Death in Damascus: A 1920s Murder Mystery with Heathcliff Lennox

by Karen Baugh Menuhin

  ‘No,’ Swift replied sharply. ‘Was Bruce with them at that time?’

  ‘No, it was just the two of them.’ Bing sighed. ‘Although they were under the auspices of the American army, so they were hardly alone.’

  Swift glanced up briefly, then continued writing. ‘Carry on.’

  ‘As I said, I was sent to meet them in Paris, they were staying at the Ritz. There seemed to be bucket loads of money. Everything was absolutely first rate and Josephine was sitting with them among all the opulence. She was like the jewel in the crown, sparkling, beautiful and utterly entrancing…’ His voice faded, then he started up again. ‘I’d just come back from the front and suddenly found myself back in the comforts of luxurious civilisation. They were drinking champagne below glittering chandeliers. Vincent looked bored, Mammie was on form, and I couldn’t take my eyes off Josephine.’ He paused again, letting the cigarette burn to ash between his fingers. He lurched forward to stab it out in the ashtray, which was instantly replaced by the nearest waiter.

  Never having seen a moving picture, I was rather confused. ’But if they were making documentary films about real life, surely they wouldn’t need actors?’

  ‘Well, yes, you’re right. They didn’t really, it was just a cover. But the Vincents organised proper jobs for us, and it worked out rather well actually.’ Bing straightened up. ‘They couldn’t film injured men being tended in hospital because the real nurses were covered in blood, so Josephine would don a clean uniform and Vincent would film her bandaging a soldier. It was a proper depiction but without the gore and he’d usually take the shot at an angle so her face wasn’t fully visible.’

  ‘And you?’ I asked. ‘Were you on screen?’

  ‘Yes, at times. I’d be a Tommy leaning over a gate, or a doctor wearing a mask. Once I was an officer on a horse, but I fell off.’ He laughed half-heartedly. ‘I never was very good at riding.’

  ‘But it was largely real?’ I asked.

  ‘As much as possible, yes it was. Vincent has more scruples than you’d imagine,’ he said. ‘When it comes to filming anyway. He’s actually rather good at what he does. At one time he made a short called ‘Missing in Action’. He started with a young woman opening a letter, just her hands are visible and there’s an engagement ring on her finger. The page is held as though being read, then the hand starts to tremble and, after a few seconds, the letter falls to the floor. Then he cuts to the lady with a tear running down her cheek. She was turned toward the window, so her profile was outlined against the light and her face was in shadow with long auburn curls falling down her back. It was rather beautiful actually.’

  ‘But Josephine was blonde,’ I broke in.

  ‘We had another girl with us.’ Bing’s voice dropped. ‘A pretty young thing…’

  ‘Who was she?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Beatrice Langton. Charles Langton’s sister.’

  ‘Good Lord!’ I exclaimed as Swift and I exchanged glances.

  ‘What happened to her?’ I asked.

  ‘She was betrayed and captured,’ he replied quietly. ‘Better not to think about it, really.’

  ‘When was this?’ Swift asked.

  ‘September 1918,’ Bing said. ‘Only a few weeks before the Armistice. Someone reported a rumour that she’d been taken behind German lines.’ He sighed. ‘Everything had gone swimmingly up until then. We were in Northern France near St Quentin, Beatrice went out one night and didn’t come back. We put feelers out, trying to find out where she was and what had happened, but there was a massive offensive going on at the time. You probably remember those battles, the Allies were making the final push forward and they were bombing the place to smithereens.’

  Swift and I nodded, his face, and probably mine, sombre with nightmarish memories impossible to erase.

  ‘Carry on, would you.’ Swift broke the hush that had fallen.

  Bing’s dark eyes flicked away, then he resumed his story. ‘There was talk that she’d been executed and we were ordered back to Paris. That’s where Charles found us. He was in the same business, espionage you know, and he came to find out what happened to his little sister.’

  ‘Did Langton discover anything?’ I asked.

