Assassins

by Jim Eldridge

  He reached the door and knocked. He heard the familiar voice of Lady Amelia Fairfax call ‘Come in!’ and walked in.

  Lady Amelia was sitting at the desk in the outer office where the girl, Naomi, had sat on his previous visit. She stared at Stark in surprise, and then her expression hardened.

  ‘You have a nerve coming here!’ she snapped.

  ‘Yes, I have,’ replied Stark. Before she could embark on a lengthy harangue, Stark said, ‘I’ve come to apologize.’

  Lady Amelia stared at him, an expression of bewilderment on her face. ‘Apologize?’ she echoed.

  He nodded. ‘I was wrong to threaten you the way I did, but I had a lot of pressure to get to the bottom of this case.’

  ‘And so you decided to go for the ones who can’t fight back – the poor, the underclass!’ she snapped angrily.

  ‘I was following a definite lead … which turned out to be a dead end.’

  ‘And an innocent man was dragged in for questioning and beaten—’

  ‘He was not beaten,’ said Stark quickly.

  ‘That’s not what he says.’

  Stark hesitated, then said, ‘I would be careful about anything that Dan Harker says to you, or – more importantly for you – you to him.’

  ‘What’s that supposed to mean?’ she demanded.

  ‘Just a piece of advice,’ he said.

  He turned to go.

  ‘No, you don’t!’ she said angrily. ‘If you’ve got something to say …’

  He turned back to her. ‘I’ve said it,’ he said flatly. ‘I came here to apologize, and I did.’

  He went towards the door, but she got up swiftly from the desk and beat him to it. She pushed her hand flat against the door, holding it shut. ‘Wait,’ she said. She studied him, her eyes searching his face, curious. ‘You are an intriguing man, Chief Inspector,’ she said. ‘I made enquiries about you after our last encounter. Opinions vary. The people at the top – those aristocratic connections of my former husband – say you are a pain in the backside.’

  Stark allowed himself a small smile. ‘Yes,’ he said, ‘that is the impression I’ve been given as well.’

  ‘But others – those on the street – grudgingly describe you as honest. I even hear you were a hero during the war.’

  ‘There was nothing heroic about the war,’ Stark said tightly, almost angrily.

  There was a pause during which she continued to study him as if he was a puzzle.

  ‘Would you like to have dinner with me?’ she asked.

  Stark stared at her, stunned. ‘Dinner?’

  She nodded. ‘Two people, eating at a table together.’

  ‘Why?’ he asked.

  ‘As I said, you intrigue me. I’d like to know more about you.’

  ‘There isn’t much else to know about me. I’m a policeman.’

  ‘You are a widower. You have a son.’

  Now it was Stark’s turn to study her with curious and suspicious eyes. ‘You’ve been asking questions about me.’

  ‘I like to know everything I can about my adversaries.’

  ‘I am not your adversary.’

  ‘You were when you came here last.’

  Stark nodded in grudging acceptance.

  ‘So, will you come to dinner?’

  ‘At the moment the British Communist Party are still suspects in the murder. At least, in the eyes of certain people in power. It may be heavily frowned upon.’

  ‘But you went to meet Michael Collins.’

  ‘I went to talk to Michael Collins, not to have a meal with him.’

  ‘And if he had offered you a sandwich, would you have refused it?’

  Stark studied her, his curiosity roused. ‘How did you know I met with Michael Collins? It wasn’t in the papers.’

  ‘Because some sections of the Establishment are keen to pin this murder on the Irish. Either them or the communists. You came here, so it makes sense you would have gone to see the Irish delegation. And Michael is the most prominent.’

  ‘You call him Michael. Does that mean you and he are acquainted?’

  ‘That depends what you mean, Inspector.’

  ‘Chief Inspector,’ Stark corrected her quietly.

  She smiled. ‘Of course. Chief Inspector. If you mean, am I sleeping with him, the answer is no.’

  ‘I did not mean that at all, Lady Amelia.’

