Against the Light

by Marjorie Eccles

  After a while, Inskip spread his hands, ready to admit Gaines was right. ‘So what if it isn’t money the kidnappers are after? What if it’s some other form of blackmail?’

  Gaines threw him a quick look. This was Inskip: mostly bull-headed but sometimes disconcertingly intuitive. He had a natural-born savvy and a restless energy that Gaines acknowledged complemented his own more stolid character. Inskip had come up through the ranks through his own competence, but because of his rough background, his face didn’t always fit with those who mattered. Gaines didn’t see it like that, but he acknowledged his sergeant needed the brake put on him sometimes – a kick up the backside when he was being stroppy, as more than one person had remarked. That said, Gaines was happy enough with their partnership. It worked well.

  He turned over what they’d just discussed, while the uneasy intuition he’d had about this case almost from the first grew. The possibilities for blackmail, in the sort of well-respected family they were dealing with, seemed few on the surface, but one could never tell. Some scandal from the past being revived? The threat to expose an affair either Martens or his wife was having? Would either be enough to exert a hold over them, big enough to demand money they didn’t have? In that case why take the baby as well? An added persuasion?

  Suddenly he sat up straighter. The Martens were not the only ones in the family open to blackmail. If Inskip had put his finger on it and money wasn’t the objective, perhaps it wasn’t the parents who were being targeted. Alice Latimer and seemingly her husband were extremely fond of the child. And Latimer, in his position, was certainly vulnerable to coercion in many ways. Unless the child was found quickly enough to be able to hush the affair up, it was going to make news, a high-profile case, involving him whether he wanted it or not, even though it wasn’t his own child who was missing. Perhaps the kidnappers thought he would be prepared to pay to keep his own name out of the papers, though Gaines thought cynically that as a politician he would be more likely to turn the situation to his advantage. From what little he had heard of the man, there appeared to be nothing that said he wasn’t fair and honest, but Gaines had a jaundiced view of the breed in general, who in his opinion would stop at little to excite sympathy and gain votes. And these were uneasy times in politics. Anyone reading the newspapers as carefully as Gaines, who considered it a necessary part of his job to keep abreast of current affairs, knew that. If it wasn’t the coal miners, the Irish Sinn Fein or the Kaiser, it was the suffragettes causing more disruptions to gain what they wanted.

  He sat staring down at his paper-strewn desk. They seemed to dog his cases, these suffragettes, perhaps because they took great care to make sure they were kept in the forefront of the public eye and therefore tended never to be far from his mind. Wasn’t this the sort of crime more likely to occur to a woman than to a man? Maybe, but would even the least maternal of those militant women (and there were enough of them!) go so far as to do that – to another woman? Inskip’s oft-stated view of these viragos, clever and well-to-do as they often were, was that they would stop at nothing. But in this case, Gaines thought it was probably unnecessary for the suffragettes to have to resort to blackmail in order to get Latimer’s backing for whatever it was they wanted. He seemingly did not object to women’s independence, or to his wife following her own career as a doctor, and he probably was not at all hostile, in theory, to the cause of women’s emancipation – as indeed many Liberals were not. The reason they didn’t give the cause their wholehearted support was the fear that, given the franchise, most of the women would vote Conservative.

  He sighed. The involvement of Edmund Latimer seemed another unlikely scenario, and they hadn’t yet reached the point of grasping at straws. It was nothing more than speculation, yet it was all they had at this point. In a short while the search being conducted even now over the Regent’s Park’s four hundred acres of parkland and gardens, with the further grassy acres of Primrose Hill adjacent to it, would have to be abandoned as darkness fell. It would be resumed in the morning. Every nook and cranny – and they were countless – where a baby might be hidden, would be searched … but a baby in a pram? The most Gaines expected to be found, if anything, was the pram itself abandoned in some deserted corner. Frustrating as it was, there was little to be done at this precise moment, apart from ensuring that an alert had been put out to all police stations. Nothing more constructive than to wait upon events, see what the following day brought, until those responsible made their demands known. A ransom note. Or even, if fortune favoured them (or miracles happened) a sighting of the child.

