The Price of Silence

by Dolores Gordon-Smith

  Dinner had finished and they were in the blue-and-white sitting room, looking out into the garden, rich with autumn colours. Anthony, who had put in an afternoon at University College Hospital after leaving the solicitors before the servants arrived, had called in at Angel Alley on the way home to get the latest news which he had faithfully recounted to a fascinated Tara.

  Tara wanted to discuss the news, but he was feeling well fed, sleepy and content, and not at all in the mood to talk about housemaids, however murderous they were.

  ‘What am I going to do?’ He took the cup of coffee from Tara, put it on the table and drew her down on the sofa beside him. ‘I’m going to sit on my own sofa in my own home with my own wife, while she tells me how wonderful I am and what she’s done today, and forget about the whole wretched business.’

  ‘No, you’re not,’ said Tara, laughing as she snuggled down beside him. ‘Forget about it, I mean.’ She kissed him lightly. ‘I’ll tell you you’re wonderful, if I must, but I want to know what you’re going to do now. Is Charles Talbot going to make enquiries at this agency, the Diligent?’

  ‘I suppose so,’ said Anthony, reaching out for his coffee. ‘Do we really have to talk about it?’

  ‘I’d like to,’ said Tara seriously, resting her chin on her hand. ‘I don’t think Sir Charles should enquire at the agency.’

  ‘Why not?’ asked Anthony in surprise. ‘Until we manage to track down Paul Diefenbach, the agency is the best lead we’ve got.’

  ‘Don’t you see, Anthony? The housemaid, Eileen Whatshername, said it was Mr Jowett who suggested the Diligent.’

  ‘What about it?’

  ‘That means someone who knew Mr Jowett wanted the Jowetts to employ a servant from that agency. There must be a reason for that. I think the agency is crooked.’

  Anthony laughed. ‘You’re joking.’ He looked at her serious face and shook his head. ‘Come on, Tara, don’t you think that’s a bit far-fetched?’

  ‘Is it? What are these crooks after?’

  ‘Well, as far as we can judge, they’re desperate to find out where Paul Diefenbach is. That’s why Maurice Knowle, poor beggar, was kept tabs on, in case Diefenbach contacted him. Goodness knows where Milly comes into it.’

  ‘And who is Paul Diefenbach?’

  Anthony shrugged. ‘You know as much about him as I do. He’s a rich American, head of the Capital and Counties bank, with pro-German sympathies and a taste for adventure.’

  ‘Rich,’ repeated Tara. ‘With a lot of money at stake, who knows what anyone would do?’

  ‘Money’s a powerful motive, I agree, but to say the entire agency is crooked is crazy,’ protested Anthony. ‘Look, these crooks want to find out about Diefenbach. They know Edward Jowett is a trusted friend of his and, presumably, believe he’s got information about him. So they bribe one of the servants and the rest we know. That’s a fairly straightforward way of proceeding.’

  ‘It is,’ agreed Tara, ‘if you know that one of the servants is crooked. But just think about what Annie Colbeck did, Anthony. You think she was bribed to search Mr Jowett’s study, but she did far more than that. Not only did she help the murderer to escape, you believe she deliberately poisoned the butler with his own heart medicine.’

  ‘She more or less had to, didn’t she?’

  Tara shook her head. ‘Charles Talbot thinks it’s inevitable, because he knows that’s what actually happened. I don’t think it’s inevitable at all. It wouldn’t seem like that at the time. I think a petty crook, the sort who’d take a bribe or a nice present, as she’d probably say, wouldn’t think of murder. Remember, no one knew she was involved. You were the first to work that out. To turn to murder so quickly, to silence the old man, is something that would surely only occur to a hardened criminal. After all, no one knew she was anything but an innocent housemaid. I think that’s a huge jump forward.’

  Anthony drank his coffee thoughtfully. ‘You might be right. It’s a very big jump forward.’

  Encouraged, Tara carried on. ‘Add to that what the priest, Father Quinet, overheard her say in church. She didn’t shy away from the idea of committing a crime, only the idea of being caught.’

  ‘So she’s a crook,’ said Anthony. ‘I don’t disagree.’

  ‘Don’t you think the gang were lucky to find such a woman in the house? I think she was placed there.’