  ‘Amelia, please. Yes, he and I have met. He and the Irish delegation have been in London for some weeks now, and some of them have met those of us who are interested in, and sympathetic to, their cause. Now, will you come to dinner?’

  He thought it over. Her logic was skewed, but impeccable. What better way to discern the inner workings of Churchill’s Bolsheviks than to meet with one of the Party’s leading lights. At least, that was what he would tell anyone who questioned the wisdom of a meeting: I am following Mr Churchill’s orders.

  Instead, he said, ‘Things are a bit fraught at the moment. With this murder investigation, my evenings can be disrupted.’

  ‘Afraid?’

  ‘Of what?’

  ‘Of me?’

  ‘Why would I be afraid of you?’

  ‘Plenty of men are.’

  He gave a slight bow. ‘No, I am not. And I would be honoured to have dinner with you.’

  ‘Then shall we say tomorrow evening; unless something drastic intervenes?’

  He hesitated, then nodded. ‘Tomorrow evening. What time?’

  ‘Eight o’clock? My house is in Cadogan Square. Number twenty-three. My cook is a wonder, although she does have a tendency to use too much cream in her cooking. Good for the taste, but very bad for the health.’

  This is all happening too fast, thought Stark, doing his best to retain his composure and not letting her see his head was reeling with the sudden switch from being apprehensive about a fraught encounter with an angry communist to accepting an invitation to dine with her at her home. Her regal home in a very upmarket part of London.

  ‘I look forward to it. But, with this case, if something should happen to intervene …’

  She pointed at the telephone on the desk. ‘We have a telephone here. And I will give you my number at home.’ She took a piece of paper and began writing the numbers down for him.

  She handed him the piece of paper. ‘There,’ she said. ‘But if I don’t hear from you, I will see you tomorrow evening.’

  ‘You will,’ he promised.

  He got back to the car and found Stan looking anxiously up at the building, obviously waiting for some hard object to come sailing through an upper window and crash down.

  ‘Tough reception up there, sir?’ he enquired.

  Stark nodded, doing his best to hide a smile. ‘Yes, Stan, but I think I dealt with it.’

  SIXTEEN

  Stark found Danvers waiting for him in his office when he returned to the Yard.

  ‘You and your sister can set your minds at ease, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Unless your father has another pistol hidden away somewhere, all his pistols are standard British army issue. Not a nine-millimetre one among them.’

  ‘Thank God!’ breathed Danvers.

  ‘And his man, Mr Bridges, asked to be remembered to you. He obviously has great affection for you.’

  At this, Danvers looked guilty. ‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I feel bad about Bridges. I should have kept in touch with him, but I didn’t want to put him in a spot with Father. He served with my father in the army. He’s very faithful, very loyal. He was very good to me when I was growing up.’ He gave a rueful smile. ‘You may not think it to look at him, but he was fun. Well, more fun than Father. He seemed to know what boys liked.’ He gave a short derisory laugh. ‘I’ve never been sure that my father was ever a boy himself. I think he went straight from infancy to adulthood.’

  ‘They were a different generation,’ said Stark. Just like my father.

  ‘Oh, I’m sorry, sir!’ said Danvers suddenly. ‘Chief Superintendent Benson called in. He would like to see
you as soon as you arrive.’

  ‘Any particular reason?’ asked Stark.

  Danvers shook his head. ‘No, sir. He looked concerned.’

  ‘He always looks concerned,’ said Stark. ‘Have there been any developments I need to know about before I go and see him?’

  ‘No, sir. I went to see the Chief Rabbi, but it looks as if the Jewish aspect will turn out to be a dead end. With all they’ve suffered through history, the opinions of Lord Amersham don’t seem to matter very much.’

  ‘So, you were given a history lesson by the Chief Rabbi.’

  ‘Yes, sir. The persecution of the Jews.’

  ‘Education, Sergeant, a wonderful thing. I’ll go and see what the chief superintendent wants, and then we’ll take stock of things so far.’

  Chief Superintendent Benson was alone in his office when Stark opened the door to the call of ‘Come in!’ in reply to his knock. No members of Special Branch this time. The chief superintendent was standing by the window and had obviously been looking out at the vista from Scotland Yard – the streets, the tops of the buildings.

