by Emma Jameson
Chain Home
7 November, 1939
Now this, Juliet thought, is terribly clever. Ben will be so impressed.
Of course, she’d pretended to ring Belsham Manor for Old Robbie, but that was just a white lie. After Ben set off in his car, bound for the police station, Juliet engaged a cab to take her to Margaret Freeman’s house.
She wasn’t being foolish. She was utilizing her insider knowledge of the enemy’s movements. On Tuesdays, Margaret chaired a breakfast meeting of the Compassionate Ladies, a charity she’d founded after every Plymouth organization of good repute refused her application to join. While Margaret presided over her group, Gerald would be at the office. On Tuesdays, he habitually left around half-past eleven, which meant he and Margaret would both arrive home at noon. They spent every Tuesday afternoon together, reserving that time for the two of them, something Juliet always kept in mind when scheduling luncheons with Margaret. This Tuesday afternoon, their usual tryst would be interrupted by Plymouth CID. And as it was now nine o’clock, Juliet had nearly three hours to comb the Freeman property and dig up some crucial bits of damning evidence.
“Good morning, Bertha. Those spots are clearing up,” Juliet greeted the maid who opened the door. Bertha, young, nervous, and usually spotty, seemed about to launch into an apology when Juliet swept past her into the hall. “Never mind that, I know Margaret’s not at home, she’s never at home Tuesday mornings. I’m in Plymouth for the morning and simply cannot delay. I require clippings from her garden and a book from Gerald’s study, I saw just the thing last week at the party, surely you remember?” Juliet tried to speak faster than she estimated Bertha’s mind could process data. It seemed to work; the girl nodded dully.
“Now, ordinarily, I’d sit down, have a cup of tea, and await my dear friend Margaret, but I’m terribly busy, you understand, terribly busy, and I’ve no wish to disrupt this home’s domestic routine,” Juliet continued even faster. “So pretend I’m not here, Bertha dear, and don’t trouble Mrs. Nash with my presence, either. I’ll collect what I need, write Margaret and Gerald a heartfelt note of thanks, ring up a cab, and be on my way.”
Or stroll down the block, lurk in the shrubbery, and pop up as Margaret and Gerald are led away in handcuffs, Juliet added mentally. It was a fantasy she’d enjoyed three times since breakfast. She hadn’t yet decided if crying “J’accuse!” was fitting or slightly over the top.
Leaving Bertha, still nodding uncertainly, in her wake, Juliet went first to the garden. As she expected, the foxgloves were past blooming but still alive. She cut a few pieces for evidence, tucked them in her handbag, and carried one of the pots to a dark corner behind a wheelbarrow. Suppose the police questioned Margaret and Gerald before thoroughly searching the house? She might dispatch a maid to destroy all evidence the medicinal plant was ever grown in her garden, and Juliet couldn’t permit that.
Smiling to herself, she made her way back into the house through the back parlor’s french doors. She half expected Bertha to reappear, dull wits in need of another verbal drubbing, but no servants turned up or asked any questions. She was inside Gerald’s study in a minute flat.
And there it was on the wall, displayed in Gerald’s inner sanctum: that photograph of him beside Lord Oswald Mosley, founder of the BUF, or British United Fascists. Juliet had seen it many times but taken no notice; Lord Mosley, after all, looked like just another blandly handsome aristocrat, the sort who generally cared more for his horse and hound than his fellow man. But Lord Mosley had at least one personal detail in common with Gerald Freeman—he, too, had married his mistress. In Mosley’s case, he’d wed Lady Diana in secret at the home of Joseph Goebbels, with a guest list that included Adolph Hitler.
A clock ticked loudly on the desk. Compulsively, Juliet checked, but it was barely half-past nine. She had plenty of time to rifle Gerald’s desk in search of damning evidence. Clearly, Penny and Margaret had kept up their friendship over the years, and at some point Penny had seen or heard enough in the Freeman house to realize where Gerald’s political sympathies lay. In terms of simple blackmail, it didn’t matter if the British government considered Gerald’s association with Mosely, his pro-Nazi letter to the Daily Mail’s editor, and his presence at the BUF’s violent Olympia rally to be high treason. If Penny had spread the news, Plymouth society—English society—would have washed their hands of Gerald, his shipping business would have failed, and he and Margaret would have lost everything.
