A Gentleman's Murder

by Christopher Huang

  “What happens to that memo?”

  “Some presidents keep theirs because they can’t remember—I fancy Captain Aldershott is one of those—and others burn the thing immediately. I keep mine just long enough to learn the combination off by heart, and then I burn it.”

  The last election had been just after Easter, hadn’t it? April. So that was the last time the combination had been changed.

  “There’s a plate in the back of the door that’s been removed, so Mr. Bradshaw can change the combination and open it from inside. I don’t know how that’s done, so if you want to see it, I’ll have to stay outside to open the door again. Word of warning, the light goes off when the door’s closed—that’s to put the fear of God into any would-be burglars. You better have that electric torch of yours ready.”

  Eric nodded and turned his torch on. As Old Faithful had said, a gentle nudge was all it took to swing the door shut, and then, as promised, the light bulb overhead went out. Eric was left with the beam from his electric torch and an unbidden memory of his father playing the light over a hanging sheet with all the fascination of a small boy.

  “Here we go, Dad,” he murmured into the stagnant air of the vault.

  Turning his torch on the vault door, Eric could see what Old Faithful had meant: in the open panel were three discs on a spindle, and shutting the door had set them spinning randomly. Unlocking the vault door was a matter of turning the wheel outside to different numbers, thus realigning the discs. One might, if one’s eye were quick enough, guess at the distance between the three numbers of the combination by following the discs, but the random spin made it all but impossible to guess at the first number.

  Or did it? The discs might spin randomly when the door was shut, but the spindle did not. A closer look at the spindle showed a tiny ink mark by which one might orient oneself.

  The tumblers in Eric’s mind were now not just spinning but beginning to fall into place.

  When Old Faithful opened the door again, Eric said, “Has anyone ever locked themselves in here by accident?”

  “Yes, sir. That’s why there’s supposed to be someone who knows the combination outside at all times.”

  “At least twice?” Once to mark the spindle, and once to watch it spin.

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And was that person Captain Wolfe?”

  “Yes, sir. And he gave me a pound note each time to forget about it too.” The old man didn’t ask how Eric had guessed—he’d already taken it for granted that Eric would.

  “Did anyone else? Norris? Saxon?”

  But Old Faithful shook his head. Wolfe was the only officer to do so.

  Eric stepped out of the vault. The next obstacle to the would-be intruder, working backwards, was the door to the stairwell leading down to the vault’s antechamber. It looked like a sturdy, old-fashioned affair. “Who has the key to this, Cully?”

  “That door doesn’t actually lock, sir,” said Old Faithful, puffing up the stairs. “Vault security’s in the steel door downstairs and all the boxes, not this door here.”

  That was unexpected. “But you have all the keys to this place, don’t you?”

  “Yes, sir. My responsibility, after all.”

  “And the main door?”

  “Only me and Mr. Aldershott, sir.”

  That, Eric thought, was all he needed from an investigation of the club’s security. Who among the people they’d considered last night might have got in and murdered Benson? Standing in the corridor outside the offices, Eric closed his eyes and began to consider them in turn.

  Well, Wolfe had a way in, obviously. Eric imagined Wolfe picking the Bramah lock in the middle of the night, after having practiced on it every night for a week; perhaps the bet had just been a happy chance to show off his labours. Benson was anxious about his possessions; he was on the alert for Wolfe, and when he heard Wolfe come in, he followed him down to the vault. He surprised Wolfe … Eric remembered the savagery under the mask when they’d been startled by the gunshot the night before, and he pictured the same savagery overtaking the “gentleman thief”: Wolfe striking out instinctively, unaware of what he’d done until the blood had soaked into the grout beneath his patent leather shoes.

  But why would Wolfe have the letter opener on him? Perhaps Benson had picked it up for self-defence; Wolfe wrestled it away from him and, acting on instinct, stabbed him in the neck. Or perhaps there were more details of which Eric was currently unaware.

