The Stratford Murder

by Mike Hollow

  ‘And what did he say?’

  ‘He said they were his grandmother’s, and she’d left them to him when she died.’

  ‘Well,’ said Jago, ‘that was very thoughtful of her, wasn’t it?’

  When they got back to the car Jago didn’t start the engine straight away. Instead he sat holding the steering wheel in silence, deep in thought. Cradock began to fidget in the front passenger seat.

  ‘Do you think that Horncastle fellow was telling the truth about the engagement ring, sir?’ he said. ‘About it being a fake, I mean. Supposing it’s real?’

  ‘It doesn’t matter for the next twelve months, because Evans can bring the ticket in and redeem it any time he likes for his fifteen shillings plus a few bob interest. The real question is whether it actually belongs to Evans or not.’

  ‘So that business about his grandmother – do you reckon he just made that up?’

  ‘Well, it would certainly be a convenient coincidence for her to have the same taste in rings as Joan.’

  ‘Does that mean we need to go back and see Evans again?’

  ‘Indeed it does.’

  ‘Any chance of a bite to eat on the way, sir?’

  Jago sighed. ‘We’ll see,’ he said.

  Jago had never had children, but in this moment he felt like the father of a four-year-old. It was the way young Cradock sometimes came out with these streams of questions, fired randomly at him in the assumption that he’d know all the answers. Still, he supposed, better that than a detective constable who asked no questions. Not for the first time, he resolved inwardly to rein in his natural reactions and do his best to develop the boy. He abandoned his attempt to think.

  ‘Now, I have a question for you, Peter,’ he said, with what he hoped was not too theatrical a note of patience in his voice. ‘Apart from this little business of the rings, there’s the mystery of Charlie Lewis’s missing money, Joan’s missing husband and the unknown father of Joan’s child. In all these cases, the person most likely to know the answer is dead – or in Richard’s case, possibly dead but certainly out of contact. Now, who’s the only person we haven’t spoken to yet out of those we know had dealings with Joan before her death?’

  Cradock thought for a while, his face showing the intense concentration he was applying to the task. Suddenly his frown eased.

  ‘I’ve got it,’ he said. ‘That medium lady, Madame Zara. You mean you think she can get in touch with some of those dead people and turn up some evidence for us?’

  Jago already regretted his attempt to cultivate Cradock’s mind.

  ‘I most certainly do not. What do you take me for? That sort of stuff’s for gullible fools – but those mediums are experts in reading people.’

  ‘Reading people?’

  ‘Yes, it’s one of their techniques. They ask you questions that could apply to anyone, then they use whatever you say to convince you that they know something about you. I’m just wondering whether she worked that trick on Joan when they had the seance that Beryl told us about – the one that Audrey took her to. I don’t like these people, but I’ll take evidence from anyone if it’ll help us find out who murdered Joan Lewis.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY

  ‘Can you see number 77 yet?’ Jago asked over the noise of the engine.

  ‘Not yet, sir,’ Cradock replied. ‘Must be down the far end, I reckon.’

  Jago drove to the end of Eleanor Road and parked the Riley at the kerbside, facing the green expanse of West Ham Park.

  ‘Nice place to live,’ he said, turning the engine off. ‘All those trees, grass, fresh air. Pity about the anti-aircraft gun, but I don’t suppose the estate agents mention that. Let’s see if Madame Zara’s at home. If she’s that gifted, she should be expecting us.’

  They walked the short distance back towards number 77, a neat little terraced house with a green front door. A smart maroon-and-black saloon car was parked outside it. Jago’s knock at the door was answered by a man in his sixties with extravagant whiskers and an equally extravagant waistcoat under his grey jacket. As Jago took in the man’s appearance the word ‘flamboyant’ came to mind.

  ‘Good afternoon, sir,’ said Jago, showing his warrant card. ‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago of West Ham CID, and this is Detective Constable Cradock. We’re looking for a lady called Madame Zara.’

  ‘Well, you’ve come to the right place. Come in, gentlemen.’ He ushered them into the living room.

  ‘And you are?’ asked Jago.

