No ransom must ever be forthcoming, but if the parents could be persuaded to cooperate and seem willing to pay, an exchange could be arranged, giving the police the opportunity to intercept the kidnappers. He didn’t think it wise to say to either of them that, God help them, it was entirely possible, depending on who these kidnappers were, that if they thought there was any chance they might be caught, they would not hesitate to make specific that threat, ‘or else’.
Before he left, he urged them to speak of this latest happening to no one – no one at all, particularly the press. ‘I won’t mislead you. It’s going to be tricky, whichever way it turns out, and publicity will only confuse the operation. We shall need your cooperation and the utmost caution.’
It was a pity the grandfather had already been told. Despite his uncompromising attitude, there was no way of knowing which way he might jump, if he thought the outcome was likely to affect him and his business in any way. Before returning to the Yard, thinking back to what Ferdie Martens had said, Gaines decided it was high time he bearded Martens père in his den, and that now was probably the best time, before Ferdie arrived – if indeed he would be able to bring himself to arrive at all that day.
He knew it was going to be a waste of time as soon as he was shown into Emil Martens’ private office and saw him.
Dozens of people must have sat in this chair, facing him, many of them no doubt supplicants, and it didn’t take long to see why it might arouse despair, possibly fear, though Martens looked less like an ogre, or even a bank owner, than one of his own clerks. He was a round, grey man just short of medium height, the roundness and greyness echoed by large steel-rimmed spectacles and a smooth, grey-haired head atop a body shaped like a rubber ball. A grey moustache bristled over a small mouth, but it was the eyes that did it. Behind round glasses that added another circular dimension, and through which he surveyed Gaines, they were chips of ice. Gaines, dressed in his outdoor clothes, almost shivered, and not because of the room’s temperature. The private office was warm enough, heated by an iron radiator. He there and then absolved Violet Martens of any exaggeration about her father-in-law. It would be a big mistake to assume that any ball this man resembled would be one whit softer than a snowball with a rock inside it.
He waved Gaines to a chair, sat down behind his desk and folded his plump white hands on the desk in front of him, and though he knew why Gaines was here, waited expressionlessly for him to state his business. You wouldn’t want to play poker with this man.
But Gaines had dealt with more formidable-seeming characters than Emil Martens. He reminded himself that the man’s response to his son’s appeal didn’t necessarily mean that he would not, if it came to the sticking point, pay the ransom, only that he chose for reasons of his own not to let it be known that he would.
‘I think you know why I’m here, Mr Martens.’
The banker inclined his head. ‘I presume it’s about that ransom note, so I’ll tell you immediately you are wasting your time. Quite ridiculous. The whole thing is nothing but a hoax.’ So that was how he was going to play it. ‘To which I have no intention of submitting. If one gives in to blackmail of this sort, where does it end?’
He was Belgian, but there was no trace of accent in his speech. There was also no indication that he was prepared to be magnanimous and save the parents pain. Gaines thought of his own father, a sternly raised Victorian who had seen it as his duty to bring up his son, Gaines himself, in the same way, and then, in the hands of his grandchildren, had been like putty. However, regrettable as it was, becoming a grandparent, or even a parent, didn’t automatically confer affection.
‘I quite agree, Mr Martens, that under no circumstances must money be paid. But I would suggest it should be made apparent that it might be, that you are prepared to negotiate.’
‘No. There comes a time when enough is enough. I have bailed my son out more times than I can remember … especially when he was younger.’ He didn’t add ‘before he had a wife’ but that seemed hardly necessary. ‘I don’t believe I am ungenerous. Ferdinand earns a more than adequate salary here and when I retire he will take over. He needs to be taught a lesson. It will do him no harm to wait.’
Gaines was silent, wondering how far the punishment he was prepared to inflict on his son would go. Was he even willing to risk a baby’s life, to make his point? Indeed, it was hard to think of him ever summoning up enough human emotion to lead to the fathering of a son at all, never mind one like Ferdie. Any parental resemblance in Ferdie must be to his dead mother.