And right now that’s all Ben has, evidence of social crimes, not literal crimes, Juliet thought, opening the top drawer and pulling out a handful of papers. He can tell the police Mrs. Daley saw a woman on the Sheared Sheep’s roof, but we have no proof it was Margaret. He can say Lucy’s ghost led us to Freddy, but that road goes straight to a padded room. He can present all our circumstantial findings, including the numbers Penny jotted in her book, and say it’s logical to conclude she blackmailed the Freemans till they killed her. That might be enough for an arrest, but suppose counsel gets Margaret and Gerald off? I need to find something solid, something undeniable, something—
“Just what do you think you’re doing?”
At the sound of Margaret’s voice, Juliet looked up. Freezing behind Gerald’s desk, a pile of letters and memorandums spread across the green leather blotter, Juliet tried to speak, but for once in her life, no words came out. Margaret’s disheveled hair and silk wrapper revealed that she’d been home all along, and sleeping late, apparently. It was a fact Bertha might have managed to pass along to Juliet, had she paused long enough to allow it.
“Margaret. I—well. The plain truth is, we—that is to say, I—happen to know—”
Margaret closed the library door. And before Juliet could get around the massive desk, the key turned in the lock and was withdrawn with an audible scrape, leaving Juliet alone with no way out.
And suddenly she didn’t feel so terribly clever after all.
* * *
The study had no window, alternate door, or telephone, and Margaret and her staff proved deaf to shouts and pounding on the walls, so Juliet sat down behind the desk and waited. And waited. And waited. Around ten o’clock, she gave up trying to concoct a clever excuse for her snooping and started going through Gerald’s papers again. As noon approached, she gave up, infuriated to have uncovered nothing significant. Yes, before the declaration of war, he’d done extensive business with Germany, Russia, and Spain, but that was public knowledge. And if he possessed specifically incriminating documents, such as proof of ongoing communication with Reich Minister of Propaganda Goebbels, he kept them elsewhere.
Margaret must be waiting for Gerald to come home, Juliet thought. Then they’ll march in and confront me, perhaps with a policeman to charge me with trespassing. I’ve made a complete and utter fool of myself, and Ben will never speak to me again.
Around half-past twelve, her prediction came true for the most part. A key turned in the lock, the study door opened, and Margaret and Gerald entered. Margaret looked coldly composed, if a touch overdone; she wore hat, gloves, and a warm woolen dress. Gerald, attired for business as always, looked as gray as his pinstriped suit. It was the first time he’d ever greeted Juliet without that genial smile on his face.
“What’s all this, then?” he asked.
Rising, Juliet made an effort to stand tall, despite the fact her knees were shaking. This confrontation would end with her being tossed out on her ear, of course, but the powers of speech had returned to her, and she was determined to have her say.
“I know about you, Gerald. That’s Lord Mosley you’re standing beside.” She indicated the framed photo. “I saw a newspaper picture of you at the Olympia rally, the one where some poor soul lost an eye. And I found that reprehensible letter you wrote the editor of the Daily Mail linking Hamlet to Hitler, of all things. And while I shudder to imagine Penny was cleverer than I, the truth is, she worked it out years ago, didn’t she? Pretended to be on your side. And once you gave her t
hat book of sonnets, including the quotation straight out of Mein Kampf—which a rather scandalized librarian was kind enough to show me—Penny had proof enough to begin blackmailing you.”
Gerald gave a shaky laugh. “Do you think I’d leave that picture hanging up , even in a room that’s intended for friends and family, if admiring Lord Mosley was a crime? I’m hardly alone in believing this phony war is the worst possible course for our country. And as an Englishman—a patriot—I have not only the right but the duty to express my views. The voice of the loyal opposition must be heard.”
“If you’ve done nothing but criticize the war without the bounds of legal propriety,” Juliet asked, “why pay off Penny? A thousand pounds here, a thousand pounds there … I know you’re well-off, Gerald, but those are sizable sums. And if you couldn’t afford to go on, why not allow her to do her worst? Why hire Freddy Sparks to run her down after dark?”
