The Blitz Business

by D. A. Spruzen

  “Oh, for God’s sake, just tell me where.”

  “Third floor, fourth door on the right.”

  Falway and the two constables raced up the stairs, out of breath as they burst into Graham’s room. Empty, as though no one had ever lived in it. Not so much as a hollow in the eiderdown or pillows, and no personal items left out on any surface.

  “All right, you two, do a thorough search. I’m going back down to look for the woman who runs the place.”

  Falway got back down to the hall, out of breath and patience.

  “Take me to the director’s office. Quickly!” Her face hadn’t lost the hamster look.

  They came across Mrs. Clancy in the corridor and the receptionist turned on her heel and sauntered away.

  “I’m D. I. Falway. I need to find Graham. We’d better step into your office.”

  She closed the door and turned to face him, her face set in a sullen reproof. “What is it, Inspector?”

  “He’s wanted by the police, and we need to find him right away. We believe he was behind the poisoning.”

  “I simply cannot imagine that he would do a thing like that!”

  “It’s a long story. We’ve been up to his room, and he’s not there. Do you know where we might find him?”

  She frowned a little, patting her wiry little curls before making her way over to the fireplace. Falway breathed through his teeth, trying to rein in his irritation. She lowered herself into a diminutive pink armchair. He cleared his throat in an effort to prompt her as he paced around this horrible cozy den that looked almost like his grandmother’s parlor. He passed several ghastly pictures of pretty kitties and the like.

  “Well, he does go into town sometimes, but he was supposed to be working today. It’s been very difficult because we had to call in one of our other attendants, Bernhardt Visser, and he’d gone out for a long walk. You can’t leave these patients alone for a minute, you know.”

  The poisoning business seemed to bother her less than the inconvenience she’d been caused.

  “Any ideas where to start?”

  She sighed the sigh of a martyr, put upon by all and sundry. “Well, he’s not one for walks, not like Bernhardt. I think he likes pubs, maybe the Rose and Crown in Barton. I gave him a lift there a couple of weeks ago. But they’d be closed at this time of day. I know he went to Christchurch once, I remember him asking me about the bus. Sorry I can’t be more help.” She didn’t sound sorry, more as if she expected Falway to be sorry for stirring things up.

  “We’ll have to search the place—start with the house, then move onto the grounds. I’d better call in more help.” Surely that bloody villain couldn’t have known he’d been rumbled.

  “If you must. Try not to upset the patients, they are very difficult to handle if they become agitated.”

  Her office door burst open. An old man, his craggy face ashen, staggered in and collapsed into a chair that looked too dainty to withstand such a thud. His chest heaved as he tried to bring words to fruition, not quite succeeding.

  “Clive, whatever is it? Are you ill?” asked Mrs. Clancy as she rushed to his side.

  “Garden shed, near the azalea bed.” He started to pant again, his horny hands alternately clutching the chair and his heart.

  “Out with it man!” Falway said.

  “Dead. Knife in ’is neck. One o’ them fellers what works with the inmates.”

  “Come with me, Mrs. Clancy,” Falway said as he made for the door. “Did you touch anything?” he asked Clive over his shoulder.

  “Not bloody likely,” said Clive, still gasping.

  They looked down at Graham’s corpse, contorted and petrified by the onslaught, his hands clawing at something long gone. The knife’s long thin blade had been thrust between the vertebrae into the side of his neck. A tin of rat poison sat on his chest, its skull and crossbones front and center.

  “It’s Graham,” said Mrs. Clancy, pale and shaky, hand clutched over her mouth before she went back outside. He heard her retching, which did nothing for the state of his own stomach.

  Falway crouched by the body, fighting down his own bile. He hadn’t seen that many dead bodies and it didn’t get better with time like his colleagues said it would. Terrible smell, like the cottage outhouses down by the docks. Shit, piss, and mildew. Don’t think about outhouses now, for God’s sake. He pulled out his handkerchief and clapped it over his mouth.

