Sir Douglas snorted in disgust. ‘Dammit, Talbot, if someone wanted to murder James Dunwoody, they could shoot him any time they fancied. They need hardly plot and plan weeks beforehand. Dash it, man, the idea’s ridiculous!’
‘Of course it is,’ said Anthony quietly. ‘I think poor Mr Dunwoody was incidental to the proceedings. What about the fact that this so-called Mrs Marston had a birthmark? Don’t you find that significant?’
Sir Douglas sighed. ‘I certainly don’t find it as compelling as you seem to.’ He turned to Sir Charles. ‘Lots of women have birthmarks, so there’s no need to be so excited about it. I don’t know where the nursemaid’s got too, but if there was a man waving a gun about, she very likely took fright and ran off.’
‘So where is she now?’ demanded Sir Charles. ‘Why hasn’t she come forward?’
‘Damned if I know,’ muttered Sir Douglas, ‘but dash it, Talbot, this can’t be your precious plot.’
‘Why not? According to Father Quinet, the plot was to murder a man and endanger a little girl. I think she’s been kidnapped.’
Once again Sir Douglas snorted in disbelief. ‘Kidnapped? My dear sir, this is London, not New York. We don’t have kidnappings here.’
‘That’s not a natural law,’ said Anthony mildly. ‘That’s a case of custom and habit, surely.’
‘Joshua Harper, who’s in league with Annie Colbeck, is American,’ said Sir Charles softly.
‘But …’ began Sir Douglas, when the telephone on his desk rang. With a brief excuse, he picked it up.
‘Well,’ said Sir Douglas, replacing the receiver after a short conversation. ‘We’ve got your Mrs Harrop downstairs, Brooke.’
‘My Mrs Harrop?’ began Anthony blankly, then stopped. ‘The Jowetts’ housekeeper, you mean? What does she want?’
‘We asked her to bring any post that arrived for the Jowetts to us,’ said Sir Douglas. ‘It is a murder enquiry, after all, for all you seem to have lost sight of it, what with plots and kidnaps and heaven knows what. She usually leaves any letters at the desk but she was insistent that this particular letter should go to someone in charge, as she put it. Apparently it’s got a foreign stamp.’ He grinned. ‘That means it has to be important.’
‘She might be right, at that,’ said Anthony, standing up. ‘I’ll see her.’
Mrs Harrop was waiting in an anti-room. She looked up with surprised delight as Anthony and Sir Charles came in.
‘Colonel Ralde? I never thought I’d be lucky enough to see you, sir. It’s good to see you again, indeed it is.’
‘And it’s a pleasure to see you, Mrs Harrop,’ said Anthony. ‘I happened to be with the assistant commissioner when you called. I’d like to introduce you to a colleague of mine, Mr Monks.’
‘How d’you do,’ said Sir Charles. ‘The Colonel has told me how helpful you were with the sad business at Pettifer’s Court.’
‘I’d do anything I can to help,’ she said, clearly reassured by the warmth of his Irish brogue. She heaved a sigh. ‘It makes me so sad to think of it, especially now poor Mr Maurice has been taken as well. I was in floods when I seen that in the paper.’
‘It does credit to your feelings, Mrs Harrop,’ said Anthony gently. He would’ve liked to have told her that Maurice Knowle was making a full recovery, but that would never do.
‘Are you still at the Jowetts’ house?’ asked Sir Charles.
‘Yes I am, sir. The solicitor, Mr Hawley, he told me to stay put and look after things until it could all be sorted out. Mind you, it’s a lot better since Colonel Ralde laid the ghost to rest. To think I’d got myself so worked up about that room being haunted, and all the time it was the old skylight off the latch!’
‘It was a very natural thing to think under the circumstances, Mrs Harrop,’ said Anthony reassuringly.
‘It’s good of you to say so, sir. I was that relieved.’ She sighed. ‘But still, I mustn’t take up your time like this.’
She reached into her capacious handbag. ‘It’s about this letter, sir. It’s addressed to Mr Jowett. I thought as how it had to be important, coming as it does, from foreign parts. I’m not one to make a fuss, but if it is important, I didn’t want it to be overlooked.’
As she produced the envelope, Anthony could see the French stamp. ‘I think you’ve done exactly the right thing, Mrs Harrop. Can I see the letter?’
