A Death in Chelsea

by Lynn Brittney

There was silence as they each pored over a copy of the list, as provided by Tollman.

  Sr AJM.P£30

  Am wife QC£30

  Mjr£10

  Kit B, Peachtree£10

  SR M jew£30

  Ruth B baby£10

  “I can’t make head nor tail of it,” confessed Beech.

  “Well, we know that Mjr is the Major,” observed Victoria, her analytical mind working smoothly as usual. “The others must be abbreviations as well.”

  There was another silence.

  “Could Sr be short for Sir?” commented Tollman. “Sir AJM.P?”

  Victoria sounded excited. “Wait a minute! When you read it out like that, I hear Sir AJ… M.P… member of parliament. Sir AJ…? AJ?”

  “Anthony Jarvis,” said Beech firmly. “Used to be Governor of Hong Kong, then became MP for Wapping, I think? He would fit the bill. What else do we know about him?”

  Tollman delved into his encyclopaedic memory. “In his mid-fifties, runs a shipping company, confirmed bachelor. That last factor could be the reason for blackmail,” he added.

  “And I think I may have deciphered another name,” said Victoria triumphantly. “I think the second one is American wife of a QC. Now there are two QCs I know of that have American wives – one is Sir Amory Barton, who is nearly eighty, I believe, and the other is Sir Michael Patrick, who has close ties with the Royal Family – he is quite young for a QC – forty something and quite brilliant.”

  “Well done, Victoria!” Caroline was always impressed by Victoria’s deductive brain. Then she added, “Oh, I almost forgot! A message from Mabel!” She dug out a piece of paper from her bag and read, “All the drugs on the bedside table were as described on the boxes and were mainly sedatives to help with sleep. The substance on the carpet, and on the bed frame, was definitely cement and, in particular, waterproof cement. This is cement that has sulphates and other substances added, to make it waterproof for use in construction in or near water. She also wanted me to remind you that, as we did not find a syringe anywhere in Adeline Treborne’s apartment – not in her rubbish bin or hidden anywhere – then someone else must have injected her with a drug and taken the syringe away with them. She was injected with heroin, by the way. Mabel was left with a powdery residue of heroin when she distilled the bladder urine. The stomach contents matched the half-eaten food on one of the plates we found. Residue of bath crystals was found by Mabel under the toenails, which showed that Adeline Treborne had recently had a bath. Oh, and no blood came out of the hanging cord, so Mabel feels that proves she was dead when strung up.”

  Tollman started to applaud and the others joined in. “Well done to Miss Summersby,” he said generously.

  “There is something else that is bothering me,” said Victoria, puncturing the sense of achievement everyone was feeling. She went over to the study table, where the notebook, with its boot blacking reveal, was displayed next to Adeline Treborne’s pink notes for her gossip column. “I don’t know if anyone has noticed, and I realise that the notebook discovered today only contains an approximation of what was written on the actual page, but the two examples of Adeline Treborne’s handwriting are markedly different. The notebook is scrawly and undisciplined writing. The pink paper notes are uniform and very precisely formed letters. They don’t match at all.”

  CHAPTER TEN

  The Evasive Member of Parliament

  The morning dawned a little chilly and drizzly, which was unusual for July, but Beech was happiest when it was cooler, as his injured leg gave him less of a problem. He had telephoned ahead to the Duke of Penhere to request an appointment and he walked at a moderate pace to the meeting, enjoying the fact that his leg was free of pain today and his limp was barely noticeable. Then he made the mistake of buying a newspaper, which detailed, on its front page, the news that the Germans appeared to have perfected a synchronised machine gun for their Fokker fighter aircraft, which shot bullets in between the propeller blades. They had already managed to down several French aircraft. German science and engineering is outsmarting us at every turn, thought Beech, and his positive mood evaporated.

  The Duke was finishing his breakfast and offered Beech a cup of tea, which was gratefully accepted.

  “What, may I ask, is the purpose of this visit?” asked the Duke, eyeing Beech warily.