  And all the time there was something about all this that was scratching away at the surface of his mind, irritating as a sharp piece of grit in the shoe.

  He sighed. ‘All right,’ he said to Inskip. ‘If someone at the house is likely to be involved, we’ll talk to the servants again – Mrs Martens’ maid, and the housekeeper, come to that. And don’t forget that ex-nanny.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk and for a while debated whether an interview with Emil Martens might not be necessary at some point. Not just yet, he thought. Meanwhile, there was the murder of Lennie Croxton which was evidently more uppermost in Inskip’s mind. ‘Make yourself scarce, then, and don’t forget your report, either. You might try and make it legible while you’re at it.’

  Paper and ink were not Inskip’s forte.

  Seven

  The stated belief of Doctor Francis Nichol, Alice’s father, had always been that the capacity of human beings to surprise was limitless, and for a while, when Ferdie had been told of his beloved child’s abduction, Alice had believed it true of him.

  He was normally a person soon cast down, even by a critical word – though spurred on just as easily by kindness. He drifted through life, good-looking, amiable, feckless. Well-meaning, even though things rarely seemed to work out for him. Brought up by an indulgent mother to consider the lifestyle he followed as the only suitable one for a gentleman, he had then not been allowed the means to carry it on by his money-making father. Violet continually complained about Martens Senior being tight-fisted and he certainly was that, but Alice was inclined to think his attitude stemmed more from having the measure of his son. They said the apple never fell far from the tree; in Ferdie’s case it must have been blown down by the wind to land so very far away.

  And yet this Ferdie, after the first stunned moments, had reacted to what had confronted him on coming home more calmly than she would have thought possible. The worst thing possible for Ferdie Martens had happened, the abduction of his adored little Lucy, but instead of breaking down in tears or even rushing out blindly in a futile search for his child, as might have been expected of him, he had stood as if turned to stone, silent and with all colour leached from his handsome face, as if the news had consumed every emotion he was capable of feeling.

  Left alone after the police had gone, there seemed nothing to be said that hadn’t already been said and yet what else could they talk about? Silence was not an alternative: it left room for too much that couldn’t be contemplated. But at last, when the subject of the ransom was brought up yet again, Ferdie jumped up. ‘I’ve had enough, Violet,’ he said. ‘I don’t want to talk about it any more.’ He went to the drinks cabinet and poured brandy for all three of them. Perhaps he shouldn’t have another, but he looked as though he needed it. Alice had been about to leave them, feeling she had no place here and it was more than time they were left to deal with the frightening situation on their own, but Ferdie was handing her the drink, so she stayed.

  ‘I wish Edmund would come home,’ Violet said, her hands tight together. Ferdie looked at her and said nothing.

  By now she had managed to regain more control of herself and was once more the Violet who was always so careful to present a calm face to the world, having remembered that whatever the provocation, tears, frowns or showing temper were luxuries one could not afford when one was approaching thirty. But her hands were still clutching the embroidery she’d automatical
ly picked up when she first took her seat, and a fine mess she was making of the soft tussore silk. She threw it down again and sat up straighter. ‘I don’t believe Lucinda has been taken by some –’ her voice faltered despite herself – ‘by some madwoman who feels entitled to steal someone else’s child. However disagreeable it is to talk about it, I’m sure there will be a ransom … and before that comes we must talk about it and find a way of getting it, if we want to see Lucy again.’

  ‘And where,’ Ferdie asked flatly, his face still white, ‘do you suppose I am to find the sort of money they’ll want, for God’s sake?’

  ‘Your father?’ she came back sharply.

  ‘I can try,’ he replied. ‘I will try, if there’s no alternative. But don’t expect miracles.’ He couldn’t disguise the bitterness in his voice.

  ‘Why should he not pay?’ Violet asked coldly. ‘You have a perfect right to it. You’ll succeed your father in the bank when he retires, after all.’

