Death in the Greenhouse

by JRL Anderson

  Sir Edmund had included in the file of papers he had given me a summary of Boscombe’s career and a précis of press cuttings about him. It was typical of Sir Edmund the Civil Servant at his best. He had known exactly what to ask for, had made himself completely understood by whoever had done it, one of his assistant secretaries, probably. Everything was relevant, and there was not a word too much.

  It began with a photocopy of Boscombe’s entry in Who’s Who, which described him briefly as the only son of the late Sir Anthony Boscombe, KCMG, educated at Eton, sometime stockbroker, former chairman of Boscombe Securities and now MP for Surrey East. His recreations were listed simply as Travel. His promotion to Minister of State had come too late for inclusion, and there was no mention of his marriage, nor of his place of birth. The précis of cuttings about him was mostly concerned with what had been written at the time of the by-election, and on his promotion. The earlier cuttings included one or two hatchet-jobs about his career in the City, hinting at this and that while steering clear of libel, but more recent ones were, on the whole, quite friendly. On the City side of things, Boscombe Securities had certainly made a few unfortunate investments in its time, but it seemed solidly based, and nobody who hung on to the securities seemed to have lost money on their amalgamation with the larger All Seasons Trust. Boscombe’s relinquishment of all his City interests on his election to Parliament had gone down well with the political writers, although there were a few catty observations that a man who can afford to have principles might as well take the credit as well.

  There was a photocopy of a long interview with him when his appointment as Minister of State had been announced. ‘When I left Eton,’ he said, ‘my father and mother were both dead. I wanted to see something of the countries where my father had served, and I spent a few years travelling round them. That gave me an insight into some of our former dependencies that should, I hope, be valuable in my new job.’ He went on to describe at great length how he had become a partner in a firm of stockbrokers, gone on to create Boscombe Securities, and become steadily more interested in politics. ‘If you believe in something you’ve just got to act on your belief,’ he was quoted as saying. ‘I believe that what we in the Popular Democratic party stand for is what most ordinary, normal people want. Having come to that belief, I had to do something about it. That is why I gave up business for Parliament – for the business of Parliament might be a better way of putting it. Parliamentary business needs businessmen. I’ve been lucky enough to have been reasonably successful in business – I hope I can do as well in political business. If I don’t, it certainly won’t be for want of trying.’

  A clever interview, I thought, with just enough truth about his early years in Africa to prompt no particular line of questioning. There was nothing necessarily wrong in his reluctance to talk about that period of his life – he’d been through an appalling emotional experience, and understandably he might want to try to forget about it. My respect for Sir Giles Hewitt increased – he had got vastly more out of Meredith Boscombe than anyone else had. What a pair he and Sir Edmund Pusey made! Probably it was as well that their careers in life had diverged.

  My own immediate plans now seemed fairly straightforward. I would try to see Meredith Boscombe at the Foreign Office, and if there was time after that I’d go on to Newbury and talk over things with the Wessex police. Newbury is only about twenty-five miles from Oxford, and with luck I’d be able to get to Oxford in time to have dinner with Ruth.

  * See Death in the Caribbean.

  III

  At The Foreign Office

  AS FAR AS timing for that day was concerned my luck held. On the stroke of nine I rang Sir Giles Hewitt, and was not surprised to find him already in his office and expecting my call. ‘The Minister is receiving a delegation from the Pacific Dependencies at noon,’ he said, ‘but his diary seems clear until then. If you can get here at ten I am fairly sure that he could see you. Ask for me, and I’ll take you up to his room.’

  There is still an imperial grandeur about the Foreign Office. Its lofty ceilings seem built for men of more than mortal stature, and when a grave-faced messenger passes you in a corridor you can imagine that he is carrying a dispatch to make some nation tremble half the world away. Sir Giles had given instructions about me, and I was conducted straight to his room, by-passing the normal screen of secretaries and entering by a private door. It occurred to me that as well as being a courtesy to me this ensured that my visit would not be known about.

