Tara’s hand dropped. ‘What d’you mean? Who are you?’ She knew her voice was trembling.
He rested his chin on his hand. ‘Shall we say I’m here on behalf of Mrs Hamilton?’ he said softly.
For a moment Tara was thrown. Who on earth was Mrs Hamilton? Panic must have shown in her face, because the snake’s smile widened. Then she remembered the envelope Bertha had supposedly posted. ‘Mrs Hamilton?’ she wavered. ‘Tony’s wife?’
Mr Smith’s smile widened. ‘Precisely, dear lady.’
Tara stared at him.
‘Mrs Hamilton has, I’m sorry to say, become increasingly suspicious of her husband’s frequent absences,’ said Mr Smith, examining his manicured fingernails. ‘Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, Mrs Russell, as one of the poets so wisely said.’
Tara sank into an armchair and nodded dumbly. Privately she was congratulating Mr Smith on his cleverness. By bringing the wronged Mrs Hamilton into the picture, he had neatly distracted suspicion from Bertha. The fact that Mrs Hamilton was a total figment of the imagination didn’t detract from the cleverness of the scheme.
‘I am a kindly man, Mrs Russell,’ said Mr Smith, looking up from his fingernails. ‘Mrs Hamilton would have undoubtedly been upset if she had seen the letters you have written to her husband.’
‘Letters?’ There was, of course, only one, but Smith didn’t know that.
‘Letters,’ he repeated softly. He drew an envelope from his breast pocket and, opening it, unfolded a piece of paper. ‘This is a copy,’ he said. ‘The original is, you will be glad to know, in safe keeping.’ He cleared his throat. ‘“My darling Tony”,’ he began. ‘“How long do I have to wait before I feel the touch of your caress—”’
Tara threw up her hands as if to shield herself. ‘No!’
‘“Madness … Tender yearnings … Overwhelming desire”.’ He lowered the paper and looked at her over the top of his spectacles. The very purple prose of the letter owed almost everything to Three Weeks by Elinor Glyn, but fortunately Mr Smith did not appear to be versed in popular fiction. ‘Shall I read more?’
‘No,’ she whispered.
‘Now, to save Mrs Hamilton distress – which I am sure you are anxious to do – I could be persuaded not to contact Mrs Hamilton in return for a small sum. Shall we say a hundred pounds? I will, of course, keep the original letter. You need not worry it will fall into the wrong hands.’
‘What about the other letters?’ she managed to say. She wanted to keep the pretence there were other letters very much alive.
‘We will deal with those in due course. A hundred pounds?’
She shook her head. ‘I haven’t got the money. I can’t possibly raise that amount.’
‘Maybe your friends could help?’ he suggested softly. ‘Charlie, perhaps?’
She gave a little yelp. That was partly acting and partly genuine. For a few moments she’d forgotten all about Charles Talbot. She was pleased, for once, to see his snake smile increase. ‘You know about Charlie?’
‘I know a great deal, Mrs Russell. You really had better co-operate, otherwise Mrs Hamilton will be so upset. To say nothing of Major Michael Russell or, indeed, Charlie himself.’
‘I’ll need some time to get the money.’
‘You have until five o’clock this evening,’ said Mr Smith. He replaced the letter in his pocket and stood up. ‘I require one hundred pounds in five-pound notes in a plain brown envelope.’ He glanced at the crucifix on the wall and grinned. ‘I see you are a Catholic.’ He seemed to be privately amused. ‘That’s very fitting. You know the church of St Mark the Evangelist? It’s on Hob Lane, Soho.’
Tara’s eyes widened. She couldn’t help it. That was Father Quinet’s church, the church where, as far as Anthony and she were concerned, this had all began. She had enough composure to shake her head.
‘Find it. Inside the church, on the left-hand side, there is a statue of St Mark on a marble plinth. You will leave the envelope with the money behind the statue at five o’clock.’
It wasn’t in the script, but Tara’s temper suddenly flared. ‘And what if I don’t?’ she snarled, her green eyes narrowed.