  Saxon, meanwhile, had his own key. Until last night, Eric would have considered him unlikely to have found the vault’s combination on his own, but a man who’d spent four years decoding German cyphers might find it child’s play to crack the combination of a vault. He probably wouldn’t even need to get “accidentally” locked in to do it. Saxon was the only one to know that Benson was spending the night at the club. If the murder were a carefully planned assault, Saxon would be the only one capable of it. And Eric remembered all too well how Saxon had reacted to a perceived threat by drawing a knife on it.

  It would be a cool, calculated, long-headed crime. Could Eric reconcile this image of a crafty, calculating Saxon with the guilt-ridden mess he’d walked with the night before?

  And then there was Aldershott. Aldershott had it the easiest: as club president, he had the key to the front doors and the combination to the vault. Eric imagined him watching the club, waiting for Wolfe to leave. Once Wolfe had gone, Aldershott would only have to creep in from the street and wake Benson somehow. Benson would come running down to see what damage Wolfe had done, and Aldershott could then strike him down from behind—a daring raid, decisively and unemotionally executed by a decisive and unemotional officer. Afterwards, he’d break into his own office to set the scene and, giving a deliberate little nod of satisfaction, calmly wait for the murder to be discovered.

  It didn’t seem badly imagined at all. If Aldershott had been Emily’s lover, even if he had nothing to do with her death, the fact could prove disastrous to his marriage. As the one to show Benson how the vault worked, Aldershott presumably had some idea of what Benson wanted to stash away, and might have realised what Benson was up to. It added up to an excellent motive for murder, and Eric had already seen the anger beneath Aldershott’s granite exterior. There was a savagery there, as much as there had been with Wolfe; but where Wolfe strove to hide the beast within, Aldershott harnessed it and used it to drive his otherwise unemotional actions.

  Eric heard the approach of footsteps and opened his eyes. It was Bradshaw. The older man nodded to Eric, then unlocked his office door and stepped inside, leaving the door slightly ajar behind him. “Mr. Bradshaw comes in for a bit every Saturday,” said Old Faithful by way of explanation. “He likes to have a quiet smoke in his office, and maybe a nap, and he likes to read the news.”

  Bradshaw also had the combination to the vault, being the man who set it in the first place. And after all these years as club secretary, it seemed unlikely that he hadn’t been given a key to at least one of the doors to the building by now, if only to make his work easier.

  Yes, thought Eric. It was time to beard the Emperor.

  THE EMPIRE’S BEST SERVANT

  THE LAST TIME Eric had been in this office, it was to be interviewed by Inspector Parker. There had been a dozen policemen scurrying about then, but not now. Now, he and Bradshaw were alone, in a cosy confidentiality that invited the telling of secrets. An attendant had just gone after filling the chipped teapot; steam wafted from its spout, and the Edward VII coronation teacup stood ready with sugar and milk for tea. Above the desk, the ridiculous children’s book illustration of the tortoise on a bicycle made Eric’s suspicions of minutes ago seem quite far-fetched. Still, as connected as Bradshaw was reputed to be, the man had to know something.

  While waiting for the attendant to leave, Eric had idly picked up a book from Bradshaw’s desk and was now peering at its worn-out spine. “Shell Shock and Its Lessons,” he read aloud. “Grafton Elliot Smith and Tom Hat
herley Pear … Smith’s the fellow who’s been doing all those X-ray studies of the Egyptian mummies in the British Museum, isn’t he? I had no idea you had an interest in this sort of thing.”

  Bradshaw stood, plucked the book out of Eric’s hands, and returned it to a drawer. “You didn’t come in to discuss my reading material, did you?”

  Eric shook his head. “You were a company sergeant major at the training camp near Chichester during the War, weren’t you? Did you ever have much to do with the war hospitals there? I mean Sotheby Manor in particular.”

  “Sotheby Manor? Yes, I remember the place. I dropped by every other week.” Bradshaw sat leaning forward over his desk blotter, hands clasped before him. The morning sun caught at his beard and picked out the laugh lines around his warm brown eyes. “I was friendly enough with Sir Andrew Sotheby and most of the doctors and nurses. A lot of the patients were men I’d trained and got to know before sending them off to the War. Of course I visited them. You give a soldier his due when he comes home, whether he’s whole, injured, or in a pine box. Why?”

  “Benson worked as an orderly there during the War. Did you know him then?”

