Against the Light

by Marjorie Eccles

  Cathleen had been an indiscretion Daniel had regretted, though he still didn’t see it as being all his fault. It took two to make a bargain. He could have married her, she was a fine girl, but the truth was, the thought of being trapped into family life, children, and all that entailed, had terrified him, though he told himself he would eventually have done right by her, if she hadn’t gone and killed herself. He hadn’t been keen to stay after that, and when he heard her brothers were after his blood he’d cleared off, taken the ferry from Holyhead to Dublin. There he’d got himself in with the boyos who were ripe for a fight, the rebels who said they were doing it because they loved their country, though not everyone supported them, by any means, nothing but a gang of oul’ Fenians they were, never mind they called themselves soldiers. Their unswerving dedication to the cause was something Daniel didn’t fully understand or even care much about. He’d joined them anyway, more because he enjoyed a good scrap for its own sake than for any political conviction.

  Until he’d arrived in Ireland he’d never thought too much about the struggle going on there, although no one who’d grown up in the environment he’d been brought up in could have avoided knowing about it, not with the endless talk that went on among those who’d left the shores of their native land for whatever reason … starvation, eviction by the landlords, religious struggles. In Ireland it was different. There, the talk was being translated into action by those who were proud to work for a day when Ireland would be free to rule herself. The need for violence was unfortunate, they said, but there was no denying how many of them liked what they were doing, got a taste for it.

  Since he’d grown up with incendiary sentiments, Daniel took it for granted that it was how his new friends would feel, but he was at sea when it came to understanding somebody like Dudley Nichol, who didn’t have to fight for Ireland but had wanted to, was burning to do so, nourished by his mother on stories of Ireland’s heroes and the fight against oppression. And yet in the end, when it came down to it, Dudley hadn’t been a fighter. He was a dreamer, full of high ideals but short on reality.

  Take that business with the Martens’ baby. It had been the craziest idea in the world, Daniel knew that right from the first and he hadn’t wanted to go along with it. For one thing, he didn’t see how it could succeed and for another, he had his own reasons for not wanting to bring any attention to himself: these things had a way of getting out and he didn’t want to be around if any hint that he was here in London reached the Hennessys, Cathleen’s brothers. All he had to do was to keep his mind on the job he’d risked coming back to London for, and in any case, he hadn’t seen the point of going to all that trouble, not to mention danger, of kidnapping a baby for the surprisingly paltry sum Dudley had suggested – surprising because Dudley never had tuppence to rub together, and even more since it was to be shared. Even when that was pointed out to him, he’d refused to increase it. He was like that, away with the faeries most of the time. But once fired up, he wasn’t going to give up the idea. It was only afterwards that he had begun to lose his nerve about the whole idea, but by then the baby had been taken.

  It was the wrong thing to do, he’d said, too late. ‘We must give her back.’

  ‘Are you mad, Croxton?’ Tooley said. ‘Do you realize what that would mean?’

  No, he wasn’t mad. He was in deadly earnest. And Daniel had learned that when Lennie Croxton, aka Dudley Nichol, got an idea into his head, it took a sledgehammer to drive it out. Daniel hadn’t liked the idea of them getting rid of him but they couldn’t think of any other way to silence him.

  And yet the problem hadn’t ended there. It had run through all Daniel’s fevered nights since then. What were they to do about the baby now that Dudley was dead? he kept asking them all. ‘Sure, we can get a better price for it, now he’s out of the way,’ was all Tooley would say.

  Somehow, it had got to be night again. The door opened and Maureen came in with a cup of soup she’d made and began to urge him to try to take a drop. She was a big, blowsy, untidy woman and her house was no better, but as well as knowing how to pull a pint at the Nag with just the right head on it, she was a good cook, and had a heart as generous as herself – if you got on the right side of her. He took a spoonful of soup from her but that was as much as he could manage.

  ‘Ah, come on, that’s not going to do you any good. You can’t live on water.’