  ‘Ballantyne’s the name, Greville Ballantyne. What’s it about?’

  ‘We’re investigating the death of a young lady called Joan Lewis. We’ve been told she attended a seance conducted by Madame Zara with her mother-in-law, Mrs Audrey Lewis, in connection with the whereabouts of the deceased’s husband, Richard.’

  ‘I see. If you’d like to take a seat, I’ll fetch her.’

  He left the room, and Jago took in the surroundings. What he saw reminded him of a museum, or perhaps a film set. It was tastefully decorated, but in a particularly turn-of-the-century style. A couple of framed music hall posters on the wall in an alcove caught his eye, and he was about to take a closer look when his host returned. Ballantyne stood aside to make way for a woman, who crossed the room towards Jago with her right hand outstretched.

  ‘How do you do, Inspector,’ she said, taking his hand and shaking it limply. ‘Madame Zara, astrologist and medium.’

  Her voice struck Jago as an intriguing mix of Yorkshire and the ‘correct’ English affected by BBC wireless announcers, as if perhaps she’d once had elocution lessons but they hadn’t been entirely successful.

  ‘And in case you were wondering,’ she added, ‘this is my husband, so if this is an official visit I suppose you should call me Mrs Ballantyne.’

  ‘Thank you. I’d been given to understand that Madame Zara was a stage name.’

  ‘Yes, that’s correct. My friends know me as Vera – that’s my real name. It means “faith”. I’m a Pisces, you see, born on the nineteenth of March, and my mother knew that that would make me a faithful and caring person, so she gave me an appropriate name.’

  Here we go again, thought Jago. There must be more horoscope-lovers around than I’d thought.

  ‘What’s your zodiac sign, Inspector?’ the woman continued.

  ‘I’m afraid I don’t know,’ he replied.

  ‘You should, you know. Some people ignore what’s written in the stars for their life, and they’re the poorer for it. What’s your birth date? I may be able to give you some helpful insights.’

  ‘Well, supposing I were to tell you my birthday was the twelfth of November.’

  ‘Then you are a Scorpio.’

  ‘I see, and what would the stars say for me?’

  ‘They would tell you this is a week in which you should do what you feel is right. It’s up to you. Your planets are favourable for action, so if you’re thinking you should take the plunge on some matter, this could be the time to do it. But is that your real birth date?’

  ‘Surely the stars should be able to tell you that.’

  ‘I see you are sceptical, Inspector. That’s a pity. It’s difficult to help those who have no trust. I expect you would say a policeman cannot trust anyone or anything, but surely even policemen have to trust sometimes. I’d be happy to give you a personal reading – my fees are very modest – then you’d know your ruling planet, your lucky number, and the birthdate of your most suitable marriage partner, for example.’

  ‘I don’t think that’ll be necessary, thank you.’

  ‘Or for your colleague?’

  Cradock glanced at Jago and shook his head. ‘No thanks, madam.’

  There was a brief silence, broken when Ballantyne stepped forward, rubbing his hands together.

  ‘Shall I make some tea?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes, please, dear,’ said Vera. ‘A cup of tea for you, gentlemen?’

  ‘That would be very nice,’ said Jago.

  ‘And as i
t’s getting on for lunchtime,’ Ballantyne continued, ‘perhaps I could make you a sandwich. Would cheese and pickle be all right?’

  From the corner of his eye Jago saw Cradock’s eyes light up.

  ‘That would be most kind,’ he said. ‘But are you sure you can spare the butter?’

  ‘Actually, we don’t have any. You know what it’s like now the ration’s down to two ounces. Would you mind margarine instead? I can’t abide the stuff myself – goodness only knows what it’s made of.’

  ‘Margarine will be fine.’

  Ballantyne left the room, promising to be back soon.

  ‘So how can I help you?’ said Vera when the door closed behind him.

  ‘Well, as I said to your husband, we’re investigating the death of a young lady called Joan Lewis. We’ve been told she attended a seance conducted by you, with her mother-in-law, Mrs Audrey Lewis. Is that correct?’

  ‘Yes, that’s right.’