  “I did. I arranged for his transfer there, in fact. But that was a long time ago.”

  “Benson was murdered just one week ago.”

  “Yes, but Sotheby Manor can’t be relevant now, can it?”

  “You know Benson was married to the daughter of the house. She said she’d spoken to you after she got the news of her husband’s death. If you were friendly with her father and visited as often as you say, you must have known her before her marriage, too.”

  “Ah. You’ve been there, and you’ve spoken to Mrs. Benson, then. Yes, I knew her well enough. Is that what you’ve been up to this whole week? You’re not actively investigating the murder, are you?” Something of the truth must have shown on Eric’s face, because Bradshaw let out a low chuckle and said, “You really are your father’s son! But the Colonel always knew better than to waste his efforts. Scotland Yard is handling the case, Peterkin; they don’t need our help.”

  “What if there were extenuating circumstances?”

  “Extenuating circumstances? What do you mean?”

  The face behind the desk radiated warmth and confidence, and Eric was tempted to simply tell him everything, as he would his own father. But he’d begun to wonder, since the encounter at Brolly’s, at what lay behind that fatherly facade.

  “Before he died, Benson told me he had to correct an old injustice. I thought it worthwhile to take up the torch, as it were. Discreetly.”

  “I see.” Bradshaw sighed. He had the long-suffering look of a father whose children kept stealing his cufflinks for chess pieces. “And you came to me for help. You’ll have to tell me more if I’m to do that.”

  Eric weighed his words. “It was about the disappearance of a nurse back in 1918.”

  Bradshaw’s eyebrows went up. Eric had been watching for his reaction, and was frustrated that half of it was hidden behind that snow-white beard. For the rest, there had been the expected flash of surprise in Bradshaw’s brown eyes, and … something else? It was gone as fast as it had appeared, the Father Christmas mask once more in place.

  Bradshaw got to his feet. Eric moved to stand, too, but was waved back to his seat. Bradshaw ambled around Eric to the office door, which had been left slightly ajar. He glanced out into the empty corridor—Old Faithful had already gone back to his post at the front desk, and of course no one else was about—and quietly closed the door.

  The silence deepened; Eric always forgot how well the walls and doors of the Britannia kept out the sound. The office became its own little world, cut off from everything else.

  Eric turned around again. Bradshaw was regarding him with a faintly puzzled expression. “Is something wrong?” Eric asked.

  Bradshaw shook his head and returned to his seat. “I know the case you mean. Emily Ang … I remember her, yes, but her disappearance is ancient history, or so I thought.”

  Bradshaw’s expression was all fatherly concern.

  Eric said, “Not her disappearance. Her murder. There was a skeleton unearthed in Bruton Wood. Benson was sure it was her, and he thought he owed it to her to find the truth. I’m sure he had his reasons for not going to the authorities. Perhaps he didn’t have enough yet to make his case to them.”

  “You got all this from Mrs. Benson?”

  Eric shook his head. It occurred to him that the things said in the fog last night had been shared in confidence, and he should not reveal Saxon’s part in the matter. “I’ve learnt a few things since speaking to her,” he said. “I know now that whatever happened to Emily Ang must be relevant to Benson’s murder. The question is, what exactly did happen?”

  Bradshaw didn’t answer immediately, and the dark mahogany of his eyes gave nothing away. At last, he said, “That was a long time ago, Peterkin.”

  “You were in and out of Sotheby Manor quite frequently, you said. I wondered if you might have been there the day she was last seen alive—that was the twentieth of July, Mrs. Benson’s birthday. Six years ago, yes, but the nurses had a party that day. That might help to fix events in your mind, if the disappearance doesn’t already. Were you there that day?”

  Bradshaw nodded slowly. “I can’t promise you everything, but what do you need to know?”

  Eric started with something simple. “Do you remember if Saxon was there?”

  “I don’t remember ever seeing him there. I can’t think of any cause he’d have to visit.”

  “Norris?”

  “Norris was one of the men I trained. I remember visiting … Yes, I think I remember him at the party.” A smile played across Bradshaw’s face. “He was popular with the nurses, as you can imagine.”