Mr Smith wasn’t rattled. ‘You will be an example to the others I … er … help. Every so often a lesson doesn’t go amiss. Do you remember Lady Sylvia Newham? Or Mrs Isa Whitehope? Mrs Whitehope, I regret to say, chose to end it all when we were forced to inform her husband of her frailties. Lady Sylvia now lives permanently abroad. She was last heard of in a very insalubrious establishment in Naples, a place where no lady should ever go.’ He smiled once more. ‘So you see, Mrs Russell, I really do have your best interests at heart.’
Tara bit down her temper. ‘All right. Five o’clock.’
Tara took a deep breath as she entered the church. She had never been in St Mark’s before, but a lifetime of Catholicism made her surroundings comfortingly familiar. At the front of the church, above the altar, dim in the slanting evening light, was a gilded scene of the Crucifixion, with the tabernacle beneath, the sanctuary lamp flickering in its red glass stand. The empty pews stretched out between the side altars, the occasional candle burning as a token of silent prayer. The evening sun, slanting through the windows, cast isolated pools of light on the glowing oak of the altar rails.
It was all very quiet, but she wasn’t alone. She hadn’t seen him at first, but at the front of the church knelt a man, his head bowed. Was it Harper? No. She let her breath out in relief as the man, an elderly priest dressed in a cassock, got up, genuflected stiffly and, biretta in hand, slowly walked down the aisle and through the open door. He idly glanced at her in passing. Tara knelt quickly and assumed an attitude of prayer.
Was that Father Quinet? Whoever he was, he had gone. Tara wanted to be alone before looking for the statue of St Mark. Not only didn’t she want any curious eyes to see what she was doing, she felt oddly guilty about using a church for what could only be described as a plot.
St Mark had his own side altar. Book in hand with a lion at his feet, peering from behind his robes – a lion was the traditional symbol of St Mark, she reminded herself – St Mark stood on the other side of the altar rails. She was really glad the priest had gone. Slipping inside the altar, she groped around the base of the statue. She knew it was just her imagination, but she couldn’t help feeling reproved by the stern, bearded, stone face above her.
There was a gap between the hem of the stone robes and the marble plinth. With another quick look round to see she really was alone, Tara took the brown envelope containing twenty crisp five-pound notes from her bag and slid it into the gap.
Now what she should have done next was leave the church and go back to the flat in Oakley Gardens. Tara left the church, custom prompting her to kneel and cross herself before she went out, but she hesitated at the door.
Nothing would happen in church, she was sure. Anthony and Sir Charles had dismissed the idea of telling Father Quinet or his superior, Father Croft, that the church was being used for illicit purposes. The time was short and there was every chance that Father Croft would refuse Tara permission to leave the money under the statue. Even if he did agree, Anthony had a shrewd suspicion that Father Croft would insist on being present.
No; the church was merely the letter box. The action would happen outside and Tara wanted to see it. Walking slowly down the steps, she looked round for inspiration. A workmen’s tent, with a brazier full of hot coals on which a kettle was gently steaming, was a short distance away. She could hide behind that, she supposed, but what if the workmen asked her why she was lurking behind their tent?
A few doors down and across the road, a tea shop called, accurately but unoriginally, Church View, seemed a better prospect. Its chief attraction, from Tara’s point of view, was that it did indeed command a view of the church.
Settling herself at a gingham-covered table in a window seat, Tara ordered a roll and butter and a pot of tea. The waitress, who was inclined to be chatty, retired, obviously
slightly hurt by Tara’s abstraction.
There were very few passers-by on the street. Tara had time to look at them all but there was no Joshua Harper. She glanced at the clock. Quarter past five. He must be here soon. The base of St Mark’s statue was a good hiding place but he surely didn’t want to leave a hundred pounds lying around. Twenty minutes past five. The tea arrived and Tara, hardly noticing what she did, poured herself a cup and bit absently into her bread roll.
The minutes ticked on, then Tara cut short an exclamation. A thin woman, dressed in black with a black cloche hat with a veil that effectively hid her face, crossed the road towards the church. Looking round, she mounted the steps. Bertha Maybrick!
Although Tara couldn’t see her face, she was sure it was Bertha. Anthony and Sir Charles thought Harper would come. They weren’t expecting Bertha. What if they missed her?
