‘That’s exactly what I intend to do,’ snapped Sir Douglas. ‘However, in order to do so, we need information. Have you no idea where the van was headed?’
‘Did you overhear anything?’ put in Anthony. ‘Any clue would be useful.’
Mr Crichton frowned. ‘No … That is, I think a woman was involved. I heard them say a name. Jane Fleet.’
‘Jane Fleet!’ exclaimed Anthony. He and Sir Charles swapped glances. ‘That’s the name Father Quinet overheard in St Mark’s. Did they say anything about her?’
Mr Crichton shook his head. ‘No, I just heard the name.’
‘Did Brown and Forester have their own offices?’ asked Anthony.
‘Indeed they did,’ said Mr Crichton, standing up. ‘If you think it will help, I’ll gladly show you to them.’
Both Brown and Forester’s offices were of the same pattern. Virtually identical rooms, they were linked by a connecting door.
Mr Crichton looked on with fascinated interest as Anthony examined the rooms. A few minutes’ search was enough to convince him that neither room concealed any hidden drawers, cupboards or safes. Such things, especially in a building such as this, always ran to a pattern and he knew exactly where to look.
That meant that if there was anything to be found, it must be in the paperwork on the desk. Fortunately, there were very few files to look at.
‘What are you looking for?’ asked Mr Crichton watching Anthony flick quickly but methodically through the papers. ‘Incidentally, sir, you would have made a superb bank clerk.’
‘Thanks,’ said Anthony with a grin. ‘That’s never a career I considered. I’m looking for anything that will give us a clue as to where the gold has been taken.’ He drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘And unfortunately, the place is as clean as a whistle.’
An exclamation from the next room made him look up. Douglas Lynton put his head round the door. ‘We’ve found a receipted bill from the Diligent Employment Agency. Apart from that, there’s nothing.’
‘The Diligent?’ said Mr Crichton with interest. ‘That rings a bell. Oh yes, I remember. Forester went to them when he first arrived in London. He recommended them highly.’
‘Did he recommend them to Mr Jowett, perhaps?’ asked Anthony.
‘I believe he did, now you come to mention it,’ said Mr Crichton after a few moments’ thought.
‘I thought as much,’ said Anthony, lighting a cigarette. ‘I’m afraid we’re out of luck. The only other place to search is Mr Diefenbach’s office.’
Mr Crichton drew back. ‘The Chairman’s office? Really, sir, I must protest. You assured me Mr Diefenbach was an innocent man.’
‘And that’s what I both hope and believe,’ said Anthony smoothly. ‘However, he might have left a message there.’
He didn’t think any such thing, but at least it gave Mr Crichton the moral prod he needed to escort them to the Chairman’s room.
The large oak desk didn’t contain a message or note, of course. Mr Crichton looked on disconsolately as Anthony walked to the fireplace and started to run his hands round the heavily embossed hearth and mantle. ‘What are you doing?’ he asked.
‘Looking for a secret cupboard. This fireplace looks very promising.’
Mr Crichton made an unhappy noise.
‘There is a secret cupboard, isn’t there?’ said Sir Charles. ‘Come on, man, out with it.’
Mr Crichton sighed impatiently. ‘Oh, very well. It’s part of the bookcase. I’ve seen it open, but I don’t know how the mechanism works.’
Anthony’s searching fingers paused, then pressed the top of a wooden pineapple. There was a click, and a door that formed part of the panels separating the heavy oak shelves of the bookcase swung open.
‘Bingo,’ he muttered.
Douglas Lynton and Sir Charles seized a file of papers. ‘They’re letters,’ said Sir Charles, putting the file on the desk and opening it. ‘They all seem to be written in German.’
Anthony read through the first letter and whistled. He quickly flicked through the other letters. There were seven in all. ‘These prove,’ he said softly, with a weather eye on Mr Crichton, ‘that our Mr Diefenbach was hand in glove with the Germans.’
‘So was Diefenbach acting under coercion or not?’ demanded Sir Charles.
Anthony shrugged. ‘Things might not be as they seem,’ he said quietly. ‘Hello! What’s this?’
It was a letter from a lettings agent, Chaucer’s of Sittingbourne, dated two months previously.