  Falway was no expert, but it looked like a professional job; it couldn’t be easy to get the knife in just the right place, especially in this half-light. And the killer knew about the poison. Or had worked it out. He’d left a message. The face looked lopsided, one cheek full and the other caved in. He hadn’t noticed it before because of the death grimace. Something poked out of the mouth. Better leave it to the doctor. Cheek pads? He peered at the hair. Dark roots. No wonder his cousin hadn’t recognized him. He held his breath and gloved his hand with the handkerchief before picking up the rat poison tin between his thumb and middle finger. He doubted there’d be any prints, but you couldn’t assume anything. He stood and held the tin up to the meager light. Nothing obvious. He’d wait until the doctor got here before he searched the man’s clothing.

  Falway walked around the shed, not finding anything he wouldn’t expect to. Neat, all the tools hanging or stacked in a box. Shelf full of tins of God-knows-what that gardener uses to keep pests at bay. Only one space with a ring in the dust the size of the rat poison tin he’d found on the corpse. No other dangerous poisons, not that he could tell; anyway, they’d all have to be checked.

  They’d need to know roughly when the man died. Perhaps he was killed last night. In total darkness, by torchlight? Not likely.

  “Mrs. Clancy!” he called.

  “Yes, Inspector,” she replied in a tremulous voice.

  “Please get my constables down from Graham’s room. Tell one of them to ring Sir Roland and tell him we found the subject, deceased. Then they’re to come here and stand watch until the body is removed.”

  “Very well.”

  Wait a minute, hardly any blood. He wasn’t killed here. For God’s sake, any schoolboy who went to the pictures would have thought of that. Face it; he didn’t have much of a cool head when put to the test. He took in a deep breath, forgetting why that wouldn’t be a good idea. He couldn’t hold it down, gagging and retching in a corner, trying his best to muffle it. He’d say the woman did it. Poor old girl must have been only too glad to get back indoors.

  He peered around the shed again. No, not much blood, so he must have been killed somewhere else. They’d have to search the grounds. Maybe he and his killer had had a rendezvous somewhere and it had all gone wrong. Or maybe it was planned. What the devil was going on?

  * * *

  Next morning, D.I. Falway stood in the Manor’s library waiting for Jamie to be sent in. He admired the stately room with its old leather-bound books and high smoky windows. Such deep armchairs that a man would have to be quite agile to haul himself out of one, and the desk, huge and burled and dark, polished a thousand times against the knocks of daily use. The room wouldn’t get much sunlight, and the fire laid in its cavernous hearth had not yet been lit. He shivered as he breathed in the musky odor of old paper and heirlooms. Peaceful, yet in some way oppressive.

  The butler opened the door with practiced quiet. “Master Jamie, sir.”

  The boy looked shifty. “Good morning, Jamie. Do you remember me? I’m Detective Inspector Falway. I need to talk to you about your cousin Roy.”

  The boy’s face closed up. He looked better than he had in Blexton, but his eyes had the kind of wary watchful look of one who is vigilant, yet bemused. Rather like a precocious child at a funeral.

  “Jamie, when did you know that Graham was Roy?”

  “I’m really, really bored of it. And it upsets me. I hate thinking about Roy and Gran and bombs.” He looked at Falway, who raised his eyebrows. Jamie sighed, produced an annoyed adolescent shrug, and told his story.
All of it, as far as Falway could tell, it certainly took long enough.

  Interesting bit about his cousin’s interest in Bernhardt’s goings on. So where did that foreigner fit into all this? He was the one who had been out for a long walk when Mrs. Clancy was looking for him. He’d better call Sir Ronald. If the fellow were up to no good, they’d better not tip him off.

  “Jamie, I have a photograph I’d like you to look at.”

  The photo was of Roy, taken on the doctor’s table. They’d cut his hair almost to the roots and removed his moustache and cheek pads. A sheet covered him to his shoulders.

  “That’s Roy. Why’s he having his picture taken when he’s asleep?”

  So they hadn’t told him. Well, it wasn’t up to him to break the news.

  “All right, Jamie, that will do for now. You’ve been very helpful. Thank you.”

  “Don’t mention it.” Jamie said, almost prissy as he turned to leave. He turned at the door and said, “If anyone needs me, I’ll be in my room.”

  So, highfaluting ways were rubbing off on him. Well, good luck to him, poor little fellow. He deserved whatever good things came his way.

  17

  Geoffrey caught up with them on their way to the pond. He’d like to get to know Jamie better. The boy rather got under one’s skin. You found you cared for him a great deal before knowing quite how or when it happened.

  “Where are you two off to?”