She put it into his outstretched hand.
Anthony slit it open and took out the single sheet it contained. The letter was written in English and the signature consisted of two initials: P.D.
P.D.? Who was P.D.? Then he froze as the answer hit him.
Paul Diefenbach.
Anthony stared at the letter. The address – the only address – was Brussels. Brussels for Pete’s sake? Brussels, deep within occupied Belgium. What the devil had Diefenbach been doing in Belgium? He was supposed to be in South America, not across the channel in Belgium.
He became aware of Mrs Harrop’s puzzled frown.
‘Is everything all right, sir?’ she asked tentatively.
Anthony forced himself to smile. ‘Perfectly all right, thank you, Mrs Harrop.’ He folded the letter up and put it back in its envelope. Whatever Diefenbach had written, he wanted to read it without the housekeeper’s concerned gaze upon him.
Sir Charles came to his aid. ‘You’ve done exactly the right thing to bring it to us, Mrs Harrop. Can I show you out? It’s easy to get lost in these corridors.’
Taking her by the arm, he led her gently away, leaving Anthony with the letter.
It was dated the 4th of September. That was eighteen days ago.
Dear Ted,
I’m writing this in the hope it’ll reach you before I get back.
I’m not sure what’s happening, but the facts are these. I arrived at Mme. Legrand’s to find Rosie has gone! It might be all right – Mme. Legrand showed me a letter Yvonne had written which the nursemaid had with her – but even so, I’m very uneasy.
Apparently, the nursemaid, a Miss Springer, spun Mme. Legrand a yarn about being granted free passage through the border, which sounds like nonsense to me.
Can you write to Yvonne or even, old friend, see her and get the truth of the matter? As always, don’t say a word of this at the bank – as you know, I can’t prove anything but I have my suspicions.
Regarding the official business, my mind has been made up. I know I argued the toss with you, but I was wrong. Germany has turned Belgium into a slave state. Conditions here are worse than anything we’ve read in the papers and I’m going to tell the old man as much. The people are literally starving and scraping by on American handouts. I might have to see him in person to get the message through but he can’t go ahead.
P.D.
Anthony looked up as Sir Charles came back into the room. ‘It seems as if our Mr Diefenbach has had a change of heart,’ he said, handing him the letter.
‘Diefenbach? Paul Diefenbach?’ exclaimed Sir Charles, taking the letter. He read it through quickly. ‘“Don’t say a word of this at the bank”,’ he quoted softly. ‘What the hell’s going on there?’
‘Something both Diefenbach and Edward Jowett suspected but couldn’t prove, by the sound of it,’ said Anthony. ‘It has to do with money, obviously. Have you approached them officially, Talbot?’
Sir Charles shook his head. ‘No. The only official contact with the Capital and Counties was when Inspector Tanner interviewed the bank officials in connection with Jowett’s death.’
Anthony breathed a sigh of relief. ‘That’s something.’
Sir Charles was still staring at the letter. ‘I can’t get over it,’ he muttered. ‘Damn it, Brooke, he had a passage booked on the Union Castle for New York! We’ve had the dust thrown in our eyes and no mistake. Who the devil is this Madame Legrand, I wonder?’
‘I don’t know,’ said Anthony, ‘but we know who Rosie is. She has to be the child who the nursemaid, Miss Springer, took from James Dunwoody’s Rolls-Royce.’
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br /> Sir Charles nodded. ‘I agree.’ He read the letter through once more, then put it on the table. ‘Well, there’s one thing. At least we know what to do next, and that’s to see Yvonne. Yvonne has to be Diefenbach’s wife, of course.’
‘Yes, she is,’ said Anthony absently.
Sir Charles picked up his coat. ‘Come on!’
Anthony held a hand up. ‘Talbot, wait! We can’t walk in on Yvonne Broussard.’
‘Why the devil not?’
‘Because she’s Paul Diefenbach’s wife and if we do, we’ll give the whole game away.’ Anthony clasped his hand to his chin, his mind racing. After a couple of moments he sighed and lit a cigarette.
‘Look at the letter,’ he said. ‘It’s dated 4th September. That’s nearly three weeks ago. If this child, Rosie, was taken three weeks or so ago, how come she was only kidnapped last night?’
‘Because …’ Sir Charles stopped. ‘Coincidence?’ he suggested.
