Against the Light

by Marjorie Eccles

  She hadn’t been aware of David getting up and crossing the room, but he must have done, because he was now sitting on the sofa close to her, his hand a brief touch on her arm, the warmth of his body communicating itself to her.

  The inspector was speaking. ‘If you feel able, Mrs Latimer, perhaps you would read the letter? Or I can leave it with you if you would rather, and discuss it later.’

  ‘No, I’m quite all right.’ And she was, or would be. She was not in the habit of going to pieces in a crisis, and she wouldn’t let go, especially now. There might be no simple, rational explanation for Edmund’s uncharacteristic unease lately, what his death might mean, but … She began to read the written scrawl she barely recognized as his normally careful, rather elegant script, without anything in it meaning very much. The inspector had called it a letter but it was hardly that, rather a collection of disjointed phrases, not addressed to her as she had expected, or indeed to anyone. Nor would it be, she thought, understanding belatedly that it was obviously only the first draft of a letter of resignation which would, as a fair copy, have been addressed to the Prime Minister. Her breathing became very fast as she tried to make sense of that and began to realize that those nebulous fears for Edmund which had haunted her lately had not been so groundless after all. Something bad must have happened to him.

  Several starts at the letter had been attempted but all of them were crossed out and in the end it had never been coherently put together at all. Separately, the phrases made no particular sense, though together their meaning was plain enough: ‘Circumstances have made it necessary for me … increasing grounds for concern … resignation … very great regret … always an honour …’ One partially completed phrase in particular stood out, coming at the end of what he had written, still readable though it had been heavily scored through: ‘I will continue to support …’

  She felt the inspector watching her keenly as she read those particular words over and over again, disbelievingly, but they still didn’t make sense. That was not the sentiment of a man who was intending to commit suicide. Obviously, Edmund had not been thinking very clearly. When it had come to the actual writing of the letter, had he begun to suffer doubts about his ability to carry out that final, terrible act on himself? Or had he never intended to kill himself at all, but had then been overtaken by a sudden despair which had made him do it? Almost as if he’d suddenly asked himself what the point was in carrying on. But nothing of that was like Edmund. He made considered decisions and never went back on them, once made, however painful. She preferred, however hard that was to accept, to believe his intentions had been clear-cut all along, despite the uncharacteristic false starts.

  She passed the paper back to Gaines as if it were something unclean. This letter was not meant for her. If he had lived to complete and send it to Mr Asquith, the person it was meant for, she would never have seen it at all. On the other hand, if it had been his intention all along to kill himself, perhaps he would have left something for her eyes only … but she was capable of analysing none of this at this particular moment. It might hurt in future that he hadn’t considered her, but just now it didn’t matter. Those final words, maddeningly inconclusive, and impersonal in a way that revealed nothing of the torment he must have been feeling, were not something she would ever want to look at again, but in any case, she knew they were indelibly engraved in her memory.

  Gaines said, ‘With your permission, Mrs Latimer?’ He was holding the letter out to David. ‘I think Mr Moresby might like to see this, too.’

  ‘Yes. Yes, of course. Please read it, David.’

  It took him no more than a minute to read. When he looked up his face was grim. Then he folded it and handed it back to Gaines.

  She had already, that morning, received messages of sympathy from many of Edmund’s colleagues, and a brief, kind letter from the Prime Minister, written as soon as the shocking news had burst upon Westminster and delivered by hand, together with a characteristically eloquent but more personal and sadder one from Winston Churchill at the Home Office, where Edmund’s responsibilities had lain. David himself had arrived within the hour, and she had never been as glad to see anyone in her life.