  He shook his head, his smooth features creased with melancholy. ‘No. There was no possibility of going to the front, it was disintegrating by the day, so he spent a couple of weeks in Paris digging for information without getting anywhere.’

  ‘Someone must have known how she was betrayed, or who was responsible,’ I suggested.

  ‘It wasn’t Josephine, before you ask. I’m sure of it. She and I had been…’ He hesitated. ‘Very close for a while, when we were in St Quentin. Even after our relationship ended I knew where she was almost by the minute. I was obsessed with her.’ He lowered his gaze. ‘I never stopped loving her, but… My devotion, you see, she said it was pathetic.’ He gave himself a bit of a shake. ‘Anyway, Charles was creating the most almighty fuss, he thought his sister may still be alive, and was convinced one of us knew something. But Beatrice had her own contacts, just as we all had. If one of them had been captured and made to talk, or simply sold out, we’d never have known.’

  ‘Was Persi with you? Or around anywhere?’ I asked.

  ‘No,’ he shook his head. ‘I’d never met her, or heard of her, until she turned up here.’

  ‘Hum,’ I was relieved to hear that. I focused back on Bing. ‘Langton and Josephine were erm…romantically close?’

  He laughed hollowly. ‘That came later, after the Armistice. Langton went away and then returned once it was signed. As agents of espionage we were effectively redundant and were left to kick our heels in Paris. When Langton returned, Josephine entertained herself by seducing him.’

  I had watched the expressions crossing his face. Perhaps he was a good actor, but it seemed to me that he was genuinely cut up by it all.

  ‘Why did you stay?’ I asked. ‘It must have been torment.’

  ‘Yes, but the Vincents said they’d be returning to Hollywood and I wanted to go with them. Bright lights and all that.’ He forced a smile.

  ‘What were they doing during all this?’ Swift asked.

  ‘The Vincents? Once we returned to Paris they carried on filming, there was plenty of good footage out on the streets and they made as many shorts as they could. They used us occasionally, just to keep us busy. Mammie is very thoughtful in that way.’

  ‘Did Mammie and Vincent have their own spy network?’ Swift asked.

  ‘Yes – us!’ Bing grinned. ‘We were passing information back to our respective handlers, and we shared it with Mammie. She sent it on to American Intelligence. That was the way it had been organised.’

  Swift dashed a few lines, then asked, ‘And Dreadnaught, how did he fit into this?’

  ‘He didn’t really. He had been captured during the war and was Josephine’s contact in the nearby Prisoner of War camp. The Allied camps were much more open than the German equivalents – Gentlemen’s honour and all that. They were hotbeds of rumour and gossip – a rich hunting ground for inside information if anyone could access it. Josephine found a way in by recruiting Dreadnaught and he passed on any relevant titbits.’

  ‘So, he was one of Josephine’s conquests, too?’ I asked.

  He nodded. ‘She used people. She had the morals of an alley cat, and that’s slandering the cat.’ He tried another grin but failed and merely looked more miserable.

  ‘Is that why you said she was evil?’ I asked.

  ‘Oh, not only that.’ He sighed. ‘She killed without a thought, I’ve seen her do it. We were questioning a Frenchman and realised that he was actually a stooge working for the Germans. She pulled out a stiletto knife and stabbed him through the heart. She remained absolutely expressionless throughout. I’d say she felt nothing at all. That’s what made her such a marvellous actress – she’d been actin
g like a normal human being her whole life.’

  I thought of Josephine again, picturing her face as she lay on the floor beside the fountain. It was hard to reconcile Bing’s words with the ethereal beauty she had been – assuming he was telling the truth, that is.

  Swift asked. ‘Did you rekindle your affair with Josephine Belvoir at any time?’

  Bing frowned at the indelicate questioning, but Swift had been a Detective Chief Inspector of Scotland Yard and could be coldly logical.

  ‘No, I maintained a professional relationship, but they all knew I carried the torch for her, and she played on it when it suited.’

  ‘She wore a diamond bracelet.’ I raised the subject. ‘Was it from you?’