“For God’s sake, Ju, this is nonsense!” Margaret burst out. “Penny’s death was an accident. Freddy’s was suicide. What’s more….” She pushed up one sleeve, revealing an arm covered with half-healed welts and angry red boils. “I missed your catastrophe of a fête because of my skin condition, remember? Shall I strip naked, detective, and show you why I haven’t left the house for a week?”
“I’m grateful for your garden mentorship,” Lady Juliet went on, enjoying the sight of high color marring Margaret’s usually flawless completion. “You’ve won so many cups. But you never told me your ranunculuses had a secret purpose.”
“I have no idea what you mean.” Margaret’s tone indicated just the opposite.
“It’s a medieval beggar’s trick, smearing ranunculus oil on the skin to produce sores. Greater sympathy means additional alms. Whenever you need an excuse or an alibi, you use that oil to create ‘flare-ups,’ don’t you? And they look so painful, no one suspects it’s self-inflicted.”
Margaret let her sleeve fall. “You’ve been talking to that doctor. I pity you, Ju. You had one chance at happiness with Ethan, and you botched it. Now all you can do is spin fantasies and retreat into madness.”
“We’re willing to reconsider going to the police,” Gerald announced, doing his best to look severe, but his face was still gray. “Lady Juliet, I’m sure you wouldn’t want this written about in the papers or gossiped about in Birdswing. You’ve always been considered lightly-balanced, perhaps intellectually deficient—”
“How dare you?” Fists clenched, Juliet started around the desk. Gerald stopped her with an upraised hand.
“Let me put it differently. You often behave in a manner that suggests intellectual deficiency. Why else break into our house, root around our garden, and rifle my private papers with Margaret upstairs the entire time? After this, even Lady Victoria might agree you need confinement in a sanatorium. But if you give me your word, your absolute word, that you’ll abandon these notions and seek the attentions of a physician—”
“Not that man you’re obsessed with but a qualified physician,” Margaret broke in.
“—and we’ll permit you to leave. If you refuse, I have no choice but to inform not only the police but the press.”
Juliet was too angry to be frightened by their threats. Gerald’s words were insulting enough, but Margaret’s taunt about Ben was unbearable.
“There were witnesses!” she cried. “One saw Freddy Sparks behind the wheel of the lorry. The other saw Margaret on the roof of the Sheared Sheep just before Penny was killed.”
Gerald sucked in his breath. He fumbled in his breast pocket, coming up with a small bottle of pills, but Margaret elbowed him in the ribs and he put it away.
“What witnesses?” she asked coldly.
Juliet smiled. She knew Gerald was a hypochondriac, that his nitroglycerin was probably just a placebo, but seeing him so gravely frightened made her more certain than ever.
“With regards to the lorry,” she said slowly, determined to watch them sweat, “many inquiries were made. You purchased it from a Birdswing garage, didn’t you, Margaret? Probably claimed it was for a delivery service. I can’t pinpoint its location now, since you must have hidden it once it served its purpose, but I expect when the police question your staff, someone will sing. Doubtless it’s parked in Gerald’s shipyard or down by the docks.”
“I don’t believe there are witnesses,” Margaret said. “Not even people you’ve recruited to tell lies. If there were, you’d name them and be done with it.”
“The witness who saw Freddy behind the wheel won’t be coming forward,” Juliet said. “But she found Freddy’s magpie cigarette lighter at the scene. I’m keeping it somewhere safe, Margaret. It’s another link in what’s growing to be a very long chain of evidence. And the person who saw you atop the Sheared Sheep, dressed in a hat and coat and watching Stafford Road, will testify, rest assured.”
“Who? One of those drunks at the pub? That little whore Edith?”
“Mrs. Daley,” Juliet said.
Margaret and Gerald exchanged glances. She put a hand on his arm, just lightly, before giving Juliet a dazzling smile.
“Oh, my! The word of a colored gal from Golliwog-land verses a native Englishwoman of means. How much did she charge to lie for you? Testimony from her sort probably comes at a bargain. You’re better off with the imaginary witness who saw Freddy behind the wheel, so long as that imaginary witness is white.” She laughed, and even Gerald managed what sounded like a pained chuckle.
Lady Juliet stared at her. “I’m ashamed I ever called you friend.”