‘Coincidence, my foot! Look how anxious the gang have been throughout to know where Diefenbach is. They planted that thug, Stevenson, on Maurice Knowle in case Diefenbach got in touch with him. I bet you anything you like they’ve got a spy planted on Yvonne Broussard, too. Read the letter again. What would be the first thing Paul Diefenbach would do after arriving back in this country?’
‘See his wife, even if they are separated,’ Sir Charles replied.
‘Exactly. And once the gang know he’s in the country, they can start the ball rolling by kidnapping the child. As much as anything else, this is a plot to get him.’
Sir Charles sat down. ‘So what do we do?’ he asked. ‘If there is a spy at Yvonne Broussard’s, we can’t interview her at home. Can we ask her to come into Scotland Yard?’
Anthony shook his head. ‘It’s too risky. Only us and Harper and his gang know there’s a connection between this child’s disappearance, James Dunwoody’s murder, Paul Diefenbach and Yvonne Broussard. The fact that they don’t know we know is about the one advantage we have. If we ask her to come into the Yard, they might not be able to overhear the conversation, but they’ll sure as hell know we’ve had it.’
‘So what can we do?’ demanded Sir Charles in frustration.
Anthony took a last pull at his cigarette, then ground it out in the ashtray. ‘Let’s ask Tara,’ he said.
TWENTY-EIGHT
The door of 73, Elgin Road opened.
‘Well?’ said the maid, looking at the representative of the Women’s Defence Relief Corps standing in front of her. ‘What do you want?’
Tara, secure in her severe grey uniform and official badge, drew herself up to her full height, regarding the maid coldly.
She knew perfectly well that visitors from the WDRC were not popular. Despite doing some sterling work, they could be, not to put too fine a point on it, officially sponsored busybodies.
The WDRC kept a close watch on public houses, maintained the morality of the nation by hunting down romantically inclined couples in parks and any man out of uniform had learned to dread the grey-uniformed women presenting them with a white feather.
As far as most householders were concerned, the Women’s Defence Relief Corps spent their time checking that all the seemingly countless regulations of the Defence of the Realm Acts were being followed. That could mean anything from checking that waste paper was properly collected to forcibly suggesting that too many servants were kept who would be better off otherwise employed.
‘If you’re here to check on our pig-swill, or to say that I should be working in one of those nasty factories, you can clear off,’ said the maid truculently. ‘This is a decent house with decent people, for all that the mistress is foreign, and we do everything right, see?’
‘I’ll thank you to keep a civil tongue in your head, my girl,’ said Tara, imperiously. ‘Your mistress is foreign, you say?’
‘Yes, but she’s a Belgian. Thems who we’re fighting for, ain’t it?’
‘I need to see her, all the same. Be so good as to tell her I’m here. And I am not accustomed to being kept waiting on the doorstep.’
The maid bridled, but the tone of voice, the uniform and the badge had its effect.
After a few moments Yvonne Broussard came into the hall. She looked, thought Tara, with a quick stab of sympathy, dreadful. She was pale with dark shadows under her eyes.
‘What is it you want?’ she began quickly. ‘I am busy, you understand, busy. I can see no one.’
Tara glanced at the dining-room door and slipped her hand into the pocket of her coat. She sensed, rather than saw, the maid behind the partly open door. She was listening. ‘Can we speak in private, Madame? It’s a matter of regulations.’
‘I can see no one, I tell you,’ began Yvonne Broussard, then glanced at the paper Tara was holding out. There was one word written on it.
Rosie.
Yvonne gave a little cry. Tara put her finger to her lips, indicating the dining-room door.
Yvonne swayed on the spot. For a moment Tara thought she was going to faint, then, with a supreme effort, Yvonne collected herself.
‘Regulations?’ she repeated in a distant voice.
‘Regulations,’ repeated Tara for the benefit of the listening maid.
An hour later Tara, having shed her grey uniform, admitted Yvonne into the flat. Yvonne grasped her hands, staring pleadingly into her eyes. ‘Please, tell me what you know! You said nothing – nothing!’
That was true. At 73, Elgin Road, Tara didn’t know who was listening and couldn’t trust Yvonne to keep quiet after she’d gone. Realizing she sounded exactly like a crook, a kidnapper or a blackmailer, she had told Yvonne Broussard to say nothing to anyone, but to come along to the flat in an hour’s time.