There was nothing further to be said. Gaines brought the interview to an end, feeling he hadn’t achieved much by coming here, but as he walked back to Scotland Yard, the words ‘taught a lesson’ continued to echo in his head.
Eleven
The next morning a hand-delivered letter was brought to David Moresby in his office at Westminster.
Dear Mr Moresby,
I have something rather important to say to you and I wonder if we could meet? Somewhere we will not be interrupted? I know how busy you are, so perhaps you could suggest a time and place convenient to you? I can be available at any time. I hesitate to ask this, but I hope you will understand when you hear what I have to say.
Yours sincerely,
Alice Latimer
David read the letter again and stared out of the window. A gang of feral pigeons jostled rowdily along the windows of an adjacent wing. They’d become such a nuisance lately, but no one had yet found a way of deterring them. Pigeons were survivors.
The formality of Alice’s letter intrigued him as much as the obvious urgency of the request. Mr Moresby. He and Alice met socially, dined together, played tennis, had spent Saturdays-to-Mondays in various country houses to which both he and the Latimers had been invited. They were friends. He was normally ‘David’ to her, and he called her by her Christian name. He wrote back immediately – ‘Dear Alice’ – suggesting a meeting the same afternoon in the Victoria Embankment Gardens.
He was there precisely on time and she arrived a minute later, dressed as he normally saw her, in the expensively smart clothes she wore with elegance, but always with a touch of impatience, it seemed to David. Today, it was a chic blue coat and skirt, its grey fur trim and the furled umbrella she carried both a challenge to the fickle April weather. As she came towards him with quick, decisive steps, he was concerned to see dark shadows under her clear eyes. ‘Hello, David, it was good of you to come at such short notice.’
He was relieved she had decided to dispense with the ‘Mr Moresby’. ‘I hope there’s nothing wrong. You’re looking a little tired, Alice. Oh, forgive me,’ he said, smiling, ‘that’s not the sort of thing one’s supposed to say to a lady.’
‘I’d rather have the truth than a facile compliment.’ A return smile appeared and her hand was laid lightly on his arm. The grey suede glove was ruched about the wrist. A matching suede bag hung over it on a silver chain. ‘Shall we sit?’ He was surprised to feel the tremble of her hand through his sleeve. Alice was not a woman who trembled easily.
‘The truth in this case was a compliment,’ he said as they made their way towards a convenient seat. ‘To the hard work you’re doing at the clinic. Entirely admirable, of course, no one would think otherwise, but … one can overdo it, Alice.’
‘So Edmund tells me. Yet he himself comes home so dog-tired it worries me – if … if he manages to get home at all, that is. All those late night sittings.’
David thought of the set of rooms, so convenient for Westminster … and for when Latimer was not inclined to undertake the drive home to Manessa House, though his dashing new Napier could easily make it in under an hour, even without exceeding the speed limit.
She raised her clear eyes to his. He could read no sign in them that implied anything other than exactly what her last remarks had said, but women were nothing if not adept at concealing what they really thought. ‘Is that why you want to see me?’
‘No. Of course not
. Well, yes, in a way it is, though hard work is meat and drink to Edmund, isn’t it? I’m afraid,’ she went on, with the abrupt honesty that he’d come to know was typical of her, ‘something is troubling him, and I don’t know what it is. You see him daily and I thought … I’ve tried to talk to him but he won’t discuss it with me. At first, I believed he might be ill, but it’s not that.’
A melancholy toot sounded from one of the tugs on the busy Thames a few yards away, a reminder of the proximity of the never ceasing river traffic. All around were daffodils set in marshalled banks, a cheerful splash of colour against the grey buildings behind. The gardens’ tidy, well-kept paths were flanked with beds where gardeners could be seen preparing for the riot of blazing colour they would be in a few weeks. The day was for the moment fine and sunny and the seats were full of office workers eating their lunchtime sandwiches. Some of them had even risked sitting on the grass.
‘You don’t need me to tell you what the situation is at the moment, Alice.’