  “What about Wolfe?”

  “I first met him at Sotheby Manor, but I don’t think it was at the party.” Bradshaw shook his head. “My idea of the timing tells me he should have been there, but I can’t say I remember it at all. And he does tend to stand out.”

  “And Aldershott?”

  “He was a friend of Sir Andrew’s … but I’m sorry. I don’t remember.”

  “Inspector Parker?”

  “Parker?” Bradshaw stopped for a long time, his eyes focused on Eric’s, then said, “Parker’s another of the men I trained, and I know he wasn’t there. A little bird told me that he was up for the Victoria Cross, and I remember I brought it up at the birthday party. Everyone wished he was still there so they could congratulate him and maybe raise a toast in his honour. I was quite proud of him.”

  “Do you remember if any of them were close to Emily Ang?”

  “I wouldn’t know.” Bradshaw gave Eric a long, calculating look. For a moment, Eric was reminded not of Father Christmas but of an ancient reptile regarding the foolishness of mortals. There was, perhaps, a reason Bradshaw seemed to have such an affinity for tortoises. The old man said, “You know, Peterkin, this determination of yours reminds me a lot of your father. He had a keen, questioning mind, but he also had … shall we say, a little more experience than you? He knew when to drop a thing and move on. So I’m telling you to drop this and move on—not just because you ought to leave this to the authorities but because you’re on the wrong track. It seems clear from your questions that you think the officers of the Britannia are involved. They aren’t. I can’t tell you how or why I know, but I can swear it to you, on my honour, that none of them had anything to do with this—not with Emily’s death and disappearance, and, following your own logic, not with Benson’s murder.”

  There was a steel edge in Bradshaw’s tone that Eric had never heard before, and his eyes were stern. It was, he suspected, the old drill sergeant coming to the fore. He said, “You seem very sure—”

  “Did you ever think to wonder how Benson knew the Bruton Wood skeleton was Emily? I’ll tell you. He knew it was her because he put her there.”

  “What? Oh come now, you don’t expect me to believe that!”
The idea was laughable. Wasn’t it? But Bradshaw wasn’t laughing. He was, instead, watching Eric’s reactions with a strange, reptilian sagacity.

  “Benson was the one who buried Emily Ang in Bruton Wood,” Bradshaw repeated. “That is the truth. I’ll swear to it on my honour.”

  He said it with an earnestness that was hard to gainsay, and Eric found his initial disbelief giving way to slack-jawed shock. “But,” Eric managed to stammer, “how can you possibly know this?”

  “I can’t tell you that, Peterkin. But you wouldn’t have come to speak to me if you didn’t think I’d know a few things I shouldn’t.”

  “Benson was looking for Emily’s killer!”

  “Did he actually say she’d been killed, or are you merely assuming human agency behind her death?”

  It was true. Nobody had actually said, yet, that Emily was murdered. “If she wasn’t murdered, then why all the secrecy around her death?”

  Bradshaw shrugged. “There’s a lot of strangeness in this world, Peterkin. If you put it in a book, no one would believe it. And I don’t say that Benson killed her, only that he buried her. I assumed he knew all along what had actually happened to her, but perhaps … well, perhaps I was mistaken. Or perhaps you are.”

  Was Bradshaw lying? He had to be. But if he were, how was one to catch him out? And if he weren’t, then what did it mean? Eric thought back to the man who’d said, with such conviction, that he was about to right a great wrong. Could that same man have been an active participant in whatever that “great wrong” was? Was it, as Saxon seemed to have assumed, guilt that motivated Benson?

  “I gave you my word, Peterkin.” Bradshaw waved a hand vaguely around the office. “Listen. How do you imagine I got where I am today? ‘Bradshaw Gets Things Done, Bradshaw knows people, Bradshaw pulls a string in Cornwall and half the gentry of Northumberland jump.’ That’s what they say about me, isn’t it? It’s all built on favours and promises, Peterkin, and that in turn depends on the integrity of my word as a gentleman. So when I say I give my word, that has to mean something. If not, then all this comes crashing down. My word was good enough for your father; I hope that counts for something more than a hospital orderly’s hearsay.”