  ‘No.’ He regarded me. ‘I don’t know who gave it to her, but she collected wealthy admirers, and pretty baubles.’

  ‘But it was someone here?’ I asked.

  He nodded.

  Swift returned to the questions in point. ‘What happened exactly, at the end of the war?’

  Bing replied. ‘Our respective governments signed us off our duties and Vincent agreed to keep Josephine and I on the acting pay-roll. Charles Langton was recalled to London and Dreadnaught was released from the POW camp. Josephine introduced him to Vincent and with his handsome phizog he was a shoo-in for the leading man. We all headed for the Hollywood hills and had a rare old time.’ He grinned. ‘The glamour and excitement helped bury the past, you see.’

  ‘So, why are you all here now, reliving that past?’ Swift shifted forward in his seat.

  ‘Ah, well, that’s where I really can’t help you, old chap. I’ve given up espionage and daring-deeds for the old country. They don’t trust me anymore, you see. Taken to the bottle and it’s a poor combination, secrets and booze. So they won’t let a sniff escape and I don’t want to know either.’ He stood up abruptly. ‘And now if you’ll excuse me, gentlemen, I have some sorrows to drown.’

  We watched him go, a compact, dapper chap with a straight back, square shoulders and a world of woes in his heart.

  Chapter 10

  ‘Poor blighter,’ Swift put his notebook back in his pocket.

  ‘And poor Beatrice Langton,’ I remarked.

  ‘Yes, her last days don’t bear thinking about.’ His face darkened. ‘Not one of them has thought to mention her until now.’

  ‘Or the fact that they’re all spies,’ I added.

  ‘Were spies,’ he corrected.

  ‘Oh, come on, Swift.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ he conceded. ‘It’s no great surprise, though, is it?’ He yawned and stretched.

  ‘Swift,’ I started, then faltered because I was beginning to question everything. ‘Persi? She couldn’t be involved in murder, or assassinations, could she?’

  He shook his head. ‘No, she wouldn’t have asked us to come all the way here if she were.’

  ‘But she didn’t actually know we were coming.’ I said.

  ‘Of course she did, I wrote and told her.’

  ‘How did you know I’d agree?’

  ‘Why wouldn’t you?’

  ‘Because I do actually have a mind of my own, Swift.’

  ‘Well, why don’t you make more use of it?’

  ‘I do make use of it!’ I protested.

  That fell on deaf ears. ‘We need to interview the Vincents,’ he said

  ‘We can’t, they’ve gone off, they’re making a film of Fogg.’

  ‘What?’

  I told him about the strangely assorted expedition that had left the hotel this morning.

  ‘Delilah of the Desert?’ He found it rather amusing. ‘And Greggs!’

  ‘He’s had some experience of the stage, you know,’ I spoke in defence of my old retainer.

  Swift returned to the murder hunt. ‘We’d better find a way to speak to Persi. Where are her rooms?’

  ‘Top floor, which is off limits.’

  He raised his brows in question.

  ‘Ladies only,’ I explained.

  ‘As far as they’re concerned I’m still a Chief Inspector of police,’ he stated. ‘That’s all the qualification I need.’

  ‘Swift, not even your kilt qualifies you for Ladies Row.’

  He ignored me and walked off, so I followed to find out how far his qualifications got him.

  There was a large, bearded Arab sitting on a stool at the entrance to the uppermost walkway. He wore a black tunic, trousers and boots and held a sword across his lap; it was long and curved, with a finely honed blade and a wicked glint. The guard didn’t move when he saw us, but his eyes slid in our direction. We took one look and turned around again.

  ‘I’m going to talk to Hamid, he’ll gain us entry.’ Swift was already half-way down the stairs as he spoke.

  I stuck my hands in my pockets and slowed to a meander. Swift had slipped back into his role as a detective but I was in a more meditative mood. I’d found the morning’s events a jumble of confusion.

  I returned to my rooms and crossed to the ornate red table which I’d nominated as my desk. I was about to sit down when I realised that I didn’t know where my notebook was and, after much searching, eventually came across it in the bottom of my carpetbag! It was all very well for Greggs to treat this outing as a holiday, but there were times when I needed him.