  You are not alone. The words he’d used on their last meeting had come back to her in those first moments after her shattering discovery this morning, but it had immediately been followed by the realization that dealing with any questions the police might have would put an intolerable responsibility on him, when he must already be swamped with all the aftermath of Edmund’s affairs. Things were likely to be in turmoil at Westminster. Edmund’s death could not have come at a worse time, when the Government was in crisis over Irish affairs. Asquith would be seeking a replacement for Edmund, there would probably need to be a Government reshuffle, and David would be in the thick of it. She had closed her eyes, trying not to think of the upheaval it was going cause, of all the publicity the press would give to it … Utterly grateful as she would be for David’s support, she couldn’t ask for his help, couldn’t place extra weight on his shoulders.

  But he had arrived, unasked, and she had felt as if a lifeline was being thrown out to her.

  Gaines was now saying, ‘I’m bound to ask this, Mrs Latimer: had your husband ever spoken of the possibility of resigning his office? It seems, from the letter he left, that he obviously had some concerns about his position in the Government. Can you throw any light on that?’

  She looked down at her hands, clasped on her lap. ‘I can’t even begin to think what any of this means. As I’ve said, he had seemed – a little worried lately, but that’s hardly surprising, given the importance of what’s happening in the country at the moment. In any case, he often had weighty problems on his mind, but he was more than capable of dealing with them. He wasn’t in the habit of discussing his work with me, but I’m sure there was never enough to cause him to …’ After a second or two her chin lifted and she said more firmly, ‘Edmund was absolutely the last person to take such a step.’

  Gaines gave no indication that he’d noticed any ambiguity in what she’d said, though she’d noticed it herself, immediately. What step had she been talking about? Resignation? Or suicide? Either seemed beyond credibility, and yet Edmund had at the very least been contemplating the one, and had in the end acted upon the other. Yesterday, she would have been prepared to swear to the impossibility of either but now, having seen with her own eyes what he had done and what he had written, it came to her that there must have been some dark shadow in his life of which she had been unaware. Which was to admit she had not only walked into her marriage blindfold, she had remained so ever since.

  Gaines had now turned his attention to David. ‘Mr Moresby? Since you worked so closely with Mr Latimer at the Home Office, as I understand it, maybe you could throw some light on any problems there might have been?’

  ‘I could make a guess at any of a dozen subjects that are of concern to anyone in Parliament at the moment. None of them enough to warrant what has happened.’

  He rose and walked towards the fireplace and stood with his back to it, one elbow resting on the corner of the mantel, the other thrust into his trouser pocket. Not quite the smooth, correct young man presented by the starched shirt and the Savile Row suit that he had first seemed, the confident sort who would get straight to the point. He looked uncertain. Something was bothering him now. Gaines waited to hear what it was.

  Eventually, Moresby looked at Alice and some question and answer seemed to pass between them. ‘Inspector Gaines, I don’t know how relevant this is … or even if it’s relevant at all. But I understand from Mrs Latimer that you are interested in a man named Tooley?’

  Inskip looked up from his notes, pencil poised, suddenly alert.

  ‘That’s right,’ Gaines said, ‘I asked if the names of Paddy Tooley and Daniel O’Rourke meant anything, but you knew nothing of them, Mrs Latimer, isn’t that so? But I take it you know something of them yourself?’

  ‘No. No, I don�
�t know either of them. But I have heard the name Tooley.’

  ‘In what connection?’

  ‘I recently had reason to contact someone who used to live at the same address. I needed to speak to her and I went to a house on Prosser Street, which I believe belongs to that man, but I left without seeing her.’

  ‘A woman?’

  Again he glanced at Alice before answering. ‘Mona Reagan, her name is. She’s someone who used to work for one of the Irish Nationalist MPs, Joe Devlin. That’s a name you’re likely to recognize.’

  ‘It’s familiar,’ Gaines said dryly. ‘Go on.’

  ‘I believe Miss Reagan’s probably back in Ireland by now, but …’

  He was listened to attentively as he recounted the story of why he’d gone to Prosser Street and why he had left without attempting to speak to Mona Reagan. The name of Erskine Childers caused a certain frisson but elicited no further response from either policeman. ‘And that’s it,’ he finished. ‘Mrs Latimer, by the way, knew nothing of my visit.’