  He turned his head away. She stood the soup cup on the orange box and put a hand on his forehead. She looked worried. ‘We’ll have to get you a doctor, you know.’

  ‘No.’ The effort that went into even that made him cough again.

  She’d brought a bowl of water and a cloth as well as the soup. ‘Let me send for one, Danny,’ she pleaded, wringing the cloth out and wiping his face. It felt good, like he was a child and it was his mother wiping round his sticky mouth; he hadn’t known she had that much gentleness in her.

  ‘Don’t need one.’

  Maureen shook her head, attempted to straighten the roil of his sheets and then, with another look at his face, left him.

  No, it isn’t a doctor you’re needing, Daniel O’Rourke, it’s a priest. Yet, however ill he was, belated fright consumed her at the thought of letting anyone know he was here. She was a good-natured woman and willing to oblige, but not if her liberty depended on it.

  Sixteen

  Murder took officers of the law into strange and various places. Nor was it any respecter of race, religion or class. The house, tall and white-stuccoed, was in an elegant Georgian terrace in wealthy Belgravia, the agreeable face of London, with its tree-lined roads, its fine architecture, parks and gardens. The knocker was brass and shone against the gleaming, black-painted door, which was presently opened by a pleasant-faced maid in a starched white apron and cap. Inskip announced who they were. ‘Mrs Fiore is expecting us.’

  ‘Ah, yes. Please come in. I’ll let her know you’re here.’ She led them into a room at the front of the house that overlooked the street and invited them to take a seat while they waited.

  Sunlight poured into a grey-walled room which was gently fragrant with beeswax and pot-pourri. The window was open and champagne net curtains moved gently in the breeze. Daffodils in the widow boxes outside showed their waving heads. The room was furnished with no-expense-spared good taste: oriental rugs on polished floors and deep, comfortable chairs, a pair of elegant mirrors and one or two pieces of fine porcelain. Every hard surface gleamed, the deep blue velvet draperies and cushions complemented everything else. A clock ticked discreetly. It was another world.

  ‘Blimey!’ said Inskip under his breath. He was not at his best in situations like this. He felt awkward and that made him act bolshie. He looked around, not knowing where to sit lest his clodhopping police presence might dirty something. Eventually he settled, as Gaines had done, for one of the straight chairs variously placed around the room. It mollified him to notice Gaines looked as uncomfortable as he himself felt.

  Mrs Fiore did not keep them waiting. Like the room itself, she looked discreetly expensive, her brown hair dressed wide as was the fashion, with pearl drops depending from her ear-lobes and a pearl choker round her neck. Holding her figure very upright, she gave the impression of being taller than she actually was. Impressive, thought Gaines, noting that although she smiled pleasantly, she was very pale and her eyes were shadowed. She shook hands and bade them resume their seats in a voice that held only the trace of an American accent. Almost immediately, the maid who had opened the door to them entered with a tray.

  She had a natural manner that put them at their ease in this alien environment, serving them cups of excellent coffee. When they were settled, and Inskip was attempting to deal with the crumbs from one of the delicately thin almond biscuits that had come with the coffee, she began calmly, ‘Let’s not waste any time, mine or yours. We all know why you’re here, so without any rudeness on my part, I would be grateful if we could get it over with as soon as possible. I’ll do my best to
answer as many questions as I can. But tell me first: is it usual for a detective inspector and his sergeant to go so far into a matter of … suicide?’

  ‘Only in so far as it impinges on the main focus of our investigations, ma’am,’ Gaines replied, not showing that he was taken aback.

  ‘In that case …’ She wasn’t restrained by British politeness, and there had been only the slight hesitation before the word suicide. She was being honest and Gaines liked her for it, but her directness had him a bit flummoxed. He was struggling to find an opening to what he had to ask when she said, quietly, ‘Very well. It’s hard to know what is the right thing to say, but let me start by saying that I’m aware you must already know that Mr Latimer and I had – a long association, so you can dispense with the preliminaries.’