  My fountain pen still leaked. I cleaned the nib with blotting paper and opened the leather-bound notebook. It was curled and scuffed because I’d used it before at Braeburn Castle and it had become damaged during my adventures.

  Despite Swift’s nitpicking strictures, I think I had learned something about sleuthing. I’d been swotting too. In the last few weeks I’d read more of Conan Doyle’s excellent volumes about Sherlock Holmes. Observation was vital, so was evidence, according to the great man. And motive, and interviewing witnesses, which reminded me about the bath-draw boy, or rather the lack of him.

  I sighed and wrote down my first note about the case. Who murdered Josephine Belvoir? Then paused because it could have been just about anybody. I mused on the morning’s events; I’d found Persi’s actions puzzling. Ejecting the magazine was reasonable because she thought she’d recognised the gun, but once she had seen Josephine Belvoir murdered with it, why on earth didn’t she wipe it clean when she had the chance? I suppose Swift had a point, it may have had the killer’s prints on it. But if she had truly been the killer, she’d have used gloves, in which case her prints were actually evidence of her innocence, or… actually I was becoming muddled now so I turned my mind to the interview.

  Langton framed? Persi certainly thought Josephine had set up Langton, and Fontaine could have been involved. They were both French so the idea was perfectly plausible.

  My mind wandered back to Harry’s tale of espionage during the war. Persi hadn’t been involved in those unpleasant events. Actually, I didn’t even know where she’d spent the war or when she’d become engaged to Langton. I mulled on that for a while then gave up and turned to the activities of the film crew.

  Did the murder of Josephine stem from what happened during the war? I shook my head. If it had, why wait until now? Perhaps it was because they were abroad? Perhaps they arranged to come abroad in order to kill her? In which case, it must be Mammie, or possibly Vincent? No, it seemed implausible, the key must lie here in Damascus.

  Who is the tomb-robber, where is he and what is the secret of the house of Hanno the Navigator? I had no idea about that, although I admit to finding it intriguing. I stared at my list of puzzling questions, sighed, blotted the page and put my pen down.

  I tugged the medallion out of my pocket and peered at it, turning it over in my fingers. It was obscured by grime so I went and fetched my toothbrush and paste from the bathroom and used them to scrub away the thick layer of dirt.

  It worked quite well actually, although now I needed a new toothbrush
. The squiggles were more easily discerned in the shining bronze. They had been deeply engraved then filled with black paint or tar. The raised dots framing the centre were far more interesting – they glittered! I held the medallion to the light to better view the gleam of gold I’d uncovered. There were four gold spots dotted about the rim, interspersed with five of silver and the same number of sparkling glass, or perhaps they were diamonds! There were three black gems that could have been onyx, but I didn’t take much notice as my mind was racing through visions of diamond mines or perhaps chests of hidden gold.

  That’s what it must be – a treasure map! No wonder they all wanted it.

  A tentative knock sounded at the door and I quickly stuffed the medallion back in my pocket.

  ‘Come in,’ I shouted.

  It was Jamal. He entered.

  ‘Effendi,’ he bowed. ‘I have widow.’

  ‘Erm… what?’

  ‘Widow of bath-draw boy, effendi.’ He bowed again. ‘She awaits. Please to come and follow me.’

  He waved an arm in the direction of the walkway, so I tossed my notebook on top of the wardrobe, picked up my cream fedora and followed him up the stairs. We arrived at a roof garden.

  It was marvellous, I stopped to contemplate in quiet wonder. Rooftops stretched in every direction, shimmering in bright sunshine over a haze of sultry heat. In the near distance, a slim tower stood beside a rose-hued dome. There were other domes dotted among terracotta roofs and flat topped gardens furnished with curtained day beds, set among flowering plants in pots of every size and shape. The roof garden opposite held a fat man in a pristine white robe, he was reclining on a couch, smoking a long pipe attached to a jar. I looked at him, he looked back.