  The clock on the mantelpiece went on fussily ticking its way about its business in the silence that followed. Eventually, Gaines spoke. ‘You haven’t said why you wanted to see Miss Reagan in the first place.’

  ‘It wasn’t anything important.’ He returned to the sofa to resume his place next to Alice. ‘Except that—’ After a moment’s hesitation, he went on to explain Mona’s visit to his office and what she had said. ‘We had some slight acquaintance, and she’d come to tell me she was leaving, and to say goodbye. It was only incidentally that she made the remark about Mr Latimer needing to be careful. It puzzled me slightly, but to tell the truth I didn’t give it much thought at first.’ He kept his eyes on Alice as he said, ‘It was only Mrs Latimer’s concern that her husband was worried over something that made me begin to wonder what she had meant by it. But, as you must appreciate, there’s always a certain amount of interaction between us and the Nationalist office and I simply concluded she was warning him to be a little more diplomatic in what he said. Mr Latimer was known for his sometimes rather acerbic opinions. Perhaps someone was taking exception. They’re a touchy lot, the Nationalists, but it’s a quid pro quo situation: we support them over Home Rule, they support us by voting with us in domestic matters. That’s common knowledge – a necessary evil since we Liberals have such a small majority.’

  ‘Hmm. So you would think it unlikely that Mr Latimer was being threatened in some way, over this Home Rule business, say?’

  ‘Threatened? Indeed, no, but in the unlikely event that he was, it wouldn’t have made much difference. Emotions are running high at the moment, but he was not a man easily swayed. In any case, we are on the same side, are we not?’

  ‘But something must have happened to make him think of resigning his career.’

  A silence fell.

  David waited. He had expected more reaction after his relation of what and who he’d seen at Prosser Street, yet the name of Erskine Childers in this context had seemed neither to surprise nor alarm either policeman. But now, he saw them exchanging glances, after which Gaines appeared to come to some decision and said easily, ‘Well now, that’s all speculation, which isn’t going to take us very far just now, is it? Let’s get back to Tooley. The thing is, Mr Moresby, we urgently need to speak to a man called Daniel O’Rourke and we have reason to believe he may have taken refuge in Paddy Tooley’s house, or been helped by him to find somewhere else.’

  ‘He’s not there now,’ Inskip said. They had gone to some trouble, even calling in the resources of the Special Branch to make certain of it. This was the section of the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard whose knowledge of troublesome immigrants, Irish or otherwise, was extensive, but even they, with their extensive intelligence network, hadn’t come up with any information about Daniel O’Rourke. Tooley’s house had been searched but if ever O’Rourke had been there, he wasn’t now.

  ‘Why exactly do you need to speak to this man?’ Alice asked.

  ‘He’s wanted in connection with the murder of your cousin, Dudley Nichol, Mrs Latimer.’ She stiffened. ‘I’m sorry to bring that up just now. Your family’s had a very trying time recently. First little Lucy being kidnapped, then your cousin being killed, but—’

  ‘I can understand you’re anxious to catch Nichol’s killer, of course, but may I ask what it has to do with Mr Latimer?’ Moresby interrupted.

  ‘Most likely nothing at all.’ Gaines looked at them both, summing them up, making his mind up as to whether he should trust them further. Alice Latimer he had few doubts about. His previous encounters with her had given him reason to respect her level-headed approach and her ability to keep her own counsel. He had trusted her from the first, but politicians were a tricky breed, and he was automatically wary of them. At the same time, he instinctively liked the cut of Moresby’s jib. He was cautious, but seemed sincere. Alice Latimer had hung on his words and clearly looked up to him, while he was obviously protective of her. It didn’t need a clairvoyant to spot that his feelings for her went well beyond those of friendship or respect for a colleague’s wife.

  At last he said, ‘It looks very much as though your cousin may have got himself mixed up in some murky dealings to do with Irish politics, Mrs Latimer. And since your husband was directly concerned with Irish affairs that could well be why he got in touch with you after so many years. And why he disappeared so mysteriously.’