‘I’ll tell you everything I know, and welcome,’ said Tara, moved by the Belgian woman’s evident anxiety, ‘but we can’t talk in the hall. Come into the sitting room.’
She led the way. As they came into the room, Anthony and Sir Charles stood up.
Yvonne gasped at the sight of them, then turned accusingly on Tara. ‘I thought we would be alone.’
‘It’s all right,’ said Tara reassuringly. ‘We’re all here to help you.’ She indicated Anthony and Sir Charles. ‘This is my husband, Dr Anthony Brooke, and Mr Monks, who is working with the police.’
Yvonne stared at Anthony. ‘I know you! You’re the private detective. You came to see me, to ask about the Jowetts.’ She looked at him with frightened eyes. ‘Your name, it was not Brooke!’ She looked about her wildly. ‘You mean to keep me here, to harm me?’
‘Not in the least, Madame Broussard,’ said Sir Charles soothingly. ‘We have your best interests at heart. But please, can we all sit down? You’re among friends.’
Yvonne sat down tentatively on the edge of a chair. She glanced to where the French windows opened onto the garden, obviously weighing up the chances of escape.
‘Now, Madame Broussard,’ said Sir Charles, ‘perhaps you’d be so good as to tell us what your relationship with Rosie is?’
Yvonne didn’t answer, but gazed at him.
‘She’s your daughter, isn’t she?’ said Tara.
Yvonne closed her eyes for a moment, then nodded slowly.
Anthony cleared his throat and spoke for the first time. ‘We appreciate how worried you are. We are right, aren’t we? It was Rosie, your daughter, who was kidnapped last night? She was with a nursemaid, a Miss Springer, in a Rolls-Royce. The chauffeur, James Dunwoody, was killed and your daughter has been taken.’
Yvonne’s eyes widened in terror. Her lips moved silently, but she said nothing.
‘The thing is,’ continued Anthony, ‘is that we believe that your husband, Paul Diefenbach, saw you recently. There is some sort of plot surrounding both your husband and your daughter and we want to prevent any harm coming to either of them.’
Again, Yvonne’s lips moved silently, then she drew herself up and shook her head. ‘I can tell you nothing, Monsieur,’ she said, picking her words
carefully. ‘Nothing at all.’
‘Please, Madame Broussard,’ said Sir Charles earnestly. ‘Your husband may be in very great danger.’
She bit her lip, then shook her head. More questions followed but she remained silent. Tara felt acutely sorry for her. Even though they were trying to help, it was horrible to try and drag information from a woman who was so clearly unwilling to give it.
‘I can tell you nothing!’ Yvonne Broussard said eventually. She picked up her bag. ‘Please, I must go.’
Anthony sighed deeply. ‘Madame Broussard, perhaps you will understand if I tell you the whole story.’ It was, he thought, the only possible way to make her appreciate the issues at stake. ‘This started with the deaths of Mr and Mrs Jowett and their butler, Hawthorne.’
He launched into the story of what happened that day. Yvonne Broussard gazed at him intently, then broke off.
‘Mon Dieu! Who is that?’ she asked breathlessly. ‘Who is that?’
Through the open window came the voices of Ellen, the maid, and little Agathé from the garden.
A squeaky meep of a meow told them that Ellen and Agathé were playing with Minou, the new kitten.
‘Minou, Minou,’ they heard Agathé call happily. ‘J’adore petit Minou.’
Yvonne Broussard, her face frozen in apprehension, walked to the French windows, her steps jerky and uncoordinated. She stepped out into the garden, then gave a heart-rending wail.
‘Rosie!’
Anthony and Tara swapped glances, then ran to the window, Sir Charles behind them.
Yvonne Broussard was on her knees, sobbing, with Agathé in her arms.
‘Maman,’ said Agathé, over and over again. ‘Maman.’
After what seemed like a long while, Yvonne scrambled to her feet. Picking up Agathé and holding her close, she turned to face them. Although glowing with happiness, her eyes were fierce as she glared at Anthony, Tara and Sir Charles.
‘You had Rosie!’ she said accusingly. ‘Why did you keep her from me? And Paul? Where is Paul?’
‘Come inside,’ said Anthony. ‘I think we all have some explaining to do.’
The Price of Silence Page 24