  ‘Sir Edmund Pusey telephoned last night to say that you had given up your leave on our behalf,’ he said. ‘I need scarcely add how relieved I am to see you. This distressing business may have consequences far wider than the personal – important aspects of our security may be threatened.’

  ‘At least one threat is removed,’ I said. ‘Mr Meredith Boscombe has sought your advice – the situation would be much graver had you not known about it.’

  He looked at me sharply. ‘If I take your implication correctly, you mean that the attempt at personal blackmail may be related to an attempt to suborn one of Her Majesty’s Ministers, to persuade him to convey – er – unauthorised information.’

  ‘Obviously. The Foreign Office is a sensitive department, and you have an able security section of your own. I am wondering why you went to Sir Edmund Pusey instead.’

  The Permanent Secretary didn’t answer at once. Then he smiled slightly, and said, ‘You asked a question that I was not expecting to be asked – and after a lifetime in the diplomatic service that is about the highest compliment I can pay. But it wasn’t “instead”. You have met Group Captain Grenville, late of RAF Intelligence?’

  I nodded, and he went on, ‘Then you will know that he is the present head of our own security section. Naturally I consulted him as soon as the Minister of State had told his story to me. Grenville and I both thought that a matter of such extreme delicacy in our own department would be better handled by someone outside it. He would himself have gone to Sir Edmund Pusey had not Pusey been one of my oldest personal friends, and I went to Sir Edmund with Group Captain Grenville’s full approval. I need scarcely add that he has asked me to tell you that he himself, and the full resources of his section, are at your disposal, but that for the moment he thinks it wiser that you and he should not be seen to meet.’

  ‘I understand. Now I wonder if you could explain another point that has been puzzling me. Mr Meredith Boscombe’s marriage twenty years ago to an East Indian girl in Africa does not seem to be generally known – it is not mentioned in Who’s Who, and I have come across no reference to it in the considerable volume of press cuttings about him. Did he volunteer the information when he came to you, or did you obtain it by questioning him?’

  ‘Neither. All ministers, and a number of senior civil servants when being considered for certain offices, have to submit to what is called “positive security vetting”. This is a formidable inquiry into their private lives, and one of the first questions a man is asked is whether he is, or ever has been, married. If he is or has been married, he has to provide detailed information about his wife, or former wife, and her family. All such information is, of course, classified as highly secret, and the only people in the whole Foreign Service who have access to the Minister’s personal file are Group Captain Grenville and myself. I therefore knew about the marriage, and about the late Mrs Boscombe’s tragic death. I did not know the terms of the financial settlement reached with the late Mrs Boscombe’s family – the Minister told me of that himself, I should add quite readily, and without any probing questions from me. But he is expecting you, and it would be wise, I think, for you to see him. Would you like me to be present when you talk to him?’

  ‘On the whole, I think not. It cannot be easy for him to talk about things that he has long tried to forget, and if two of us are present it may make it seem a formidable interrogation.’

  ‘You are right. Well, let me take you up. Doubtless you have my private telephone nu
mber. Please use it whenever you like. I shall make myself available for you at any time.’

  *

  The Minister of State’s room overlooked the park. It had tall, stately windows, which on that sunny morning filled the place with light. A fireplace, under a superb Adam mantel, was discreetly hidden by a huge bowl of flowers set in front of a screen of ferns. As for my entry to Sir Giles’s office, we used a private door opening directly from a corridor, and did not go through the suite of ante-rooms occupied by secretaries.

  ‘Colonel Blair to see you, Minister,’ Sir Giles said formally.

  ‘Thank you. Perhaps you would look in a few minutes before the Pacific delegation is due.’

  ‘Certainly. Good morning, Colonel.’ Sir Giles withdrew.

  *

  Meredith Boscombe was seated at an enormous desk, its immaculate green leather top completely clear save for three telephones to one side of his chair. There was neither in-tray nor out-tray. He did not get up. He waved me to a chair in front of the desk, and said, ‘If you are thinking that an empty desk-top betrays a lack of activity, you are wrong. The really busy man’s desk is always clear.’