  ‘You wanted to see me, sir,’ said Stark, coming in and closing the door.

  ‘Yes. Take a seat.’

  Stark settled himself down on the chair opposite the chief superintendent’s. As Danvers had reported, he did indeed look concerned, but then he always seemed to have a permanent expression of anxiety. Responsibility hung heavily on Benson.

  ‘An update, Stark. On the Amersham enquiry.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stark. ‘I regret that at this moment we have no positive line of enquiry. We followed up the suggestions both of Special Branch into the Irish delegation, and of Mr Churchill into Bolsheviks being behind the murder. So far, neither course has shown any positive signs, and our investigation into the British Communist Party revealed that Special Branch have their own operatives working inside that organization, so I think they can be discounted.’

  ‘But not completely, eh, Stark! There is always the lone-wolf Bolshevik!’

  ‘Yes, sir, and that possibility remains at the forefront of our minds. We also need to look into Lord Amersham’s private life. There are reports of affairs, and we need to see if any of them could have resulted in … say … the attack being the result of jealousy or revenge. And there are the other areas of Lord Amersham’s political opinions that have caused some anger among certain areas of the population. Sergeant Danvers has been looking into his remarks about Jews, for example—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ interrupted Benson impatiently. ‘What you’re telling me is that you’re no nearer to solving this than when the murder happened.’

  ‘It’s still early days, sir,’ said Stark.

  ‘And in the meantime rumours circulate and spread! Confidence in the police to keep the streets of London safe falls! And that gives rise to political unrest!’

  He’s been talking to someone with more power than him, realized Stark. He’s being leant on. Benson’s next words told him who by.

  ‘I had a meeting with the Secretary of State for the Colonies last night,’ said Benson.

  So, Churchill again, thought Stark bitterly.

  ‘He is concerned that, as long as the murderer remains at large, it raises concerns about the Irish talks going on at this moment. Lord Amersham was well known for his antagonism to home rule for Ireland—’

  ‘With respect, sir,’ cut in Stark firmly, ‘I met with members of the Irish delegation, following my meeting with members of Special Branch here in your office—’

  ‘And it was a mistake!’ said Benson. ‘Mr Churchill has said so, and I agree with him. We need to bring this case to a speedy conclusion to protect those talks.’

  ‘We are doing our best, sir,’ said Stark. ‘But we have many lines of enquiry to follow—’

  ‘It doesn’t matter about lines of enquiry!’ burst out Benson. ‘What matters is protecting the reputation of the police force, and stopping rumours circulating that could harm these talks. We need a result that brings this case to an immediate conclusion, and without creating serious political problems! The Irish business, Bolsheviks, Jews, adulterous love affairs among the top echelons of society – all of these will only make things worse and give encouragement to our political enemies!’

  ‘What do you suggest, sir?’ asked Stark carefully.

  ‘You said it yourself, Stark, that there were rumours about Lord Amersham’s … about his private life. Isn’t it possible that there may have been a situation where a man from the lower orders, possibly a servant, who wrongly believed that his wife or fiancée or sister had been taken advantage of by Lord Amersham, killed Amersham in revenge. I stress wrongly believed it, Stark. Lord Amersham must be depicted as perfectly blameless.’ Benson nodded. ‘It would be so much neater if that were the case. No politics. No scandals involving important people.’

  Stark studied the chief superintendent. So this was the solution that Churchill had come up with. Or had it been Benson himself who’d proposed it?

  ‘That could be a possibility, sir,’ said Stark carefully. ‘But even if we were to discover such a situation and find a possible culprit who fits the description, the evidence would have to be examined at a trial.’

  ‘Unless there was no trial,’ said Benson.

  Stark regarded Benson warily. ‘Could you clarify that for me, sir?’ he asked carefully.

  ‘You know what I mean. If the accused died before coming to trial.’