Tara pulled out her purse, put a ten-shilling note on the table, called, ‘Keep the change!’ to the startled waitress, raced out of the shop and across the road.
Gaining the shelter of the pillars at the side of the church door, Tara waited for her breath to steady.
Here she was! Bertha walked down the short flight of steps, her chin held high. The sheer smugness of her attitude infuriated Tara. She was a hair’s breadth away from stepping out and accosting her, when a man in a trench coat briefly appeared at the top of the steps. He gave a thumbs-up to no one she could see, then everything seemed to happen very quickly.
Three men in khaki overalls and donkey jackets stepped out from the workmen’s tent and the man in the trench coat came down the steps, blocking Bertha’s escape.
They closed in, forming a loose ring around her. ‘Excuse me, Madam,’ said one of the workmen, ‘we have reason to believe you are an accessory to blackmail and—’
He didn’t get any further. Bertha screamed at the top of her voice, the sound utterly shocking in that quiet street. Plunging her hand into her bag, she drew out a wicked-looking knife. Screaming, she leapt at the nearest man, slashing out with the knife.
‘Bloody hell!’ He lurched back, narrowly missing the glittering blade.
Bertha whirled as one of the other men came from behind, catching him across the face. Swearing, he staggered back, a hand to his cheek, blood oozing between his fingers.
Still screaming, Bertha held the knife momentarily above her head, then turned and made a run for it.
Tara, who had stepped out, horror-struck from behind the pillar, made a wild grab for her as she ran past. She caught Bertha’s veil, her hand twisting in the material. The veil tore but the hat, firmly pinned to Bertha’s hair, didn’t come off. Bertha gave a shriek of pain, stumbled and swung round, eyes wild.
‘You!’ she screamed and raised the knife to strike.
Tara hit out, then another man was there, a big man, the elderly priest, Father Quinet. ‘Arrête!’ he shouted, catching hold of Bertha’s arm. ‘Madam! Arrête! Stop!’
‘Men!’ yelled Bertha. She wrested her arm free and struck out. ‘I hate men!’ The knife sank into Father Quinet’s shoulder. Groaning, he doubled over.
Freeing the knife, Bertha raised it to strike at his exposed neck, but Tara chopped at her hand, catching Bertha on the wrist. The knife flew out of her hand and skittered away across the cobbles.
Bertha made a dive for the knife, picked it up, then, seeing the men coming towards her, ran.
Tara, with the wounded Father Quinet leaning on her, had to let her go. Two of the workmen pounded after Bertha.
The third workman, the one who had been slashed across the face, and the man in the trench coat came to Tara’s aid, supporting the elderly priest.
‘You need help,’ said Tara anxiously, looking at the blood still trickling down the workman’s face.
‘I just hope they catch her,’ the workman replied. He grinned ruefully, then winced, holding a hand to his cheek. His voice, as Tara had expected, was educated, at odds with his clothes. ‘Good God, what a wild cat! My name’s Hoyland, by the way, Captain Hoyland, and this is Lieutenant Staples.’
Lieutenant Staples gently undid Father Quinet’s coat buttons, examining the wound.
‘It’s just as well you were there, miss,’ Staples said to Tara. ‘She’d have murdered the priest if you hadn’t got the knife off her.’
‘I shouldn’t have been here at all,’ said Tara guiltily. ‘If I hadn’t tried to stop her …’
Staples shook his head. ‘She’d have gone for the first person to get in her way,’ he said firmly.
Father Quinet’s eyelids flickered. He muttered something in French they couldn’t catch.
‘Come on, let’s get him inside,’ said Staples. ‘We can telephone for a doctor from the church. You too, Hoyland,’ he added to his companion. ‘You’ll need stitches in that wound.’
FIFTEEN
Bertha Maybrick ran the length of Hob Lane. She could hear the thud of feet behind her, but she didn’t look back. She was heading for the safety of Charing Cross Road, for the anonymity of the crowd.
There were very few people on Hob Lane but there, coming towards her, was a policeman, burly in his official cape. He stopped and stared as she ran down the street towards him.
‘What’s …?’ he began, when Bertha caught at his arm.
‘Help! There’s two men chasing me! Make them stop!’
The policeman blinked, looking down at her terrified face, then stepped out into the road. ‘Leave this to me, Madam.’