Anthony read it quickly. ‘Well, I’ll be damned. Jane Fleet isn’t a woman. It’s a place.’
‘What?’ roared Sir Douglas. ‘A place?’
Anthony handed him the letter. It confirmed the letting of Jainfleet House, Jainfleet, Kent, to Mr Paul Diefenbach. ‘See for yourself.’
He picked up the next document in the pile, a large-scale ordinance survey map of Kent. ‘And with any luck, this will tell us exactly where Jainfleet is.’
He unfolded the map and held it up to the light. There were pinpricks at each corner, where it had been pinned to a wall and, on the coast between Margate and Herne Bay, another pinprick on the tiny village of Jainfleet. Jainfleet House was a short way off, on a headland above the village, at the mouth of an inlet.
‘Got it,’ breathed Anthony. He looked to where Sir Charles was holding a small black notebook. ‘Anything interesting?’
Sir Charles nodded. ‘There’s a series of numbers.’ He tilted his head to look at the map. ‘They look like – yes they are – a map reference for Jainfleet. Then there’s a note. “Light above and below. Three hours before high tide at Margate” .’ He put the notebook down. ‘That’ll be tonight, of course. They’ll need the cover of darkness to bring a boat in.’ He rubbed his hands together. ‘So once we find the time of the high tide at Margate, we’ve got the where and we’ve also got the when.’
‘The when of what?’ asked Mr Crichton, bewildered.
‘When the gold’s going to be picked up, I imagine,’ said Sir Charles. He turned to Mr Crichton. ‘Now, sir, you’ll understand that it’s vital that you mention nothing of this to anyone. Anyone at all, you understand? Lives may hang on your silence.’
Mr Crichton looked thoroughly confused and depressed, but he nodded all the same.
‘We’re also,’ said Sir Douglas, ‘going to impound all these documents and lock the door to this room. No one must enter without my express authority. This is a police matter, Mr Crichton, and I’m sure I can rely on your complete co-operation.’
Once again, Mr Crichton nodded.
‘And now,’ said Anthony, ‘let’s get off to Jainfleet.’
THIRTY
They couldn’t, of course, set off for Jainfleet right away. A trip to the Admiralty office, where Sir Charles spent some time with Admiral Cunningham, confirmed, amongst other things, that high tide at Margate was seventeen minutes past two that night.
Which meant, thought Anthony, looking at the looming bulk of Jainfleet House on the headland, black against the raggedy moonlight, everything kicked off at seventeen minutes past eleven. Lying on his stomach on the bleak, flat cliff, he glanced at his watch, shielding the luminous face with his hand. Ten past eleven. Seven minutes to go.
With him, silent and virtually invisible, was a hand-picked platoon of soldiers, fifteen strong. Their officer, Captain Calcutt, was under orders to co-operate with the civilian authorities, which meant, of course, Charles Talbot. For once, Anthony was glad of his colonel’s uniform. It gave him some military clout.
He shivered. Margate and Herne Bay may be popular holiday resorts, but no one in their senses would holiday in Jainfleet. The scatter of fishermen’s cottages which made up the village were half a mile along the coast. Jainfleet House stood bleakly alone, facing the sea.
Beneath him, at the foot of the cliffs, he could hear the black sea rise and retreat from the pebble beach in a giant’s breath of sound. If he was cold, the men on the beach must be freezing. The w
ire-grass of the headland blew against his face as the minutes ticked on.
There was a grunt and a thud as a shape settled beside him. It was Captain Calcutt.
‘I don’t like this, sir,’ he whispered. ‘It’s nearly seventeen minutes past eleven and there’s no signal from the lads below. If the enemy were going to land a boat on the beach, they’d have done it by now, surely.’
Anthony bit his lip. Captain Calcutt’s orders were to let the boat land and wait until the crew had come up the cliff-path to Jainfleet House. Then, once the crew were safely on the headland and with their retreat barred by the men below, attack.
He glanced at Jainfleet House. It seemed deserted. Had the papers in Diefenbach’s secret cupboard been planted there to mislead them? But why, for heaven’s sake? We weren’t meant to find the papers, he thought.