  ‘And you’ve known Audrey for some time?’

  ‘Oh, yes. Actually we’re sort of related. Not really, that is, but our husbands are cousins, or were, until poor Charles passed away. That’s why she originally came to me for help when she wanted to get in touch with him, you see.’

  ‘And the time Joan came with her, what happened?’

  ‘Audrey wanted to contact Charles, but it proved not to be possible. Then she asked me if I could get any news of her son, Richard.’

  ‘Joan’s husband.’

  ‘Yes. He’s been reported missing in France, and Audrey’s very concerned. But we weren’t able to find out anything.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Joan wasn’t a believer, so we couldn’t get through to anyone. She was a sceptic, like you. She had this little smirk – like she was laughing at me.’

  ‘I expect you’re quite perceptive about people. Did you pick up anything in Joan that might help us understand what happened to her?’

  ‘She seemed very ordinary. Not much colour to her, a grey sort of person. She was flat, emotionless, but then she didn’t know what’d happened to her husband, so naturally she was preoccupied. All I can say is she was what you might call a closed book – one that I couldn’t open.’

  ‘I see. Have you had any other contact with her, before or since that seance?’

  ‘No. I probably wouldn’t have met her at all if she hadn’t been Audrey’s daughter-in-law.’

  ‘And you didn’t learn anything that might shed light on why someone would want to kill her?’

  ‘No, nothing at all, really. Audrey did most of the talking – well, she tends to do that when younger people are present. She just asked if I could make contact with the spirit world and find out what’d happened to Richard.’

  ‘But it didn’t work.’

  ‘On that occasion I wasn’t able to make contact, but in a way that’s a good thing. It could indicate that Richard’s still alive – he’d only be contactable if he’d passed away.’

  ‘Hmm. And what did Joan have to say about that?’

  ‘Joan didn’t really say anything, as far as I can recall. If anything, she seemed rather indifferent, as if she didn’t care, but whether that was about the seance or what’d happened to her husband I really couldn’t say. I’m sorry I can’t be more helpful, but that’s the only time I’ve met her.’

  The door opened and Ballantyne entered with cups of tea which he distributed to his wife and the two detectives. He disappeared again, to return moments later with a plate of sandwiches for each of his guests, one of which Cradock seized appreciatively.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Jago, setting his plate down on the delicate Edwardian occasional table beside his chair. ‘It’s a very nice house you have here, Mr Ballantyne. So close to the park.’

  ‘Yes. We’ve only been here since last year. After a lifetime of touring and living in theatrical digs it was strange to have a home of our own, but since we bought this place it’s been wonderful.’

  ‘You have a theatrical background? I thought perhaps you had when I saw the posters on the wall over there.’

  ‘Oh, yes, I was a professional vocalist. Mainly in the music halls, you know. In fact, I was going to ask you something – about your name. It’s rather unusual.’

  ‘It’s Cornish.’

  ‘I see. Pardon me for asking a personal question, but are you by any chance related to Harry Jago?’

  ‘That was my father’s name.’

  ‘And was he a singer?’

  ‘Yes, he was, actually.’

  ‘Then I knew him.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘Yes, we both worked the music halls back in the old days, and our paths crossed more than once. In fact I remember him saying one night – it was at the Leeds Empire, I think, although I may be mistaken there – that he’d become a father. He was so excited. He’d had a son, and I suppose that was you, unless you have a brother.’

  ‘No, I was his only son. Did you know him well?’

  ‘Well enough to share a drink with him to celebrate your birth. I seem to remember our celebrations were quite extensive. I envied him his good fortune – sadly my dear wife and I have never been blessed with children. He was very proud of you then, and I’m sure he’d be just as proud of you now. He was a fine fellow, your father, and I was sorry when I heard he’d passed away. But that was years ago, wasn’t it? You must have been just a child.’

  ‘That’s right. He died when I was fourteen.’

  ‘Well, he was a splendid chap, always lots of fun. Like me, though, he never made it to the top. I think he struggled at times.’

  ‘In what way?’

  ‘Financially, of course, but then we all did. You didn’t make a lot of money if you were in the bottom half of the bill. But he had trouble with his health, too, although I don’t know what it was.’

