by Jim Eldridge
The office door opened and Sergeant Danvers appeared, carrying an armful of books and paper files. He stopped when he saw the chief superintendent. ‘I’m sorry, sir,’ he apologized. ‘I hadn’t realized you were in here or I would have knocked.’
‘Always knock,’ growled Benson. He made for the door. As he was about to leave, he turned to Stark and said warningly, ‘Bear in mind what I said.’
With that, he left.
‘What was all that about, if I’m allowed to know?’ asked Danvers as he put the books down on his desk.
‘The chief superintendent is worried that a scandal involving politicians might be revealed,’ said Stark. ‘I get the impression he is particularly sensitive about any scandal that might involve the Prime Minister.’
Danvers laughed. ‘I would have thought there were enough of those already,’ he said. ‘Shares. Titles being sold for cash. Not to mention all the different women he’s supposed to be having affairs with.’
‘Rumour and gossip, Sergeant,’ said Stark. ‘Nothing proven. And it would not be a good idea to utter such things in this building, nor anywhere else where people might pass on what you said to the chief superintendent or others in authority. Promotion is often not just about having talent; it’s about knowing when to open your mouth and when to keep it shut.’
‘Yes, sir. Sorry, sir. I was just repeating what it says in the papers.’
‘Well, take my advice and don’t. Now, what have you got?’
For the next hour the two men pored over the reference books and newspaper cuttings Danvers had brought up from the Yard library, checking and cross-checking every reference for Lord Amersham and Tobias Smith.
Both men had been sixty-eight years old when they died. Both had been educated at Harrow. After school, their paths seemed to have diverged: Amersham – then known as Alastair Redding – had gone to Sandhurst to pursue a military career, and Smith to Oxford to study law. Both had entered politics at about the same time, in their fifties. Both had landed safe Conservative seats. Alastair Redding had been made a peer, Lord Amersham, in 1910. There was no mention of enoblement for Tobias Smith.
‘We need more than these pages are telling us, Sergeant,’ said Stark thoughtfully. ‘We need someone who knew both men, and knew them well.’
‘I don’t get the impression that they socialized much together,’ said Danvers. ‘Tobias Smith was a bachelor, and very set in his ways. Quite High Church, reading between the lines. I can’t imagine him out carousing with Lord Amersham and bedding the maidservants.’
‘No, nor can I,’ nodded Stark. ‘So we’ll start with the one point of commonality. Their political allegiance. The Conservative Party.’
‘Sir Austen Chamberlain, sir?’ asked Danvers.
Stark shook his head. ‘Sir Austen Chamberlain may be the leader of the party, but we need to talk to someone who really knows what goes on.’ He tapped the open book on his desk and read, ‘Sir William Fanshawe. The Tory Chief Whip.’
NINETEEN
Stark and Danvers walked into the cavernous reception area of the Palace of Westminster which housed the two Houses of Parliament, the House of Commons and the House of Lords. This is where it all happens, and has happened for hundreds of years, thought Stark: the government of the people. And not just the people of Britain, but the people of the whole British Empire, a quarter of the population of this planet.
The decoration in this huge main hall was meant to be imposing, and it was. The arched dome of the high ceiling, the mixture of styles, mainly Gothic but with Classical references, invoking the great civilizations of the past, as well as stamping the importance of this House on the present. It was contrived to create an atmosphere of reverence, reinforced by the fact that those who spoke did so in hushed tones, whispers, as people did in the great churches and cathedrals.
Stark approached a sergeant-at-arms, dressed in almost medieval clothes: a black frock coat, tight knee breeches, buckled shoes.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Stark and Sergeant Danvers from Scotland Yard. We have an appointment with Sir William Fanshawe.’
The sergeant-at-arms gestured towards a lectern at one side, where another equally ornately dressed man stood. All they need are powdered wigs and we could be back in the eighteenth century, reflected Stark. He’d brought Danvers with him precisely because they would be entering this institution with its archaic ways, and, as he’d informed the sergeant, ‘You know these sort of people better than I do. You’ll be able to understand what’s not being said.’