  “Just a couple of quick questions, if you wouldn’t mind, sir.” The Duke shrugged, and Beech continued, “Could I ask you where you were at approximately six in the morning on the day that your sister’s body was discovered?”

  The Duke looked amused. “In my bed, of course! I’m not in the habit of rising before nine when I’m on leave. Ask any of the servants. My valet drew my bath at nine and I had breakfast at nine thirty.”

  “I see. Can any of the servants attest to the fact that you were in your bed, asleep, at six o’clock?”

  “They have strict orders not to disturb me before nine,” said the Duke tersely. “I would have thought that my word as to my whereabouts was sufficient.” He glared at Beech for daring to question his probity.

  “There is one other matter, sir,” said Beech, retrieving a sheaf of papers from his inside pocket. “Could you verify for us that this is your sister’s handwriting?”

  The Duke looked amused again. “On pink paper? I hardly think that my sister would be so middle-class, but let me have a look.” He glanced at all four pages and his face darkened. “Such scurrilous rubbish!” he muttered. “No,” he decided, handing back the papers to Beech, “this is nothing like my sister’s handwriting. My sister wrote like a doctor, in a mostly unintelligible scrawl. How she managed to pass through one of the best finishing schools in Europe without having her handwriting corrected was always a great mystery to my mother and I. Where did you get these papers?”

  “From the newspaper she worked for. This was how she provided her gossip column every week. According to the editor, it was always the same. Notes written on pink paper and dropped through the letterbox early every Thursday morning.”

  The Duke shook his head. “Well, then, she must have had an assistant. Someone who wrote this stuff out for her and delivered it. You should know that my sister was usually heavily intoxicated or sedated every night. She had great difficulty sleeping. She never rose before about eleven o’clock in the morning and would not have been capable of delivering a letter by hand early in the day.”

  Beech nodded. Frustratingly, the mystery just kept deepening and he had yet to see a glimmer of light that would shine on to the murderer.

  “There is one other thing, sir…”

  “I hope this will be the last thing, Beech. I have a meeting this morning.” The Duke was beginning to get impatient. Beech ignored him and continued.

  “Did you give your sister any money at all, to supplement her income?”

  The Duke looked dumbfounded and then laughed out loud. “Good God, man! I don’t have any money to give! All of this…” – he spread his arms wide to encompass the world in which he lived – “…is financed by loans. My father died a bankrupt. My mother was distraught. It became incumbent upon me to find a way of enabling my mother and I to live in a way befitting our status in life. We sold our country estate, bought this house on a mortgage and I borrowed money from every financial institution that would open its coffers to me. I never gave money to Adeline. In fact, I believe that, once, she offered me money.”

  “Did you accept it?” Beech asked bluntly.

  “No, I did not!” The Duke sounded bitter. “My mother would have died if she had found out that I had accepted such tainted money from Adeline.”

  “Your Grace, I’m afraid that what I have to tell you now will not be pleasant…” Beech warned.

  The Duke looked defiant. “Just get on with it, man!” he said with a great deal of irritation and, Beech detected, not inconsiderable anxiety.

 
; “Your sister was able to maintain her lavish lifestyle because she was blackmailing prominent citizens. We have uncovered a list that includes a member of parliament, a QC and, possibly, other high-ranking members of London society. She was receiving from her victims in excess of one hundred pounds a month and her bank account, at this moment, contains over three thousand pounds.”

  The colour had drained from the Duke’s face and he sunk his head into his hands in despair. Beech could think of nothing further to say. Finally, the Duke said hoarsely, “How will I ever be able to pay these people back?” and Beech was impressed that that was his first thought and not a comment about the damage to his family’s reputation.

  “That will be taken care of, sir. The courts will discreetly divide the funds of your sister’s bank account among the victims, once we have established the full details of her murder.”

  The Duke nodded, still stunned by the news, and Beech thought it best to depart and leave the man to his confusion and anguish. Besides, he had an urgent appointment at the Houses of Parliament.