  ‘It’s been a shock for you. I am sorry, Mrs Fiore.’ And Gaines found he was, deeply sorry. You didn’t have to be a strict churchgoer to deplore the sin of cheating on one’s wife – and that was what he thought it was, a sin – but at the same time, he couldn’t look at this woman’s face and not be aware that she was suffering as much as Alice Latimer was, perhaps even more.

  ‘That’s kind of you. It won’t be most people’s response,’ she said, and rather bitterly added, ‘In my position, I shall not be allowed to grieve, but I daresay I shall deal with that in my own way. I can only say now how stunned I was by the news and—’

  She stopped abruptly, evidently not as much in command of herself as she believed. Bending her head, hiding her face, she reached out towards a box that stood on a nearby table, its black lacquer reflected in the polished rosewood surface. After extracting a cigarette and a book of safety matches, she asked, ‘Do you mind if I smoke?’

  Though Inskip didn’t mind one way or another, Gaines didn’t smoke himself and hadn’t yet accustomed himself to seeing women smoking, either, but he didn’t object, and after they both declined to join her, she detached a match from the book, inserted the cigarette into a mother-of-pearl holder, lit it and breathed deeply. Her hand was not quite steady.

  In spite of her declared willingness to be frank, Gaines was beginning to wonder if he should not be wary of this woman’s responses and he wanted to watch her reactions. He took the opportunity to catch Inskip’s eye and nodded to him to take up the questioning.

  Inskip, uncomfortable in an unfamiliar situation, obviously didn’t want to, but had no option. ‘Had Mr Latimer ever given you any indication that he was worried, or upset about anything?’

  ‘If you are in politics, Sergeant, you can’t escape that. He was a conscientious man and he was always concerned about something or other regarding his work, especially over what’s been happening lately. He was always anxious to do the right thing, but like all politicians, he’d learned not to allow anything to prey on his mind. You don’t have to take my word for it: no one who knew him would ever have anticipated this.’

  It was no more than could have been expected, no more information than had been given to them by Latimer’s wife, thought Inskip. The next part was going to be more tricky. He was going to have to tread on eggshells and he had never really understood the meaning of tact. He ran a finger under his collar and inwardly cursed Gaines for letting him in for this.

  ‘I understand what you say. But that was his professional life. What about his private concerns? His friends, for instance?’

  He licked his pencil, ready to take down the names, but at that moment deliverance came. Gaines had noticed a copy of The Riddle of the Sands on an adjacent table and his interest had immediately sharpened. ‘You admire Mr Childers’ work, Mrs Fiore?’ he asked, indicating the book.

  She shrugged. ‘It’s not quite my cup of tea, but he’s a personal friend, through his wife, Molly. She’s American, too, and we expatriates tend to stick together.’

  ‘I suppose that meant Mr Latimer was a friend of theirs, too?’

  ‘He did not know Molly, though I believe he had some acquaintance with her husband.’ Her transatlantic accent had become more pronounced. She was treading warily, Gaines thought.

  ‘I expect they found much to discuss – on the future of Ireland, for instance. Mr Childers holds strong views about that.’

  ‘I doubt they knew each other well enough to have discussions, about Ireland or anything else. If they did, Edmund never told me of any. The little time he and I could spend together was time for him to relax and he rarely discussed his work with me.’ Again, these were almost exactly the words Alice Latimer had used. Edmund Latimer’s reputation as a bit of an enigma obviously extended to his private life.

  ‘I won’t pretend the situation we found ourselves in was easy,’ she went on sadly. ‘It won’t be of any importance to you, but you can believe me when I say that what Edmund and I had was more than a passing flirtation. We had been together more than ten years – we couldn’t marry, because my husband was still alive then. Edmund’s own marriage was … an expediency. I’m sure you understand that it’s advisable for any man in his position to have a wife – a single man, unless he’s an obvious womanizer, is always suspect, I’m afraid. It would have been a pity to let unjustified gossip jeopardize his career. We were always discreet, and I know Edmund didn’t believe his wife ever knew about us, or even suspected. He respected Alice, he would never have done anything to hurt her.’