  ‘Of course. But in fact, sir, I was not thinking of your desk, but of what a lovely view there is from your window.’

  He smiled. ‘Neither of us is thinking of either desks or views. I understand that you are a sort of policeman.’

  ‘You could put it like that. I could say that I understand that you are a sort of politician.’ If he wished to be offensive, we might as well cross swords from the start. But he crumpled up. ‘I’m sorry, that was fearfully ill-mannered,’ he said. ‘I’m under a great strain, and slept not at all last night.’

  ‘I didn’t sleep much, either, and for the same reason.’ I could see why he was politically so attractive. He was not afraid to show emotion, and there was a warmth about him that made you feel that the emotion was sincere. He was physically attractive, too, with dark brown eyes, a good forehead, and a full head of dark hair, lightly touched with grey. I went on, ‘It must have been absolute hell for you to have to go to Sir Giles Hewitt as you did yesterday.’

  ‘What I’m sure he doesn’t understand is that I loved Gita. Of course her death made me rich, but I could have had the use of the money and my wife, too. I can make money work, and I have made Gita’s money work. But what’s the point without her? She would have been pleased to be a Minister’s wife.’

  He was not looking at me, but at something far beyond me, in time, as well as place. A river, an overturned canoe, perhaps . . . I spoke as gently as I could. ‘If we are to help you we must talk about things that may be painful. Can you think of them as surgery? To cut a cancer out of your life?’

  ‘It goes back a long way into my life.’

  ‘So do most cancers. But many are curable. First, there must be a realistic diagnosis. You did not tell Sir Giles Hewitt the whole truth.’

  ‘What do you know about it? How dare you make such a statement!’ He flared up as he had with his sarcastic ‘sort of policeman’, but as quickly returned to resignation. ‘No,’ he said, and added quickly, ‘Does Sir Giles suspect that?’

  ‘Sir Giles’s thoughts are his own, but he has said nothing to me to suggest that he doubts your word.’

  ‘Then why do you?’

  ‘Because the story as told to us by Sir Giles does not make sense. It is tragic for a woman to be drowned, but it does not imply any crime on her husband’s part. An inquiry was held, with a finding that your wife’s death was an accident. The records of the inquiry may have been destroyed, but there will be copies of them somewhere. And even if there are not copies of the full report of Mr Quenenden’s inquiry the lawyers who dealt with your wife’s estate must have seen and been satisfied with a death certificate on which the cause of death was given. I can understand that it would be painful for you if some journalist were to rehash the story of your marriage, but what harm could it do you? Why should anyone suppose that you might be persuaded to pay out a huge sum of money to suppress a chapter of your life that is not secret, for it could easily be discovered by anyone who troubled to do so?’

  ‘I told Sir Giles the official story, which can be verified. Gita’s body was recovered from the river. That is the truth. What I did not tell him was that she fell into the river because she was shot. I must assume that the man who telephoned me knows this, though how he knows is beyond my understanding. I did not think that anyone in the world could possibly know about it, apart from me.’

  ‘Did you shoot her?’

  ‘No. I don’t see how I can prove it, but that also is the truth.’

  ‘Tell me as nearly as you can recall just what happened.’

  He did not reply for a full two minutes. Then, in a voice that had a dream-like quality in it, he told his story. ‘The farm was very remote – that was why I could afford to buy it, and why I couldn’t do much with it, because almost everything I made was swallowed up in transport costs. It was a day’s journey to Fort Edward, now, I think, called Otagara, but it was Fort Edward then, which was the regional capital where Quenenden lived. Our nearest neighbours on our side of the river lived at a Christian Mission settlement, and they took half a day to get to, paddling upstream. Across the river there was less bush, and the land was slightly more developed. There was a road of sorts from the farm to the river, but it was really suitable only for donkey carts – or tractors nowadays, I suppose, but I have never been back. The road reached the river at a clearing which was a recognised crossing place, with a rickety wooden jetty where we kept our canoes, a couple of big ones that needed six to eight paddlers, and a variety of smaller ones. Across the river – it was about twice as wide there as the Thames at Westminster – there was a better landing place, and a village with a store. It sold everything, from whisky to rolls of cloth, and we got most of our supplies from the East Indian trader there.