  A chill went through Stark as he heard the words, and his anger must have shown in his face as he said through clenched teeth, ‘Are you suggesting, sir—’

  It was as if he’d hit Benson with a cattle prod. The chief superintendent sat bolt upright and stared at Stark, shocked. ‘How dare you, Stark!’ he shouted. ‘How dare you think that I would even suggest something like that! We do not kill suspects in this country!’

  ‘No, sir, but—’

  ‘What I meant was find someone who died shortly after Amersham’s murder. A suicide. Someone who could use a gun. An ex-soldier would fit the bill. Even better if he had a sister or someone, who also recently died in tragic circumstances.’

  ‘And blame him for the killing?’

  ‘It works, Stark. We can’t have this murder remaining unsolved, but we can’t afford to stir up the kind of social unrest you are talking about with your investigation. Bolsheviks, Jews, the Irish, the aristocracy. Things are on enough of an edge here, with the war still fresh, and my God, man, any of those could set off a revolution!’

  ‘With respect, sir, without a proper investigation, that would be making a scapegoat of an innocent man.’

  ‘Who may not be innocent!’

  ‘Yes, sir, but—’

  Benson held up a hand to silence Stark and fixed him with a firm stare. ‘This suggestion has come from a higher authority than me.’

  Stark sighed. ‘I accept that Mr Churchill wishes to protect the Irish talks …’

  ‘Higher than Mr Churchill. He informs me that this suggestion came during discussions with the Prime Minister.’

  So, that duplicitous goat, David Lloyd George, was behind this.

  ‘And, further, it has the approval of the Commissioner.’ He leaned back in his chair and continued to fix Stark with his firm glare. ‘It’s an order, Stark, from the highest authority. Find someone who fits the bill. Let me know the details, and I will inform the Commissioner and the press. And by tomorrow. It is vital that we close this case with the utmost urgency.’

  Stark held Benson’s gaze. He felt rage building up inside him – the same sort of rage he used to feel in the trenches when a particularly stupid order with deathly implications was passed down the line, coming from some general or field marshal safely tucked away far from the action. But he’d learned that questioning such an order was futile – even deadly, because it could lead to a firing squad for ‘cowardice’. In this particular case now, to defy such a direct order would be grounds for dismissal. To what point? Another D
CI would simply replace him, one who would carry out the chief superintendent’s instructions.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stark.

  As he got up and left Benson’s office, he vowed: I will not be a party to this. I will not blacken the name of an innocent dead man just to satisfy someone’s political whims. But how could he stop it?

  ‘What did the chief superintendent want?’ Danvers enquired as Stark stomped into the office. It was obvious to Danvers from the angry scowl on the chief inspector’s face that the meeting had not gone well.

  ‘He wants us to frame someone for the murder,’ growled Stark.

  Danvers stared at Stark. ‘You’re not serious!’

  ‘I’m afraid I am. The unholy trinity of the Prime Minister, the Secretary of State for the Colonies and the Police Commissioner have instructed Chief Superintendent Benson to order me to find a suitable culprit. The first requirement is that he is already dead, so there will be no trial with awkward questions being asked. Preferably someone who’s killed himself since Lord Amersham was shot. Or, if not, someone we can claim killed himself.’

  ‘And what’s the motive?’

  ‘His wife, daughter, sister, whatever, was taken advantage of by Lord Amersham. Or, to be precise, he believed – but wrongly – that she was taken advantage of by Lord Amersham. His Lordship, of course, must be seen as absolutely blameless.’

  Danvers shook his head in disgust. ‘It stinks,’ he scowled.

  ‘Yes, it does,’ nodded Stark.

  Danvers looked appealingly at Stark. ‘We aren’t really going to do this, are we, sir?’

  ‘No,’ said Stark. ‘But we are going to appear to, to keep Benson and the rest of that despicable crowd happy. The problem is that Benson wants us to give him a name by tomorrow. So we have to slow it down, gain some more time.’

  ‘He won’t believe it. He’ll know we’re dragging our heels.’

  ‘Not if we prove to him how methodical we’re being. How we are working efficiently to make sure that this ruse of theirs works, and there won’t be any awkward questions. And for that, Sergeant, we need lists.’