  Gaines was constantly amazed that men in positions such as Latimer had held could risk everything they had worked for all their lives, all that they held dear, families, wives and children, all for the sake of another woman. That Latimer had allowed it to go on for so long, and had in fact got away with it, was still more incredible. He must always have been aware that he faced inevitable discovery and retribution, one day. Not that he was alone in that direction. Rumours circulated about others in public life, about Lloyd George to name but one notorious philanderer for instance, although, being the man he was, the Chancellor had somehow always managed to circumvent them. Nevertheless, it never did to underestimate the power of gossip and rumour and what it could do to a reputation, however good society was at turning a blind eye when necessary, and no one would understand this more than politicians.

  ‘Do you know Mrs Latimer?’

  ‘We have met, once or twice, briefly. She was, I believe, a good wife to Edmund.’ She had finished her cigarette and put it out. The disagreeable smell rising from the ashtray almost overwhelmed the delicate scent of the pot-pourri, but it didn’t seem to bother her.

  They were not getting very far and he decided there was nothing for it but to copy her own directness. ‘Mrs Fiore, it’s a terrible thing when someone’s life has reached a point when it’s no longer worth anything to him. You were, I believe, important enough in Mr Latimer’s life to know that he must have been under some considerable strain.’

  Her eyes flickered. ‘Strain? In what way?’

  ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. It seems more than possible he was being blackmailed. Forgive me, but you must have realized his position laid him open to that sort of thing. Can you throw any light on that?’

  Her hand strayed towards the cigarette box again but she withdrew it and sat with her hands clasped on her lap. At length, she said, ‘We were treading a tightrope, I guess. Yes, of course, it was always there, the possibility that someone would try to use the situation for their own purposes. My own position in society is not so important to me, but Edmund’s career was another matter.’ She fell silent again. Several minutes passed.

  ‘Are you saying you have something to tell us?’ he prompted.

  She merely looked at him. The smart clip of approaching horses’ hooves sounded from the road outside and a hansom cab bowled in front of the window, throwing a passing darkness across the window and shadowing her face for a moment. ‘Mrs Fiore, I believe you do know he was being blackmailed, and you also know the source of it.’ When she still didn’t reply, he said, ‘Surely you don’t wish to leave the cause of his death unexplained?’

  He tho
ught she was going to remain stubbornly silent on that one, too, but in the end she said, ‘It’s not worth pursuing.’

  Not worth pursuing the source of her lover’s suicide? He let the silence continue while the nebulous thought which had come to him in Edmund Latimer’s study began to take on more shape and form. He stood up. ‘Very well. I understand your reluctance to name names, Mrs Fiore, but it doesn’t matter in the long run. Thank you for your time, and your honesty.’

  Yesterday, he’d been sitting in a scented, sunlit, luxurious room in Belgravia, sipping coffee and eating almond biscuits. Him, Joseph Inskip. What would Emma think of that when he told her? Could anything be more of a contrast to that than this dark hell-hole where he was now? he wondered, as the two of them, he and DC Watts, plunged into the Stygian darkness of the dark, narrow passageway and emerged into the hemmed-in square of tottering tenements. Jubilee Court, it was called. Possibly named in an excess of patriotism to celebrate the old Queen’s sixty years’ reign. No, that was only fifteen years past, and these ancient crowded hovels had surely existed before then, before the Stone Age conceivably. Enough rot and filth had accumulated here to believe that possible, except that Stone Age dwellings would have been cleaner. Even so, he thought he would rather be here than in Gaines’ shoes at this moment, facing the task he was about to undertake.