The Prime Minister’s recent introduction of the Home Rule Bill had precipitated a crisis and Parliament was at full stretch … the Opposition, many of whom had financial and land-owning interests in Ireland, were baying against it. The Lords, for similar reasons, were fuming at Asquith’s successful curtailment of their powers to veto the Bill. And Ireland itself was in ferment: the mainly Protestant community of Ulster in the north bitterly opposed to a Catholic government by the rest of Ireland, while the Catholics themselves would not concede to government of Irish affairs imposed from Westminster.
‘Yes, of course I know all that, but Edmund has coped with crises before. I feel it must be something more than that.’
He thought for a moment. ‘There’s no news about Lucy yet?’ She hesitated, then shook her head. ‘Could it be that he’s worrying about that? It’s a wretched business.’
‘I’m not sure, but maybe … And yes, the last days have been wretched, awful in fact, especially for Violet and Ferdie, under such terrible strain. Everyone on edge, simply waiting for something to happen. But …’ She hesitated. ‘Yes, something has happened, David. We’re not supposed to talk about it, but I know I can trust you. Somebody has sent a demand for money.’
‘Have they, by Jove? But I don’t suppose that’s entirely unexpected?’
‘No. Not really, it was always on the cards, and at least we know now why she’s been taken. Not by someone playing games, or being cruel, nor some poor woman desperately longing for a child of her own.’
‘So she will be returned once the money is paid?’
‘If only it were so straightforward! Ferdie simply can’t raise anything like the amount they’re asking, and his father won’t. He says the kidnappers are bluffing and they’ll reduce their demands once they see the amount they ask isn’t forthcoming. As if that is likely to happen!’
‘That could be what is troubling Edmund,’ David said slowly. ‘If he’s feeling morally obliged to find this money himself, for instance? I don’t believe it’s any secret how much he loves his little niece.’
‘He does love her, yes – dearly. But they are demanding five thousand pounds – and Edmund’s finances, I assure you,’ she said wryly, ‘aren’t nearly so abundant as an outsider might imagine, or what he chooses to let people think.’
This was something David could believe, although without ever having given it much thought he had always imagined Latimer to be comfortably off. But he had given up a lucrative law practice for his Parliamentary career and now had expenses as an MP, which his junior minister’s salary would not cover. Keeping up the social life, the entertaining and so on, that was expected of a man in his position, perhaps unfairly, was done at no small cost. Not to mention the high maintenance of such an establishment as the one at Manessa House, relatively modest as it was. The upkeep of David’s own family home, a small, well-loved manor house situated in his Derbyshire constituency, which had been in the Moresby family for generations, at present lived in and looked after by his unmarried sister, was a constant worry to him. In a world where women were so often prevented from having a career the running of the estate suited his capable, strong-minded sister very well, and given his own inclinations he was happy enough with the situation, though finances were an ever-present worry.
Looking away, Alice went on in a low voice, ‘You must think it strange that we can’t speak of this, Edmund and myself, I mean. But if he’s so against any discussion, I can’t force him. Maybe he cannot tell me what’s wrong. I can’t be certain, of course, but I don’t really believe it’s anything to do with Lucy. But if I don’t know what it is, how can I help him?’
David, normally a self-controlled man, felt momentarily utterly consumed with anger. She should be able to confide her worries to her husband and not have to turn to someone else for reassurance. Yet despite his anger, he felt overwhelming pleasure that he was that someone else, and when he thought of why that might be, his breath caught in his throat. He stopped himself. That was an indulgence he couldn’t afford.
‘You people are all under so much pressure,’ she was going on, ‘and he – Edmund – only occasionally talks about his work. It’s something he finds very difficult to do, I know; he prefers to keep it separate from his life at home. I may well be entirely wrong, but … he’s a very influential man, isn’t he, and I’ve begun to believe someone might possibly be trying to persuade him in some way to – to do something against his principles. There are so many issues at present, goodness knows – all these strikes, Ireland and all the rest of it. Does that sound ridiculous?’