  He laughed shortly. ‘That doesn’t mean its funds are mine to make free with right now. And as for retiring … he’s by no means ready to let go of the reins just yet. Nor for the foreseeable future.’

  ‘He’ll relent if it comes to the point. Any grandfather with any feeling would.’

  ‘I wouldn’t bet on it. I can’t think about it now, but put it right out of your mind, he’s a non-starter.’ He took a good pull of his brandy and stared down into his glass for some time until, almost as though he had deliberately turned his thoughts to another channel, he said, ‘And to think, talking of betting, that I actually won a pony at Worcester.’

  ‘Five hundred pounds?’ Violet’s face was a study.

  ‘Then lost it all on Fitz’s Amadeus. It turned out to be a donkey – as usual, with my rotten luck. If I’d been at home and not gallivanting off after the gee-gees this wouldn’t have happened.’

  ‘The police will find Lucy, never fear, Ferdie,’ Alice said.

  There was a heavy pause.

  Ferdie looked up from contemplating what was left of his brandy. It had brought a little colour to his face. ‘Never mind the police. I’m going to find out whoever has done this, and if I get my hands on him, I will kill him,’ he said simply.

  And amazingly, despite the desperate odds, and should poor Ferdie ever be able to summon up the necessary intellect to trace the kidnappers, Alice believed he would.

  Part Three

  Eight

  Sunday, and four days now since Lucy had disappeared. Despite an increasing sense of helplessness, Gaines was keeping in frequent touch with the parents, but there was nothing to report to them. He was, however, pragmatic enough to realize there was nothing to be gained by panic, frustrated as they were by having absolutely nothing to go on, extensive though the enquiries had been. No strangers had been noticed hanging about the house. Anyone who might have been remotely concerned had been seen, and written off, from the milkman, the butcher’s boy, the lad from the grocer’s, even to the man who delivered the fish direct from Billingsgate. The only one who hadn’t been spoken to was the young relation of Mrs Latimer’s who had been staying with them. No one seemed to know where he was, but in any case, he’d already left before Lucy disappeared. Every police station had been alerted, flyers posted all over the city, although she might have been taken – almost certainly had, Gaines believed gloomily – many miles far from London by now. He could think of nothing more they could do, except concentrate on the other case, the taxi-cab murder, which wasn’t getting much further either. Despite this lack of activity, he felt himself exhausted, emotionally and physically.

  Now that the press had got hold of the Lucy story, it was hot news on every front page, but by this time Gaines, increasingly desperate, was willing to concede the usefulness of publicity. Amid the more lurid speculation about what might have happened, which couldn’t be avoided, it was at least keeping an agog public on their toes with advice to look out for the child, and something might come of that. The press were making sure the interest was maintained, which wasn’t difficult, not only because of the human interest: this baby wasn’t any abducted child, after all, she was from the well-known Martens banking family – and also the niece of the politician Edmund Latimer, who was on his way to the top of the party and might one day even become prime minister.

  Meanwhile, the Daily Mail was offering a reward for anyone who came forward with information that might lead to Lucy’s whereabouts, with the result that dozens of sightings of the baby had come in, all of which must be followed up, though most of them were improbable, if not impossible: she’d been spotted at Fort William in the Scottish Highlands only a few hours after she was kidnapped … seen in the Grand Hotel at Scarborough with a suspicious-looking couple the same night … being carried on to the Irish ferry at Fishguard. A clairvoyant had come forward, claiming that if she held one of the baby’s garments she could sense where she was.

  ‘Have we chased up the nanny yet?’ Gaines had asked Inskip. ‘Not Emma, the previous one who left under a cloud.’

  ‘She was going back home to Scotland, they said. Seems Ferdie Martens had paid for her ticket, very generous in the circumstances, but they were probably glad to get rid of her.’

  Gaines was instantly alert. ‘Scotland? Whereabouts in Scotland?’

  ‘Dumfries. About two hundred miles from Fort William, I’d guess,’ replied Inskip, following his train of thought. ‘And more than five hundred from London,’ he added pointedly.

  ‘But did she actually go back to Dumfries?’