  ‘I never knew that, although I do know he and my mother went through some hard times. You must’ve had a more successful career than him, judging by this lovely home.’

  ‘I wouldn’t say that. We’ve only got this place because we came into a little money – a legacy, you know.’

  ‘I see. I noticed a very nice car outside too. Is that yours?’

  ‘Yes, there was enough left to buy that.’

  ‘A Singer, isn’t it?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ballantyne laughed. ‘My little joke, I suppose. If I’m going to own a car, it really ought to be a singer, like me. It’s not new, of course, but the man I bought it from said it’d only had one careful lady owner, a clergyman’s widow. He said it’s got independent front-wheel springing, which is apparently the latest thing and very good, and you can top up the battery without taking out the floorboards, although I must confess I’m not entirely sure what topping up the battery means. There’s a little garage round the corner where a man does that sort of thing for us.’

  ‘It sounds excellent. I know my father never made enough money to own a car.’

  ‘Well, perhaps if he’d lived longer … He had a wonderful voice, and I’m not just saying that.’

  ‘I’m sure he’s right, Inspector,’ said Vera. ‘My husband was a very fine singer himself in his day, so he should know. He’s a professional coach now – teaching young girls who want to be singers, who fancy themselves as the next Deanna Durbin. They won’t be, of course, but it helps to pay the bills.’

  ‘And who am I to dull their fantasies, deny their dreams?’ said Ballantyne. ‘I see it as my duty – in days like these, people need a little romance in their lives.’

  ‘You must excuse my husband,’ said Vera. ‘He used to sing romantic songs, and he still thinks girls swoon at the sound of his voice. Mind you, they did when we first met. I was on the stage too, in those days. I was an acrobatic dancer, thrown about all over the stage twice nightly by a couple of handsome young men. It’s a miracle they never dropped me – I probably wouldn’t be here today if they had. I was young then, of course.’

  ‘And very beautiful,’ said Ballantyne.
>
  ‘Then, yes, perhaps,’ replied Vera. ‘It’s funny, isn’t it? When you’re twenty you never think you might be fifty one day. You see a woman of that age and you laugh at her, because you’ve still got everything she’s lost. You don’t think you’ll ever be her yourself. Men pay you attention when you’re twenty, but when you’re fifty they don’t even see you. It doesn’t seem to work like that with men. My husband’s sixty-two, but he dyes his hair and cuts a grand manner, and the youngsters think he’s a suave and intriguing man of the world. Strange how a young woman can fall for a man old enough to be her father, yet no young man gives a second glance to a woman of my age. I don’t need to consult the stars to tell you that, Inspector.’

  Ballantyne looked a little disconsolate at her description of him, but he said nothing. Jago wondered whether she’d noticed this, because she changed the subject.

  ‘I’m sorry to hear you lost your father at such a young age, Inspector,’ she began. ‘Have you ever contacted him since he passed over to the other side?’

  ‘No, and I’ve no plans to do that.’

  ‘But you should. There’s a lot more interest these days in spiritualism – it’s been growing ever since the last war. So many people have lost loved ones, and the chance to get in touch with them is very precious to them. Sir Arthur Conan Doyle said spiritualism is the greatest revelation mankind has ever had and will draw all religions together.’

  ‘Well, I’m afraid you’re talking to the wrong person. I’m too much of a sceptic.’

  ‘As you are about horoscopes. And yet I sense you’re facing a difficult decision, and it concerns another person, someone who’s important in your life. Astrology can help. Millions of people believe in it, including some very important figures.’

  ‘Yes, I’ve heard Hitler and some of his pals are very keen on it.’

  ‘Well, he’s not one of the people I was thinking of, but if our leaders paid more attention to his horoscope they might be better able to thwart him. It’s the key to understanding the man. He’s a Taurus, and his horoscope has Saturn in the tenth house. If they studied that they’d know it’s the sign of immense ambition, authority and success, but also that if he lets that ambition control him it will all end in defeat. A man with that kind of ambition will think the world’s there for the taking.’