for a moment, then shook himself with a sigh. ‘I can’t imagine you came here to hear about my family. Please sit down, won’t you?’ he added, indicating the sofa. ‘There’s cigarettes in the box beside you. Please help yourself. And can I offer you a drink? Sherry, perhaps?’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, sir, but not at the moment,’ said Bill, sitting down.

  Laidlaw looked at Jack with a puzzled frown. ‘Major Haldean, you’re not still investigating the Trevelyans, are you?’

  ‘Not precisely,’ said Jack, ‘although Michael Trevelyan might have a bearing on the matter we’re looking into.’

  Laidlaw’s puzzlement increased. ‘I told you everything I could recollect of the business when you and your wife called to see me earlier, Major. I don’t know if I can add anything to what I’ve already told you.’

  ‘As a matter of fact,’ said Bill, ‘it’s another person we would like to ask you about. A Mrs Jane Davenham.’

  There was no mistaking Andrew Laidlaw’s shock. He had taken a cigarette from the box. He froze, the match unlighted in his hand. ‘Jane?’ he repeated in a whisper. ‘Jane? What’s happened? Has anything happened?’

  ‘We hoped you might tell us that, sir,’ said Bill. ‘You obviously know the lady.’

  Laidlaw brushed his hair back impatiently. ‘Yes, of course I know her.’ He shook himself and stared at them. ‘How do you know about Jane?’

  ‘It’s a fairly complicated story, sir,’ said Bill, ‘but to cut a long story short, we had reason to call in at her flat in Roxborough Mansions earlier today.’

  ‘Why?’ demanded Laidlaw.

  ‘Nothing to be concerned about, sir,’ said Bill with a smile.

  Jack appreciated Bill’s tact. To say they were on the trail of one missing woman and thought that Jane Davenham might make number two on the list wasn’t something Bill wanted to thresh out with a man as obviously concerned as Andrew Laidlaw. ‘The thing is, Mr Laidlaw,’ he said as easily as possible, taking a cigarette from the box, ‘we didn’t find Mrs Davenham but we did find one of your Resthaven brochures in her flat.’

  ‘But anyone could have one of those brochures!’ exploded Laidlaw. ‘You’ve got one, Major!’

  ‘Indeed I have, sir,’ said Jack with a smile. ‘And, of course, you’re quite right. However, the porter at Roxborough Mansions remembered you as a visitor to Mrs Davenham.’

  Laidlaw let out a deep breath and lit his cigarette with a shaky hand. ‘All right. I admit it. I was hoping none of this would come ou
t, but I admit it.’ He passed a hand over his forehead. ‘Why do you want to see Mrs Davenham?’

  ‘I understand she was a friend of a lady called Mrs Rotherwell, sir,’ said Bill. ‘We merely wanted to ask Mrs Davenham about Mrs Rotherwell.’

  ‘Mrs Rotherwell?’ repeated Andrew Laidlaw blankly.

  ‘Yes, sir. Have you heard of her?’

  Laidlaw shook his head in irritation. ‘I might have heard Jane mention her. The name sounds vaguely familiar. What about her?’

  ‘We merely want to ask her a few questions. We hoped Mrs Davenham would be able to tell us something about her. However, I gather Mrs Davenham’s been away for a few days.’

  ‘She has,’ said Andrew Laidlaw grimly. ‘And, I might say, if you find her, I’d be glad to know where she is myself.’ He looked at Bill with sudden worry. ‘Mr Rackham, you’re not saying anything’s happened to Jane, are you?’ He swallowed. ‘Anything untoward, I mean?’

  ‘I certainly hope not, sir,’ said Bill with assumed cheerfulness. ‘It’s just that we’d like to speak to the lady.’

  Laidlaw put his hands wide. ‘I only wish I could help you. I … I wouldn’t want anything to have happened to Jane.’

  Jack reached for the ashtray. ‘Could you tell us something about her, Mr Laidlaw? How long had she known Mrs Rotherwell, for instance?’

  He didn’t have a clue if anything Andrew Laidlaw said would be relevant to the hunt for Mrs Rotherwell, but any clue, however slight, was worth following up.

  Laidlaw looked blank. ‘I’m awfully sorry. As I said, I’ve only got a vague recollection of the name.’

  That was a blow, but there might be some information worth gathering, all the same. ‘How did you come to know Mrs Davenham, sir?’ asked Jack quietly.

  Andrew Laidlaw sat very still for a few moments then, getting up, walked to the door and checked it was firmly shut.

  ‘I’ve said too much to pretend Jane is merely a friend. However, I would take it as a great favour if none of what I am about to say was made public.’

  ‘You can have my assurance on that, sir,’ said Bill. ‘Unless it’s absolutely necessary that it should be otherwise, your private affairs are your own.’