  ‘Yes, she did.’ It had been worth following up. A wire sent to the local police in Dumfries, rather than submitting to the vagaries of a long-distance telephone call, had established that Miss Struthers had returned home, and had, in fact, been there ever since.

  Unless prevented from doing so by the urgency of what he was working on, Sundays for Gaines were sacrosanct to home and family. On this Sunday morning, after attendance at his church, he had found himself drawn willy-nilly to the office, while knowing there was nothing he could do. There he found most of the Sunday newspapers stacked on his desk. He flicked through them desultorily but there was nothing of moment, except for the leading article in the News of the World which claimed the police were not coming up to expectations on the matter of finding ‘Baby Lucy’, as she was now known to everyone – the first time any of the papers had expressed this opinion, but probably not the last. He shoved it aside in disgust and went home to his Sunday dinner. He owed it to his wife and family to spend the day of rest in a normal way, and he was determined to get a good night’s sleep, where nothing less than the return of the missing baby – or another murder – would get him from his bed.

  Inskip, determined not to waste the Sunday, had prevailed on Emma to come out with him for an hour, on the pretext that she needed to get away from the silent, unhappy house. Emma, who could scarcely tolerate a life in which there was nothing to do but sit around waiting, had not in the end needed much persuasion.

  They walked along to the Regent’s Park. It was crowded. A pleasant Sunday afternoon with no hint of rain and with the trees bursting into leaf was a popular time to stroll along the avenues there, find a bench to sit on and admire the colourful flower beds, or simply to enjoy mixing with the crowds. Canvas seats were set out in rows by the bandstand if a band was playing. Today, it was the band of the Coldstream Guards, at the moment playing selections from Gilbert and Sullivan. Inskip cursed himself, suddenly aware that this place, where Lucy had been taken, was probably not the best choice of venue, though Emma hadn’t objected.

  She was looking very smart, in her best coat and skirt, but despite the perky feather in her hat she was downcast, unable to banish the awful sense of apprehension that no one living in Manessa House could now escape. Although Inskip never felt himself off duty and had few inhibitions, it was to his own surprise that he found himself today deliberately avoiding mention of Lucy. He hadn’t consciously asked Emma out in order to give her a bi
t of respite from the situation, but it seemed perhaps his subconscious had dictated it. The subject was, however, clearly uppermost in Emma’s mind, unable to be dismissed so easily, and when she showed signs of wanting to talk of it he took the opportunity to listen.

  ‘She must have been snatched by somebody who knew what they were doing, but I’ve been over it all so often and I still can’t make head nor tail of it.’

  ‘Emma, we’ve asked everyone this, I know, but you still can’t recall anyone taking a particular interest in Lucy? No visitors who’d taken to coming more regularly than usual, for instance?’

  ‘I don’t see visitors to the house. The nursery’s where I spend most of the day, with Lucy, except when Mrs Martens would ring to show Lucy off to one of her friends who was paying a call.’

  ‘Regular visitors?’

  ‘Some of them were, yes. And that cousin of Doctor Latimer’s was always hanging about, though he wasn’t exactly a visitor to the house, seeing he was living there.’

  ‘You mean Dudley Nichol?’ She nodded. ‘He came to see the baby?’

  ‘What, him?’ She laughed. ‘Lord, no, he’d no interest in Lucy. He was like most young fellows of his age, scared to death of babies, like as they’re something from another planet. It was Mrs Martens he came to see.’

  Inskip said carefully, ‘Was there something going on, do you think?’

  ‘He’d taken a bit of a shine to her, I reckon. Shouldn’t be surprised if he’d fancied he was a bit in love with her.’

  ‘And Mrs Martens?’

  Emma pursed her lips. Inskip understood the unspoken thought as clearly as if she’d said it aloud. Mrs Martens is in love with nobody but herself. But she only said, ‘I’d be surprised, but I couldn’t really say. You should ask Miss Newcombe, if you want to know that. She had a bit of a soft spot for him because he was nice to her, which not everyone is, because she isn’t ever nice to anybody. If you see what I mean.’