  ‘But …’ Anthony sat for a moment in silence. ‘Even if the agency is dodgy, how could they be sure they’d get a servant into the house? For a start, whoever’s setting this scheme up would have to know that the Jowetts needed a housemaid.’

  His wife gave him a withering look. ‘Anthony, of course the Jowetts needed a housemaid. Everyone with a house of any size is desperate for servants. It was easy enough before the war, but things are different now.’

  ‘All right, I’ll grant you that, but it’s one thing to recommend a particular agency, it’s quite another to know the advice is going to be followed. What if the Jowetts hadn’t taken the advice?’

  ‘What if they hadn’t? As far as we know, all Annie Colbeck was asked to do in the first instance was to search Mr Jowett’s study. The easiest way to do that is to have her employed in the house, but if that hadn’t come off, they’d have found another way. They could’ve sent someone to inspect the gas pipes or see to the plumbing or even just broken in.’

  Anthony laughed once more. ‘It’s a rum thing, Tara, but when you first suggested the idea, I thought it was barmy, but the more you’ve said, the more I agree. It’s one thing to bribe a servant, it’s quite another to have them turn to murder.’ He frowned. ‘I’ll have to have a word with Talbot sooner rather than later.’

  ‘Telephone him,’ suggested Tara. She glanced at the grandfather clock. ‘He’s probably at his club. It’s only a ten-minute walk or so away.’

  ‘I’ll ask him to call,’ said Anthony. ‘It’s your idea. It’s only right you should put it to him.’

  Sir Charles listened intently to Tara, then, finishing his brandy, sighed deeply. ‘I hadn’t taken on board just how remarkable it was to find the likes of Annie Colbeck in the house.’ He looked ruefully at Tara. ‘You’re quite right. She acted very quickly – to say nothing of ruthlessly – to let her comrade escape and cover up the Jowetts’ murder.’

  ‘So you believe it, then?’ asked Tara.

  ‘I do,’ said Sir Charles simply. Tara couldn’t help but look pleased. ‘You’ve saved us from making a very grave error. If I’d enquired at the Diligent for Annie Colbeck, I might as well have sent the gang a postcard explaining what we’re up to.’

  He drummed his fingers on the side of the chesterfield. ‘Unfortunately, it does beg the question of exactly what can we do. After speaking to the two servants this afternoon, I found out what I could about the Diligent. It seems perfectly legitimate. It’s listed in Kelly’s Street Directory at 64, Sullivan Place, off Charing Cross Road.’

  ‘That’s near St Mark’s,’ said Anthony in satisfaction. ‘I thought it might be.’

  ‘And you were quite right, my dear fellow. There’s nothing in police records about them. I sent a man round to have a look at the agency. It was closed, but according to what was written over the door, it was established two years ago by a Mr Joshua Harper. In view of what you’ve worked out, Mrs Brooke, I’m guessing the name is false but the date, at least, seems to be genuine enough.’

  ‘So it’s a real agency,’ said Tara slowly. ‘I did wonder if the Diligent was set up with the sole purpose of getting Annie Colbeck into the Jowetts, but that can’t be so, not if they’ve been going for the last couple of years.’

  ‘They have,’ said Sir Charles. ‘The police officer on the beat confirmed it to my man. He knows Mr Harper by sight well enough and was able to give a description.’

  ‘Which is?’ asked Anthony.

  ‘He’s middle aged, about five foot seven inches tall, grey haired, wears spectacles, well-dressed with an affable manner with, as they say, no distingui
shing characteristics. The only odd thing about him is his accent, which the police constable couldn’t place.’

  ‘The accent is probably American,’ said Anthony. ‘After all, Father Quinet thought the first man in the church was an American. What’s the chances of that man being Joshua Harper?’

  ‘He could be,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘Granted that the agency is crooked, it seems likely that the boss himself would be the man to recommend Annie Colbeck to their client.’

  Tara nodded. ‘I did think of getting Father Quinet into the agency somehow, to see if he could hear Joshua Harper speak. He’d probably recognize the voice, but that would be very dangerous for him.’

  ‘Very dangerous,’ said Sir Charles quickly. ‘We couldn’t ask him to do that.’

  ‘Besides that, there wouldn’t be any reason for Father Quinet to go into the agency,’ said Tara in an abstracted way. ‘The priest’s housekeepers are always women from the parish.’