  He thought back to his conversation with the Commissioner yesterday evening. He knew that the Commissioner would be working late and, after the team had mulled over the evidence, he had gone back to Scotland Yard to report to Sir Edward on progress.

  “Well, this is proving to be a bad business, isn’t it, Beech?” was Sir Edward’s assessment after listening to the details of the case. “Society gossip, murder and now blackmail. Astonishing!” Sir Edward had then made his request for discretion, all the while looking a little uncomfortable. “It goes against my principles, really,” he had confessed, “but I can see no value – especially now that you have uncovered the blackmail situation – of allowing any of this to reach the ears of the press and public – until you have solved the case. Especially if, in the case of Sir Anthony Jarvis and Sir Michael Patrick, you find that the reason for the blackmail may affect national security.”

  Beech had understood, of course.

  Sir Edward had continued, “Therefore, I suggest that you, personally, Beech, conduct private interviews with the gentlemen in question and only bring in your policemen if there is a suspicion of a crime. Do not, however, attempt to arrest anyone in a place of continuous interest to the press, such as the House of Commons or the Royal Courts of Justice.”

  Beech had nodded, and they had parted, each with the understanding that the Adeline Treborne case was becoming more ‘delicate’ by the day and, therefore, required the utmost discretion.

  As Beech strolled past Buckingham Palace, he could see that there was an orderly demonstration in progress. It seemed to be led by a lone suffragette, wearing the purple, green and white sash of the movement, but the crowd behind her comprised men and women – at least four of them seemed to be men of the cloth, wearing dog collars. They were carrying placards saying ‘Stop the War’ and ‘Stop the Barbarity in France’, and another read ‘Bring our Young Men Home’.

  It was very civilised. Two Palace policemen were keeping a baleful eye on the small crowd, who were now chanting, “Stop the War!” Beech idly wondered if the King and Queen were watching from a window or were even aware that the demonstration was taking place.

  He had witnessed other anti-war demonstrations and speeches during the last few months, usually in and around the stations where soldiers left and arrived. Such demonstrations usually ended badly, with pro-war people taking exception to the sentiments expressed by the anti-war brigade, and fights often broke out. The pro-war brigade always won because, at the moment, despite the news of daily carnage, gassings and the fear of Zeppelin raids over London, most people regarded it as their patriotic duty to support the war. Beech wasn’t sure any more. Men who had been invalided out of the war faced a terrible period of indecision. They wanted to condemn the war as a barbaric loss of life, but they couldn’t quite bring themselves to acknowledge that their own effort had been in vain. It was a painful place to be.

  As he passed through Admiralty Arch and into Whitehall, the place bristled with old men in uniforms. These were the men behind the desks at the Admiralty and the War Office. The men who made life and death decisions without ever having to leave the comfort of luncheon at their clubs in St James’s. Beech pressed on. He faced a daily battle of ‘not dwelling on things’. These had been the words used by his commanding officer, when he had visited him in his hospital bed in Belgium. “Best not to dwell on things, Beech,” the colonel had said. “Be glad you’re out of it and get on with your life.” Easier said than done.

  Finally, he arrived at the Houses of Parliament and was ushered through the side gates by the duty policeman and into the cavernous corridors of power. Sir Anthony’s office was through the labyrinth around the House of Commons Chamber itself, past the Commons Library and nestled by the Speaker’s Court. A female secretary in a room the size of a broom cupboard opened the door to a windowless inner office that was just large enough to hold a desk, a filing cabinet and two chairs. Sir Anthony Jarvis stood up behind his desk, offered his hand to Beech and apologised for the meagre accommodation.

  “They squeeze us in where they can,” he said jovially. “I would have met you in one of the general seating areas, but you did insist on privacy. So, sit down, Chief Inspector, and tell me how I can help you.”