The sergeant-at-arms repeated the information Stark had given him, and the keeper of the appointment book at the lectern ran a finger down the open page. ‘Yes,’ he announced. ‘Sir William is expecting them. The Rose Room.’
‘If you’ll follow me this way, gentlemen,’ said the sergeant-at-arms.
Stark and Danvers followed him across the lobby, their heels ringing on the marble of the ornately decorated tiled floor. They went through an arch, then along a gloomy corridor until they stopped at a door, above which was a carved rose, painted red.
The sergeant-at-arms knocked at the door.
‘Enter!’ came the instruction from within.
The sergeant opened the door. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Stark and Detective Sergeant Danvers from Scotland Yard,’ he announced.
‘Do come in.’
Stark and Danvers entered.
The walls of the room were adorned with portraits, most of royalty from the historic past, judging by the dress and regalia portrayed, and some more recent ones of people Stark didn’t recognize.
Sir William Fanshawe came from behind his large, dark oak desk and approached them, his hand held out in greeting. He was a tall, thin man in his sixties, grey-haired, worried-looking, with a large grey moustache, not dissimilar to that preferred by Lord Kitchener.
‘A bad business,’ he said as he returned to his chair behind his desk, gesturing for them to take the two chairs he’d had placed ready for their visit. As they sat, Fanshawe looked at Danvers and said, ‘You’re Deverill Danvers’ boy, aren’t you? Robert?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Thought I recognized you. Saw you with your father a couple of occasions. So … you’re with the police now?’
‘Yes, sir.’
Fanshawe hesitated, then said, ‘I heard your father wanted you to follow him into the regiment.’
‘Yes, sir, he did. But I decided on this path. I thought I could serve society better this way.’
Fanshawe nodded noncommittally. He looked as if he was going to say more on the subject, but instead said, ‘You know we offered your father a seat in the House. He’d have made a damn fine MP.’ He sighed. ‘He turned us down. Too much of an army man. I get the impression he doesn’t have much time for politicians.’
I am beginning to like your father more and more, Sergeant, thought Stark. ‘What we’re looking for is common ground with Lord Amersham and Mr Smith, Sir William,’ he said. ‘Things they had in common that might give us a clue as to the motive for why they were both killed.’
‘Well, there are some links, obviously, both being members of the Conservative Party.’
‘We understand they went to the same school. Harrow.’
‘Yes, well, so did quite a few of us. Harrow or Eton. A few went to Winchester. Nothing special there.’
‘What about their careers? Lord Amersham was in the army …’
‘And a damn fine soldier!’
‘What about Mr Smith?’
‘No. Eyesight problem. Virtually blind in one eye. He was more the academic type. Oxford rather than Sandhurst. He went into law. Damn fine lawyer.’
‘Clubs?’
‘They were both members of the Carlton. Of course, so are quite a few members of the House.’
‘Political committees?’
‘They sat on some committees together, but they weren’t always necessarily allies. Same party, obviously, with the same Conservative loyalties, but on
some issues Tobias took a different stance from Lord Amersham.’
‘What sort of issues, sir?’
‘Well, I suppose it wasn’t the issues as such – after all, they were both very loyal to the party. It was more the way they expressed themselves. Alastair could be a bit … intemperate in the way he expressed his views. Tobias, on the other hand, was more circumspect. Came from being a lawyer, I suppose.
‘The only place they really found a common platform was on the Irish question. Both were fiercely opposed to home rule. They wanted Ireland to stay as part of the Union. They were both on the Committee for the Preservation of the Union.’
‘And would you say that Mr Smith was very vocal in that view? More so than, say, on other topics.’
Fanshawe nodded. ‘Yes, I think I would. He was a very clever speaker on the issue, both in the House and outside. Alastair was all fire and brimstone, but Tobias was clever. Made his points like a lawyer.’ He sighed. ‘Not that it did them much good. They were at odds with the government’s stance. But that’s one of the problems you get when you have a coalition government. Tories and Liberals.’ He shook his head sorrowfully. ‘Not natural bedfellows. But what choice did we have with Lloyd George riding the crest of wave after the war.’