  ‘And more Catholic than the Pope,’ agreed Sir Charles. ‘You’d never get a Catholic priest using a domestic employment agency. But what’s your point, Mrs Brooke?’

  ‘It’s this,’ said Tara, hesitating. ‘If the agency has been running for two years, with a crook at the helm and the likes of Annie Colbeck on the books, what have they been running?’

  Sir Charles looked puzzled. ‘I don’t understand.’

  ‘Are they running a legitimate enterprise?’ asked Tara. ‘It doesn’t seem likely, does it? I know you said there was nothing on record about them, but why would there be? As soon as they come to police attention, they’ve failed. We’ve said they’re crooks. What sort of crooks?’

  ‘Murderous crooks,’ muttered Anthony.

  She turned to him. ‘You can’t make money out of murder, Anthony.’ She looked at Sir Charles once more. ‘We’ve assumed the agency is crooked. So what sort of crooks are they? What do they want?’

  ‘Money, at a guess,’ said Sir Charles. He grinned. ‘That’s the traditional root of all evil. A crooked servant is the ideal person to organize a robbery, as, indeed, has occurred to more than a few servants before now.’

  Anthony ran his hand round his chin. ‘They could be thieves, I suppose, but my guess is that they’re blackmailers.’

  Sir Charles pursed his lips in a whistle. ‘That fits! After all, they blackmailed Mrs Jowett and Maurice Knowle.’

  ‘Exactly,’ said Tara in satisfaction. ‘That’s what I thought. You said a crooked servant is the ideal person to organize a robbery, but they’re also the ideal person to gather the material for blackmail.’

  Sir Charles reached for a cigarette from the box on the table. ‘Blackmail,’ he repeated slowly. ‘The victim wouldn’t contact the police. The chances are they’d keep quiet and pay up. So Annie Colbeck collects information …’

  ‘And once she’s got the information, the blackmailer calls,’ said Anthony. ‘That’s what happened at the Jowetts. Presumably the blackmailer is our affable Mr Harper. He’s the boss, after all. Annie Colbeck is in the clear. The first the victim knows about it is a visit from an unknown man who has some very damaging information.’

  He looked at Tara enquiringly. ‘I presume Annie Colbeck isn’t the only servant employed by the Diligent. If the Diligent really is running blackmail as a business, what would happen if one of the Diligent people take a post at a house where everyone is completely above board? I know it’s often said that everyone’s got secrets, but I don’t believe everyone is a candidate for blackmail.’

  ‘They’d leave, I suppose,’ said Tara with a shrug. ‘And I imagine they’d only take a position at a likely house, where the employer is a businessman, say, not some little old lady scraping to make ends meet.’

  ‘Fair enough.’ Anthony glanced at Sir Charles. ‘Can you find any proof of this, d’you think? Because it fits in with what we know happened at the Jowetts, I’m fairly sure it’s the truth of the matter, but it’d be good to actually know.’

  Sir Charles clicked his tongue. ‘The trouble is, Brooke, is that blackmail victims, almost by definition, keep quiet. If this is organized blackmail, our blackmailers probably have the sense not to push their victims too far. It’s like the protection rackets the New York gangs operate. Regular payments of what the victim can afford are the order of the day.’

  Anthony snapped his fingers. ‘We’re back to America! Could that be a way of nailing him? If he’s an American crook the Americans might have something on him.’ He frowned. ‘The trouble is, that’ll take time.’

  ‘Too much time,’ agreed Tara. ‘Besides that, he’s bound to have changed his name. In any case, what if he does have a record in the States? That’s not going to tell us what he’s up to now.’ She glanced at Anthony. ‘We need to do something quickly.’

  ‘Yes, but what?’

  ‘We need to get them to show their hand,’ said Tara, then added, in a distant voice, ‘I’m Irish.’

  Anthony blinked at her. ‘I had noticed.’

  ‘Lots of servants are Irish. I know how a household operates. I’d be a good servant.’

  ‘What?’ Anthony was horrified. ‘Tara, if you’ve got any idea of getting these vicious crooks to take you on as a servant, then forget it.’

  ‘It really isn’t a good idea, Mrs Brooke,’ put in Sir Charles.

  Tara bit her lip. ‘No, it probably isn’t. By the time they trusted me to do a job, we’ll have run out of time. It’s a pity, but there it is.’