The mention of Ireland immediately brought that visit of Mona Reagan’s to mind. ‘Actually, no, it doesn’t. We’re all subject to pressures like that at times and we all have to face the sort of thing you’re speaking about. Fortunately, I know of few who would succumb, especially Edmund.’
Yet he faced a dilemma. No one knew better than David how incorruptible Edmund Latimer was, or how firmly loyal he was to his Liberal party’s policies. But just supposing Alice was right, that her husband was being threatened or coerced in some way … Supposing someone did have some sort of hold over him, what then? If so, David strongly suspected what that hold might be. But he was absolutely unable to say so – to Alice, above all people. To give her even a hint of his suspicions was impossible.
He had the greatest respect for Latimer, the statesman: for his political acumen, his steadfastness and tireless devotion to his work. In other directions, it was a different matter. He was loyal to Edmund where their work was concerned, loyal and correct. But he could not respect a man who led a double life. In fact, it was only lately he had come to realize that he did not actually like the man himself very much at all. Which was a civilized understatement to a murderously uncivilized rage when he thought of how this concerned Alice.
He managed with difficulty to stay calm and, he hoped, reassuring. ‘I suppose it’s quite possible he may be involved in some negotiations I haven’t been informed about yet, possibly because they’re so sensitive. Senior people like him are always vulnerable and as you say, it’s a volatile time in politics at the moment – on several fronts. You’ve no idea how jittery we’ve become, nervous of saying, or doing, the wrong thing. Imagining intrigue where none exists. Why, only yesterday a young woman gave me a message for Edmund to be careful. Pure melodrama, I assure you, or simply an intention to unnerve, but you see what I mean. It does have an effect on some people, I’m sorry to say, but mostly we learn to take no notice, otherwise where would we be? Nervous wrecks, my dear Alice. Politics is a game, and not everyone plays fair.’
She had heard him out without interruption. Now she asked, quite sharply, ‘A woman?’
Damn. That could have been more diplomatically phrased, or better still, not said at all. His intention to play down her fears of something worse by citing Mona Reagan’s call on him had misfired. He was losing his grip.
‘Who is she?’
‘Only someone who works –
worked – for one of the Irish Nationalists, in a menial capacity. I scarcely know her, in fact I’ve only met her once before.’
‘Did you pass the message on to Edmund?’
‘It’s quite likely she spoke to him directly, as well as to me.’ He hoped she didn’t realize how unlikely it was that a lowly person like her would have access to someone in Edmund’s position. Nor did he mention how frightened Mona had looked when she spoke.
He hadn’t in fact spoken to Latimer because he needed time to think about it, to make discreet enquiries about Mona Reagan, and how valid the warning might have been, before passing it on. There was a man in Wee Joe Devlin’s office with whom he often passed a friendly time of day and who was willing to talk, but he had gained little from him except Mona’s address, though it had caused him to lift his eyebrows. The East End was not the sort of district where he had imagined a girl like her might choose to live, but he saw the point when Hogan pointed out that she would naturally feel more at home sharing the house of a man named Tooley with other Irish expatriates.
‘How does she know Edmund?’ Alice asked.
‘I don’t know that she does. She may simply know his name and have heard he’s involved with some negotiations that might turn out to be tricky for him, that could perhaps backfire.’ Not that Latimer had made David aware of any such negotiations, as he normally routinely did. ‘She’s leaving the country to go back to Ireland and perhaps it was just that there’s something brewing with the Nationalists she thought he ought to be aware of.’
He tried to play down what he was feeling. The Irish were on the whole a quick-witted and good-humoured nation with a strong streak of romanticism, and while they might also believe in faeries and leprechauns, few Irishmen were averse to a fight. And the extremist faction among the Nationalist MPs were a powerful force in the British Parliament, holding as they did fervent convictions and unshakeable beliefs that it was the duty of every natural born Irishman to rebel against the centuries’ old injustices inflicted on their people, and their inalienable right to join in the struggle.
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