He came to a decision. ‘I’m going into the house,’ he said softly. ‘If this is a wash-out, we need to know.’
‘Will you take Sergeant Granger, sir? He’s a good man.’
Anthony hesitated. He trusted himself to be able to scout out the house without being overheard but he couldn’t answer for anyone else. ‘No, thanks, I’ll go alone.’
From the grunt Captain Calcutt gave, he was obviously going to argue the toss, so Anthony added, ‘When the boat crew do land, you’ll need every man you’ve got.’ That was true enough. ‘Tell Mr Monks what I’m doing.’
Captain Calcutt subsided. ‘Very good, sir.’
Anthony crept up to the wall surrounding the house. The closer he got to Jainfleet House, the more it looked not only deserted, but ruined. The occasional gleams of moonlight from behind the scudding clouds shone through the exposed rafters of the roof where the slates had fallen. The broken-down wall enclosed a cobbled yard and the remains of a scrubby kitchen garden that obviously hadn’t been tended in years.
Anthony slipped into the old yard and waited. Silence. He breathed a sigh of relief. He had been dreading the bark of a dog, but the only sounds were of the wind and the sea.
Across the yard was a door, presumably the old kitchen door. The door had been repaired with new wood and had a very serviceable lock. The metal on the lock was untarnished. So the place wasn’t abandoned, after all. That did leave, however, the question of how he was going to get in.
He could always break a window, of course, but the thought of the noise put him off. Keeping in the shadows, he stole round the side of the house, coming, after a couple of minutes, to the front of the house.
Again, everything was in darkness. A low wall enclosed a square of wind-blown shrubs and patchy grass that had once been a garden. The front of the house, only fifty yards or so from the cliff edge, commanded what must be, in daylight, a magnificent view of the sea, stretching out to the horizon.
Anthony ignored the view. In the centre of the garden, a path led up to a grandiose front door. It stood at the top of a flight of steps between two pillars, but beside it, under one of the blank black windows, was what he had been looking for. It was a stone lintel, the lighter coloured stone standing out against the dark brickwork in the fleeting moonlight.
Anthony climbed over the wall and quietly approached the stone lintel. In a house this size, it was what he had hoped to find. Underneath the house were the cellars. The front cellar rooms were lit by windows that opened onto a small rectangular pit, dug out of the earth and covered above by thick glass, resting on two iron bars. Those windows, if he knew anything about it, were secured by simple catches that could easily be turned back with the blade of a penknife.
He knelt down and, putting his hands on the edge of the thick glass, heaved. The glass shifted, then, with another heave, came away all together.
Anthony looked down into darkness. It was a narrow gap between the iron bar and the wall, but he should be able to swing himself down to the window.
He braced his hands against the lintel, then took one last look round.
And froze.
There, close into the shore, was the unmistakable black bulk of a submarine. Any minute now, they’d launch a boat. Any minute … but nothing happened.
What should he do? Briefly, he thought of going back to the cliff top where Charles Talbot, Captain Calcutt and his men waited to ambush the boat crew, then, just as quickly, decided against it.
Something must be happening inside Jainfleet House and he wanted to know what. He swung himself into the hole and, risking a gleam from his electric torch, found the clasp of the window. Seconds later, he was standing in the cellar.
He risked the torch again. The cellar, a large, low, stone room, contained an ancient washing copper and nothing of interest, but the sounds he could hear, a distant swooshing and roaring, puzzled him. The sea? Yes, of course, but oddly enough, it sounded louder in the cellar than it had outside.
Across the cellar was a door, opening onto a square stone flagstone, with a flight of stone steps leading upwards. There was a dim light at the top, as if the door was open.
Cautiously, he crept up the stairs. He’d been right. The open door at the top of the stairs led into a cavernous kitchen. It was deathly quiet. He snapped on his torch, illuminating a table and chairs and an ancient kitchen range, thick with dust. There were footprints on the dusty flagstones. He tried the kitchen door into the house but it was either locked or bolted from the other side.
Anthony bit his lip. So far, he had accomplished nothing and the sight of that damn submarine told him things were hotting up. He’d better retrace his steps and join the others on the cliff. That’s where the action would be.