  ‘Absolutely there it is,’ agreed Anthony fervently. ‘For pity’s sake, Tara, these people are dangerous.’

  ‘I know,’ she said absently. ‘We’ll have to approach them another way.’

  Anthony looked at her warily. ‘Which way?’

  Tara took a deep breath. ‘It’s obvious, isn’t it? We’ll have to employ the agency.’

  There was a dead silence.

  ‘What exactly are you suggesting?’ asked Anthony at length. ‘Because I can tell you now that inviting a servant who we firmly believe is a blackmailer into our house is not something that fills me with enthusiasm. I might not have a shady past but I’ve certainly got plenty of secrets.’

  ‘I wouldn’t invite them here,’ said Tara. ‘No, that’s not my idea at all. You know Grace Russell?’

  Sir Charles looked blank but Anthony nodded. ‘Mrs Russell is a friend of Tara’s,’ he explained to Sir Charles.

  ‘She’s Irish, too,’ said Tara. ‘Her husband, Major Michael Russell, is serving in France, and I know her mother has asked her to come home to Waterford while he’s away.’ Sir Charles still looked blank. ‘The thing is,’ she continued, ‘is that she’s got a very nice flat in Chelsea. Now what I had in mind is this …’

  TWELVE

  The following afternoon, Tara turned off the Charing Cross Road into Sullivan Place. Sullivan Place was a quiet cobbled backwater, shaded by two plane trees, their leaves turning golden orange in the sun. The two facing rows of neat terraced houses were interspersed with small shops, a doctor’s surgery and the occasional office. Tara took note of the shops as she walked past; there was a coal merchant, a greengrocers, a firm of glaziers, an ironmongers and a haberdashers before she came to number 64.

  On the window facing onto the street was written, in ornate gilt lettering, The Diligent Domestic Employment Agency. Over the smartly painted maroon front door was the same legend, with the addition of Established 1913. Proprietor Joshua Harper, Esq.

  The door stood open. Tara took a deep breath, put her shoulders back, and walked in. The tiled hallway was dark, tall and narrow and smelt of disinfectant and soap. As an underworld lair for murderous criminals – Tara had used the word lair unconsciously to herself – it was disappointingly mundane.

  Halfway down the hall, opposite the flight of stairs, was another door. On the frosted glass of the upper half was written, again in ornate gilt script, Inquiries. Please enter.

  As she pushed open the door, a bell tinkled above her head. A severely-dressed woman, her hair sc
raped back into an unflattering bun and wearing wire-rimmed spectacles, looked up from where she was seated at a typewriter.

  She had a small port-wine birthmark on her left cheek, which she’d attempted to conceal with make-up. Apart from that, she would, thought Tara, be quite attractive if she allowed herself to be. It’s a disguise, she thought, with quick insight. She’s disguised as a lady clerk. She’s playing a part. She’s not real. Tara was suddenly aware of how unnerving that knowledge was.

  The woman stood up and came from behind the desk. ‘Good morning. I am Miss Anston, Mr Harper’s confidential clerk. Can I help you?’

  Tara swallowed, trying to get a grip on herself. She had to play a part too, the part of a woman in search of a domestic servant. I can do this, she told herself. I have done this. I’ve been to domestic agencies before. The memory of setting up house with Anthony came to her aid. She’d visited four agencies then and they all looked much the same as this one.

  At the rear of the room was a door, slightly ajar, bearing the word Manager on a wooden plaque screwed to the door three-quarters of the way up. The room was furnished with three filing cabinets, a desk with a typewriter and a table with four hard wooden chairs. Even the individual notes in the room – the dark green Lincrusta wallpaper, the vase of flowers, and the fire burning cheerfully in the black-leaded grate seemed, in their essence of respectability, to be playing a part. It was a part she knew, though, and that helped to steady her nerves.

  ‘Can I see Mr Harper?’ she asked.

  ‘I’m afraid Mr Harper is unavailable,’ said Miss Anston. She flashed out an unconvincing smile. She pulled out one of the hard wooden chairs and motioned Tara towards it. ‘However, I am authorized to deal with all enquiries in his absence, Mrs …?’

  Tara gathered her skirts around her and sat down. ‘I’m Mrs Russell,’ she said. ‘Mrs Grace Russell.’ She opened her fussy little reticule, so different from the sort of bag she usually carried and, opening her card case, placed a visiting card upon the desk.