  It took Alice a moment to get her breath. ‘You are suggesting he was spying on Edmund? But Dudley was—’ What exactly he was seemed to escape her and she began again. ‘They never spoke politics. To be honest, they spoke very little together. Edmund – well, to be honest, he didn’t suffer fools gladly and he never had much patience with the sort of people who fritter their lives away. I’m afraid he thought Dudley was a hopeless case. The little they had to do with one another wasn’t about anything important anyway, certainly not about Irish politics.’

  She didn’t trouble to hide her scepticism over the idea that there could have been any communication between her husband and her cousin, and Moresby was evidently not prepared to give the idea much credence, either. ‘There is always a good deal of lobbying going on,’ he said shortly. ‘There are dozens of ways anyone in politics can be pressurized in some way, we all know that, but if you’re inferring that Edmund could be influenced at all you are very wrong. It’s ludicrous even to think it. You’d need more political weight than Latimer had in any case to change what has already been agreed.’

  Gaines’ prediction that their attempts to see Violet Martens would come to nothing proved to be correct, as they found when they went through to the Martens’ apartments. She wasn’t well enough, her husband repeated, and Gaines didn’t insist. Ferdie himself was willing enough to talk but, although he was clearly shocked at the turn of events, he could offer no insights into the reasons for his brother-in-law to have shot himself. Gaines suspected that he and Latimer had had little in common. They were poles apart, Ferdie who was content to take life on the surface, who asked little beyond an agreeable social life and the occasional excitements of the racetrack, and the serious, ambitious man who had been deeply involved in matters concerning the government of the country.

  Another visit to the study before they left was indicated. While they had been otherwise occupied, Latimer’s body had been removed and the knowledgeable team who were called in to deal with the aftermath of death had been and done everything that was necessary in the way of taking photographs, clearing up, taking away everything they thought might be useful in the way of evidence. The room was more or less restored to normality, although there was now a pale rectangle on the wall where the black-and-white etching had hung, and behind it the hole in the wall, surrounded by cracked plaster and torn wallpaper, from which the bullet had been extracted. But the blood splashes were still there on the wallpaper, a gruesome reminder of what had occurred.

  The study was a room at the back of the house and commanded
a view of the garden, which was not large but attractively laid out. Latimer had chosen to set his desk facing into the room, maybe as a stern reminder not to waste time gazing out of the window at the garden, just now a pink froth of cherry blossom that the sun of the last few days had brought out. A swathe of daffodils stretched out towards the bottom, which might be past their best on closer inspection. To one side the baby’s wicker pram stood under another cherry tree. Its silk canopy had been raised against the sun and today Lucy slept peacefully under it. Even as Gaines looked, Emma Pavel came out of the house, peeped into the pram and tucked the blanket more carefully around her before tiptoeing away. It would be some time before anyone was easy leaving Lucy without someone watching over her.

  Now that the experts had done their work and departed, and if you ignored the damage to the wall, Latimer’s study could be seen as conventional and rather characterless, dominated by his large mahogany desk. Standing on it was the green-shaded lamp which had been undamaged in its tumble to the floor, and because of that had miraculously escaped contamination and now stood in what was presumably its original place on the green leather top beside the inkstand which had remained in place throughout. A bookcase was set against one wall, its shelves mostly filled with a series of dull-looking volumes, carefully arranged according to subject. Among them were several copies of the books Erskine Childers had written.

  ‘Have you read this, sir?’

  ‘No, don’t get much time for that sort of thing,’ Gaines said, following Inskip’s pointing finger towards the best-selling spy novel which had brought Childers such fame. It sat, faintly incongruous, between his more serious non-fiction works about his experiences as a volunteer artillery driver in the Boer War and those on cavalry warfare, criticising the outmoded arms presently being used and recommending the employment of modern machine weaponry, and his latest publication, in which he had set out what he called a framework for Home Rule of Ireland. This was bringing him almost as much publicity as his famous work of fiction.