The policeman blocked the way. Bertha slipped down a side alley, hearing furious voices behind her. She had seconds, nothing more. The back gate of the yard into a pub stood ajar. She could hear the men in the alley, but, straightening her clothing, adjusting her hat and steadying her breathing, she stepped into the pub confidentially and out of the front door. It led, as she hoped, onto Charing Cross Road.
A bus, caught in the traffic, was moving very slowly along the road. Catching hold of the brass pole, she swung herself on board.
‘Here!’ objected the conductor. ‘This ain’t an official stop.’
‘Leave it out,’ said Bertha, sitting down. ‘I’ve just finished eight hours cleaning and I wants to get home.’ Grumbling, the conductor took her tuppence for the fare.
With her hand shielding her face, Bertha was delighted to see two workmen, a policeman in tow, hunting the pavement outside the pub. She’d shown them. Men!
Where should she go? As the bus growled along Charing Cross Road towards St Giles and Tottenham Court Road, she reviewed her options. That cow, Mrs Russell, was obviously in on it.
Harper, who thought himself so clever, had obviously been stung. That Mrs Russell might seem like a pushover, but she clearly had hired some toughs to do her dirty work. What had the plan been? To give Harper a going-over and warn him to leave Mrs Russell alone? It was just her luck that she’d been collared while Harper got away with it.
What next? She couldn’t go back to Oakley Gardens, that was for sure, not now Mrs Russell had seen her.
That wasn’t a problem. Her box, her servant’s box, which was at Mrs Russell’s, contained a few clothes, that was all. All her things, the things she really valued, were safe and sound in her own house. She smiled grimly as she thought of her own house.
A nice little place, it was, paid for by her own hard work. Being in service was a lousy job, being treated like dirt, but being in service with blackmail – well, that was different. Secrets came expensive and had paid for her house. Besides that, she enjoyed it. She enjoyed getting her own back, seeing those posh buggers, who thought she was there just to run round after them, squirm and whine.
She’d better tell Harper that his precious Mrs Russell was finished. She fingered the envelope containing the five-pound notes in her handbag. Harper needn’t know she’d collected them. She hoped this wouldn’t put Harper off the blackmail lark. The blackmail scheme had worked well. Money for old rope, it was, but he’d had some big ideas lately. It was all secret, of course, but she
knew what was going on.
She still wanted paying, though. She’d done her bit and no mistake.
Well, if Harper tried to get away without paying her, she’d have her revenge. That was a nice little scheme he was cooking up with Annie Colbeck and they didn’t know she knew. Annie always got the plum jobs, the easy pickings.
‘Bedford Avenue!’ called the conductor.
Bedford Avenue? It wasn’t far to Sullivan Place. Yes, first things first and tell Harper.
Bertha got off the bus.
It was only when she had turned into Sullivan Place that she realized there might be more to the Mrs Russell affair than she thought. Her stomach turned over as she saw the police wagon outside number 64. Policemen in uniform and men who she recognized as plain-clothes cops, were standing around.
Bertha Maybrick took a sudden interest in the newsagent’s window, then, turning around, quickly walked away.
‘Nothing,’ said Anthony in disgust. ‘We’ve got nothing.’
He had good reason to feel frustrated. True, the Diligent Agency had been raided and the files seized, but neither Harper nor Miss Anston had been on the premises. Added to that, although the files contained names and addresses and a note of the amounts paid, all the paperwork obviously referred to blackmail victims. There was no mention of France, Paul Diefenbach or – Anthony hadn’t realized just how much he had been hoping for this – Sister Marie-Eugénie or Milly.
Sir Douglas Lynton looked pained. ‘I wouldn’t say we had nothing, Brooke.’ It was seven o’clock in the evening. Anthony, together with Tara and Charles Talbot, were in Sir Douglas’s office in Scotland Yard. ‘After all,’ said Sir Douglas, tamping the tobacco down in his pipe, ‘we’ve flushed out as vicious a nest of blackmailers I’ve ever come across. I know the idea was to catch Harper and Miss Anston red-handed, but once the balloon went up at St Mark’s, we had no choice but to act.’
The Price of Silence Page 12