In the car on their journey back to the Yard, Danvers proffered an opinion. ‘From what Sir William said, it looks like the Irish issue is the common one, sir.’
‘Yes, but why would the Irish want to kill them?’ asked Stark doubtfully.
‘Because both men opposed the idea of the Irish Free State and are opposed to the talks going on right now in London?’
‘There are lots of people who oppose the idea of the Irish Free State.’
‘But those two were prominent men in positions of power.’
‘Yes, I suppose so,’ acknowledged Stark.
They got back to the Yard and checked on whether there had been any recent developments, but there had been none. There was a message from Chief Superintendent Benson asking for an update, but nothing from Churchill or Special Branch.
‘I think they’ve decided to keep their communications with the chief superintendent and avoid talking to us,’ commented Stark.
‘Which is a good thing,’ observed Danvers.
‘Yes, and no,’ said Stark. ‘It means they think we’re not getting anywhere, and they don’t want to be seen to be tainted with our failure. Two dead members of parliament. Serious questions will be asked, and careers will be at risk.’
‘Yours and mine, sir?’
‘Most definitely mine. If you keep your wits about you, you should be all right. When the blame game starts, blame me. Everything you did was only acting on my orders.’
‘I wouldn’t do that, sir.’
‘No, Sergeant. I don’t think you would. But I would strongly advise it.’
‘Do you think they might take us off the case, sir?’
‘Not at the moment. If no culprit is found, they’ll need a scapegoat. I can’t see anyone else wanting to take on this case right now; it’s a real poisoned chalice.’ He looked at the clock. ‘Seven o’clock, Sergeant. It’s been a very long day. Time for us to depart. I’ll give you a lift to Russell Square.’
‘There’s no need, sir. I can walk.’
‘I’m sure you can. But just for once allow me to give you the luxury of letting a police driver take you home. It’s on the way to Camden Town.’
The car let Danvers off at Russell Square, and then proceeded onward to Stark’s home. As the car carried him, Stark let his mind wander to Lady Amelia and tomorrow night’s dinner date. He wondered what he should wear. Not that he had much choice. He had two suits: his day-to-day working one, and a charcoal grey one for ‘special occasions’ – weddings and funerals.
He still hadn’t cleared it with Henry and Sarah. Not that he needed their permission, but he needed to keep their goodwill as far as Stephen was concerned.
The car pulled up.
‘Here we are, sir,’ said his driver.
‘Thanks, Tom.’
‘Goodnight, sir.’
‘Goodnight, Tom.’
The car drove off and Stark made for his front door. He was reaching into his pocket for his key when he heard a sound behind him. He started to turn around, and as he did so something heavy crashed down on to his head, sending him tumbling to the pavement.
TWENTY
A boot smashed into his ribs, sending pain coursing through his body. He doubled over on the ground, rolling, trying to protect himself, but another kick caught him, this time on the side of the face. He felt the warmth of blood splash out on to his skin. He kicked out, and his foot connected with someone. Through blurred vision, he saw a man stumble. But then he realized someone else was there, another man, and this one was armed with a knife, because he saw the light from the street lamp glint on the blade.
Suddenly, light flooded the scene, and he heard his father’s angry shout of ‘What’s going on?’
A last kick was aimed at him, hitting him in the shoulder, and then the two men ran off into the darkness.
Stark struggled to sit up. His head ached and he felt sick.
Henry crouched beside him. ‘Son! What was that about?’
‘I don’t know,’ Stark managed to mutter. His voice felt strange and thick to him.
‘Can you stand?’
Stark pushed himself up from the ground and nearly fell, but his father caught him.
‘Let’s get you in and seen to.’
‘I’m all right,’ said Stark, pushing himself free. He stumbled towards the light of the passageway, and crumpled against the doorpost.