“Well, if it’s any consolation, Ju, old girl, I’ve enjoyed you very much. You were always good for a laugh,” Margaret said. “Even now, when you’ve clearly gone round the bend, I’m more amused than angry. Go on, spread lies about my skin condition. The rest is utter rot. Of course someone found Freddy’s lighter at the scene. Before Freddy did himself in, he confessed to killing Penny in writing—”
“Freddy could barely write his own name,” Juliet cut across her. “Careless of you to miss that detail. You’re only a few years older than Freddy. I remember how he used to follow you around. I’ll bet he adored you. I’ll bet you were the first girl he ever loved. How could you forget what Mrs. Cobblepot, Luke Hewett, and surely Edith will swear to in court: Freddy couldn’t write anything, even a one-line note begging forgiveness, without resorting to clipping words from a newspaper. Besides”—Juliet paused to savor her triumph—“Acting Constable Gaston has said nothing publicly about Freddy’s death. How do you know a confession was found beside Freddy’s corpse unless you wrote that letter yourself?”
Gerald reached deeper into his coat pocket, but this time he didn’t bring out the nitroglycerine. He brought out a gun.
“I do wish you listened more and talked less,” he said, hand trembling as he pointed it at her.
For the second time that day, Juliet found herself momentarily speechless. It was hard to locate even simple words when staring down a revolver.
“Don’t… don’t make this worse for yourselves,” she began, fighting to keep her voice steady. “If you shoot me, you’ll… you’ll….”
“We’ll what, Ju, dear? Be hanged a second time for your murder after we swing for Penny and Freddy?” Margaret’s color was back to normal, her tone calm and resolved. “I’m rather relieved you caught me out. It makes this so much simpler. After I locked you in the study, I told Bertha you’d had a nervous breakdown, and I was off to find a doctor. Instead, I drove to Gerald’s office to make arrangements. We’ve always said if things go wrong, we’ll liquidate the business and sail for Spain. We hoped we wouldn’t be obliged to smuggle ourselves in the cargo hold of one of Gerald’s freighters, but….” She shrugged. “We returned here hoping to convince you to say nothing, at least for a day or two, so we’d have time to get safely away. Naturally, you wouldn’t have it.”
Softly but distinctly, the front doorbell rang. Juliet, whose world had narrowed to a pinhole the moment she saw that gun, suddenly remembered
why she and Ben had parted that morning: to tell Plymouth CID everything.
“Margaret,” Gerald said nervously.
“I told the staff to admit no one. Absolutely no one. We are not at home.” Margaret still sounded calm.
“I don’t understand,” Juliet said wildly. All she could do now was stall them, encourage them to talk, distract them in case rescue really was on the doorstep. “How can you abandon your country?”
“Spain will be temporary. We’ll return when things are different,” Margaret said. She glanced at her husband, but his attention remained fixed on Juliet even as perspiration stood out on his forehead. “I’ve told you, we’re patriots. We love the English. Not dirty immigrants with their hands out, not those disease-ridden warrens in London, not interlopers like Mrs. Daley and her mongrel child, but England. The true England of Alfred the Great, of Shakespeare, of Lord Nelson. Whatever mistakes the Germans have made, they were driven to it after Versailles. And their vision for the Thousand Year Reich will save the Anglo-Saxon race before it’s diluted beyond recognition.”
“And what about Freddy? I know Penny was greedy. I know you must have felt trapped by her demands, and if Freddy adored you half as much now as he did before….”
“He did.” Margaret’s eyes shone with a curious pleasure. “Freddy lived a few houses down from my mother’s. He wasn’t always so sad to look at. On rainy days, when I was twelve and he was eight, we played together in Mum’s parlor. Before I had my looks, before I had my wealth, before I had my sex appeal, I had Freddy. He worshipped me. He would have done anything for me, absolutely anything.”
“And was that reciprocated?” Juliet asked. “I seem to recall him tagging after you much later, when you were seeing Mitchell Watkins and Freddy’s eardrums were still intact. He picked wildflower posies for you. You flung them in the rubbish bin and told everyone you were his maths tutor. But he was your creature, wasn’t he, even if you wouldn’t claim him. How far did you go to keep him ensnared?”