By the light of the torch, he made his way down the cellar steps, hearing once more the distant surge of the sea. He walked into the cellar and paused. The sound of the sea really was louder on the stairs. And why, in a house this size, was there only one cellar?
He turned back to the doorway, shining his torch at the floor. Footprints. Footprints in the dust, that apparently led right through the wall.
There was an empty stone shelf attached to the wall. Anthony grinned as he saw the handprints on the edge of the shelf. Wedging his torch under his chin, he grasped the shelf with both hands and tilted it.
The wall was a disguised door and swung back easily. Evidently the hinges had been recently oiled. Anthony examined the catch on the other side of the door. From this side it was obvious how it operated and was simple enough to open. Should he shut the door? Yes. If anyone came down the stairs from the kitchen, he didn’t want to advertise his presence.
He quietly set off down the steps. In the middle of the stairs ran a flat ramp, perfect for rolling barrels up and down. This place must’ve been a smugglers’ paradise. The sound of the sea filled his ears, but the stairs were deserted. Two flights down he came to a level passage. The walls were damp and the smell of salt filled the air.
Cautiously he crept to the end of the passage. The passage ended in a door, beyond which the sea churned. He stiffened. He could hear voices, voices with a distant, open-air quality.
Turning off his torch, he opened the door a crack. He looked out into a small natural sea cave. A smugglers’ paradise? Absolutely.
Beyond the rocks of the cave was a pebble beach with the sea lapping the shore. Four hurricane lamps, balanced on the rocks, provided enough light to show a rowing boat drawn up on the beach with three men round it, loading a box into the boat. Although small, it was evidently very heavy. The gold.
Realization hit him. The submarine wasn’t launching a boat to the shore.
The boat was being launched from the shore to the submarine.
He swore under his breath. Charles Talbot, Captain Calcutt and all the men could wait for hours for the boat crew from the submarine, because there was no boat crew from the submarine. What’s more, although he couldn’t swear to it, he guessed that the rocks of the inlet would prevent the boat being seen until it was well away from the shore.
‘What the hell’s happening on board the U-boat?’ he heard one of the men say. �
�They’re showing lights. That’s not in the plan.’
‘They want us to hurry up,’ was the impatient reply. ‘Come on, we’re running late.’
‘Blame Diefenbach,’ was the answer. ‘He very nearly got away.’
So Diefenbach was with them. As Anthony’s eyes adjusted to the dim light, he took in other details. Two of the men by the boat were strangers to him. At a guess they were Brown and Forester, but the third man he had last seen in a kitchen in Paddington, where he had just murdered Bertha Maybrick. Joshua Harper.
Standing beside him was a woman. Who was she? She didn’t look like the descriptions of Annie Colbeck. Was this Miss Anston from the Diligent? Maybe.
So if Brown, Forester, Harper and Miss Anston were accounted for, where was Paul Diefenbach?
Even as he asked himself the question, it was answered. Harper stepped away from the boat and picked up a hurricane lamp, holding it so the light fell on a fair-haired man slumped with his back to the rocks, hands behind him.
Anthony slipped out through the door and, keeping to the deep shadows at the back of the cave, wormed his way round the beach and through the rocks to Paul Diefenbach. Getting as close as he could, he risked a whisper.
‘Don’t say a thing.’
Undoing his penknife, Anthony cut through the rope that bound Diefenbach’s wrists.
He heard Diefenbach’s hiss of satisfaction as the ropes parted and could feel, rather than see, him massaging life back into his wrists.
The men by the boat stood up with grunts and sighs.
‘That took longer than we expected,’ said one of the men, wiping his forehead. He spoke with an American accent. ‘Harper, give us a hand to push the boat out.’
‘Wait a moment, Forester,’ said Harper sharply. ‘We’ve only got half the money we’re owed.’
‘You’ll get the rest when sonny boy is truly no more – and when Daddy buys the story. Don’t worry, Harper. You’ll get what you’re owed.’
‘I’d better,’ growled Harper. ‘If you want to work for Rupert Diefenbach again, stick to your promise. Otherwise he’ll be very interested to know exactly what happened to his blue-eyed boy.’
The Price of Silence Page 26