‘You don’t look it,’ said his father.
‘I’ll be OK,’ insisted Stark.
‘Dad!’ Stephen had appeared and was looking at Stark in shock and horror.
Sarah stood behind Stephen, a look of bewilderment on her face. Then she swung into action. ‘Get him into the kitchen,’ she ordered. ‘I’ll get a kettle on.’
Stark allowed his father to support him down the narrow passage to the kitchen.
‘Who did it?’ asked Stephen, his voice anxious.
‘Two men,’ said Henry. ‘Help me get his coat off.’
‘I’ll be all right,’ said Stark, but he let Henry and Stephen take his overcoat and jacket off, although his moan of pain as his jacket was removed prompted his mother to order, ‘Get his shirt and vest off as well. He might have cracked something.’
Slowly, painfully, they peeled Stark’s shirt and vest off him, and then settled him on a chair by the table.
Sarah had put a bowl on the table and was pouring hot water into it. ‘Get the iodine from the cupboard, Stephen,’ she said.
She began to wipe the blood from Stark’s face with a warm cloth, and then the dirt that had been thrown on to his face when he’d fallen to the pavement.
‘It’s not too bad,’ she declared. ‘You’re going to have a black eye and a big bruise on the side of your face, but the cut isn’t as bad as it looks. It’s just over your eyebrow. I’ll have to sew it.’
‘Maybe we should get a doctor,’ suggested Stark.
‘Doctors?’ echoed his father scornfully. ‘With the money they charge! Your mum can do just as good a job at stitching as any old sawbones!’
‘Stephen, go and get my sewing box,’ said Sarah.
Stark sat and let his mother attend to him. She selected a needle and put it in boiling water to sterilize it, then selected a reel of thick black cotton.
‘Does it have to be black?’ complained Stark.
‘It’s all I’ve got,’ his mother retorted.
‘Be thankful your mum’s a sewer,’ put in his father.
Stark gritted his teeth while Sarah pushed the threaded needle into the flesh above his eyebrow and pulled the wound closed, then tied it off. She’d already dabbed the open cut with iodine, which had brought tears of pain to Stark’s eyes.
‘Now let’s look at your ribs,’ she said.
‘You’re in no fit state to go anywhere,’ said his father.
‘They need to start investigating who might have done it before the trail goes cold,’ insisted Stark.
‘In that case I’ll go and get a copper,’ said his father.
‘If we had a phone, we could call the station,’ said Stark.
‘I’ve told you before, we don’t need one of them things in this house,’ said his father, putting on his coat. ‘It’d only unsettle your mother.’
At this moment, Sarah Stark looked the least unsettled of them all as she examined her son’s ribs, prodding gently with her fingers and registering when he winced with pain.
‘I don’t think there’s anything big broken,’ she said. ‘One of ’em may be cracked, but I think it’s mostly bruising. I’ll wrap a bandage round and we’ll see how it goes.’
First thing tomorrow I’m going to see the doctor at the Yard, vowed Stark.
His mother gently applied a foul-smelling liniment to his side, then asked Stephen to help her wrap the long bandage around his father’s ribs, more to give Stephen something active to do and stop him from being too worried than because she really needed his help.
By the time she was finished and Stark had his vest and shirt on once again, Henry had returned. ‘I had to go all the way to the station,’ he said.
Stark saw that he had an old acquaintance of his, Charlie Watts, with him. He and Charlie had been young constables together years before. Now he was a DCI and Charlie was a station sergeant.
Watts took off his helmet as he came into the kitchen, a concerned expression on his face. ‘I hear you were attacked, sir,’ he began.
‘Forget the “sir” business, Charlie,’ he grunted. ‘For one thing, I’m off duty, and for another, we’ve known one another too long for that.’
In as much detail as he could remember, Stark filled Watts in about the attack on him. ‘Trouble was, I didn’t see much of them. All I can say for sure is there were two of them, and one of them had a knife.’ He looked at his father. ‘I don’t know if you got a better view of them, Dad?’