  Beech tried to sound as sympathetic as he could. He explained to Sir Anthony that the matter was confidential and that he was about to discuss a crime that was not yet a matter of public knowledge. As soon as he uttered the name of Adeline Treborne, the member of parliament’s smile wavered and then resumed. It was a very practised recovery, but Beech noted the few seconds in which self-assurance was replaced by panic.

  “Sir Anthony,” he continued, “we have found a document that lists individuals, in some kind of makeshift code, that we believe were being blackmailed…” This time it was the unconscious movement of the MP’s Adam’s apple, as he swallowed hard, that betrayed his tension. Beech marvelled at the man’s ability to mask any conflicting emotions with a veneer of assumed calm.

  “I’m sorry, Chief Inspector Beech, but how is this my concern?” Sir Anthony interrupted. There was no hostility or defensiveness in his voice. His tone was smooth and unruffled. “Is it perhaps to do with one of my constituents? Is that how I can help you?”

  Beech decided to be a little firmer in his response. “We believe that it is you that was being blackmailed by Adeline Treborne.”

  Sir Anthony laughed. “Me? That’s ridiculous! Why on earth would anyone blackmail me? I mean, I don’t even know the woman. I’ve heard of her, of course. Who hasn’t? But I think you are mistaken if you think that I could have possibly been of any interest to such a woman. How did you say she died?”

  “I didn’t,” said Beech simply. “Suffice it to say that we have every reason to believe she was murdered.”

  “Murdered?” Beech noticed the little slip in the façade again. There was no doubt that Sir Anthony was rattled.

  “Can I ask where you were, sir, between the hours of ten thirty p.m. on the first of July and six thirty a.m. on the second?”

  “I… was… in my apartment in Tothill Street.”

  “Can anyone bear witness to that, sir?”

  “I shouldn’t think so. I live alone.”

  Beech could see that the interview was not going to progress any further, so he stood up. “Thank you very much for your co-operation, sir.” Sir Anthony inclined his head in reply. “In case I should think of any further questions, can I ask what time you will be leaving the House today?”

  “I have a Committee meeting until four this afternoon, so I shall probably be gone by five.”

  “Thank you, Sir Anthony, for your time. I will be in touch.”

  It was just a short walk from the Houses of Parliament to Scotland Yard. As soon as he was in his office, Beech rang Mayfair 100 and spoke to Tollman. “I need you and Rigsby to do
a plain-clothes assignment. Meet me outside the Houses of Parliament at four thirty.”

  ***

  Mary had had her little chat with her kitchen maid friend up the road and discovered that the sewing circle met in the hall behind St Columba’s Church near Hyde Park Corner on two afternoons a week.

  “Is there any age barrier?” asked Victoria. Mary didn’t quite understand the question, so Victoria rephrased it. “Is it only young maids who attend?”

  “Oh no, Miss,” Mary replied. “Annie says there are a couple of quite elderly ladies’ maids who attend, an older head nurse and an older parlour maid. But she won’t allow governesses or housekeepers or below stairs.”

  “Mm. That seems extraordinarily discriminating for a sewing circle,” commented Lady Maud.

  “Doesn’t it?” observed Victoria. “Thank you, Mary.”

  After Mary left, Victoria thought for a while. “You know, mother, if I were someone who wanted to find out as much gossip about wealthy households as possible, I would seek the company of above stairs staff who wait on tables, serve canapés and drinks at parties, or body servants who remain invisible while hanging up clothes, brushing their mistress’s hair or a thousand other personal services, while their employers have important conversations in front of them. I wouldn’t seek the company of below stairs staff, housekeepers or governesses because they don’t have enough contact with their employers. And I wouldn’t seek the company of male servants because they never pay attention to gossip usually. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

  “I do indeed, Victoria,” agreed Maud. “We need to infiltrate this ‘sewing circle’ but who can we send?”

  “We can’t send Mary, I’m afraid…”

  “Oh no! The girl is too dim!”

  “Well, I was going to be a little more charitable, mother, but you are right. We need someone who will pass for a servant and has the quick wit to find out what is going on. I wonder if Billy’s aunt is available?”