  ‘Gita and I were living at the farm. I wish we’d never gone back to the place after we were married, but you must understand that until her father died Gita didn’t have much money, and I had nowhere else to go. And it was rather fun – like camping out.

  ‘The house was lit by oil lamps, mostly hurricane lamps, though we had two big brass lamps, with glass chimneys, in our sitting room. On the day that Gita died – in the morning – I was trimming the wick of one of the brass lamps, and I broke the chimney. We didn’t have a spare, and as it was a nice day we thought we’d go across to the village ourselves and buy one. We could have sent one of the farm boys – we employed about six men and they lived with their families in huts in a sort of compound. One of them was our house-boy – butler and everything else – and his wife did the cooking. We could easily have sent someone to the village, but we just felt like taking a few hours off.

  ‘It wasn’t riding country – too much bush. For transport we used donkeys and mules, but we kept a couple of horses for ourselves, to ride down to the river, and there were one or two other places where we could go for a ride sometimes. So we rode down to the crossing place, tethered the horses, and got into our best canoe. It could be paddled by one person, though if we were going upstream Gita would paddle, too. The village landing place was diagonally across the river, a bit downstream, so there was no need for her to paddle now. I paddled from the stern, and she sat a little forward of amidships. We’d gone about thirty to forty yards when Gita suddenly slumped down and I heard a shot. I jumped to get to her and the canoe went over – the big canoes aren’t too bad, but the smaller ones, like the one we were using, are unstable craft at the best of times. I’m a fair swimmer and I got to Gita, but I found it difficult to hold her up – she was unconscious, and I think she was dead. Then I tried to reach the overturned canoe with the idea of getting Gita across it – it would have supported her all right, and I could have hung on to it, too. But in grabbing at the canoe I momentarily let go of Gita, and the current took her from me.

  ‘I tried to right the canoe and paddle after her, but I c
ouldn’t. I knew where she would probably come ashore, on a little beach on our side of the river, where the stream makes a turn to the left and has carved out a sort of bay. So hanging on to the canoe and swimming with my legs I went on downstream.

  ‘The current runs close inshore where the bay is, and when I got there I saw Gita. She was under water but quite close to the surface, and some of her hair – she had beautiful long hair – was floating. I let go of the canoe, grabbed her, and scrambled ashore. There was no doubt that she was dead. She’d been shot through the back, and I think the bullet must have entered her heart. Having been in the river, though, there wasn’t much blood.

  ‘I hadn’t been ashore more than a few minutes when a big canoe paddled up. Someone in the village had seen us go into the water, and a group of villagers had come after us – they were always nice to us, and I reckon that the Otaro tribesmen are some of the best people going, for all that they can’t read or write and don’t wear much in the way of clothes. They had thought to bring a blanket – they weave them for themselves – and they gave it to me to wrap round Gita. They’ve a powerful sense of politeness, and they probably felt that it would be out of place for them to touch her themselves. When she was wrapped in the blanket I carried her to the canoe, got in with her, and they paddled us back to our own landing place. When we got there I stayed with Gita while one of the men ran to the farm to get a cart for her. I offered him one of the horses, but he said it would be quicker for him to run, and I’m not sure he wasn’t right.

  ‘Anyway, I sat with Gita until the cart came, with some of our own farm people. Then we carried her back to the farm. It’s because she was wrapped in the blanket all the time that I don’t think anyone guessed that she’d been shot. They’d seen us fall into the river, and the obvious conclusion was that Gita had drowned.’