  “The pond, Daddy. Jamie loves it.”

  “I nearly fell in last time and got mucky.”

  “I know, I lent you my shoes, remember? Rosie and her cousin fell in plenty of times.” Geoffrey laughed as he thought of Nanny’s outraged admonitions as she stripped off their clothes and plopped them into the bath.

  “I like trying to get across. It’s like getting across the day.”

  “What do you mean?” Geoffrey asked.

  “Well, I get up and try to keep my feet on the stones. If I fall off, I might get back into the muck, like being back in that Blexton place.”

  “You won’t go back there if I can help it, Jamie,” Geoffrey said, taken aback. That was quite an abstract idea for Jamie. Amazing how quickly he’d blossomed here. He hadn’t spent much time with the boy, but come to think of it he did sound different now, and Rosie said he was reading quite well. It didn’t do to lock people away, lock up their minds. Couldn’t grow. Like prep school, ghastly place. Perhaps he should get the boy a tutor. There must be plenty of wounded officers who’d like the job. Be a good role model, too.

  “Evans tells me you’re a big help to him, Jamie.”

  “Oh, I love it with Evans. He’s been teaching me about flowers and planting seeds and everything. I want to be a gardener like him one day.”

  “And so you shall, Jamie, so you shall. Here at the Manor.”

  “Really? Really really?”

  “Yes, Jamie, I mean it.”

  “Daddy, you are sweet,” said Rosie. “Jamie could be assistant gardener and Evans can teach him everything.”

  “I’ll go and tell Evans right now,” said Geoffrey. “Know where he is by any chance?”

  “Kitchen garden, I think,” said Rosie.

  He hadn’t been sure how Evans would receive his proposition, but the man had been pleased as Punch. So, young Jamie had captivated the old man, too. He said Jamie understood things about plants you wouldn’t expect. Do the boy a world of good in his considered opinion. And yes, he’d watch out for intruders and keep a close eye on the youngsters. The new man looked like a gardener right enough, but didn’t want to have much to do with gardening.

  Audrey might question the boy being treated as a gardener when he was, de facto, one of the family. But when all was said and done, he himself was little more than a farmer. He’d wanted more, but there it was, that’s how families like theirs did things. You had to face it, the boy had talents, but he had limitations. Everyone should have the chance to be good at something. Everyone should do his best. Rosie included. It was time for her to get on with doing something useful and not worry too much about marriage and breeding at her age. Plenty of time for all that.

  And Audrey. Wouldn’t she be happier if she had something to feel impassioned about, or wasn’t she capable of that? He treated her with kid gloves, always mindful of her grief. Shouldn’t she be over it by now? Have I enabled her frailty, treating her so gently? It all got so tiresome. He often found himself wishing for a heartier companion, then immediately feeling guilty and cruel, which led to him treating her with more tenderness than ever. Maybe he should talk to Reggie. Should have talked to Reggie years ago. Come to think of it, Audrey hadn’t mentioned her for some time. Run off her feet at that hospital, of course. He’d heard they’d shipped a few casualties over from Southampton. The war chipped away at all of them in one way or another.

  * * *

  Geoffrey and Audrey sat across from one another in front of the library fireplace. The fire licked gently at the logs as it took the chill off the room. He’d turned the lamps so low that the books lining the walls effaced themselves into the gloom. Geoffrey studied Audrey’s face as she gazed into the flames. Still beautiful, she made his breath catch when her eyes caught his with the almost imperceptible glint that signaled she felt ready for lovemaking. She was tender and receptive, but the fireworks had faded long ago. She looked a little too thin; she didn’t eat much these days. Well, since Fiona’s death, really. Twenty years ago. He avoided thinking of her name as often as he could, but couldn’t always manage it.

  Most children got over influenza, but not the delicate one-year-old Fiona. As he watched his child fade away, he faded with her, and never fully revived. Then Audrey came down with it, and he thought he would lose her too, as grief and sickness ravaged her. She’d pulled back, but not entirely. The familiar ache he’d suppressed long before flared up again, kindled by Jamie. It was high time they came back, came back all the way.

  Jamie managed to endear himself to everyone he came across. Almost everyone. Not that devil of a farmer, nor his cousin Roy. The thought of a gentle soul like Jamie being put through such trials made him seethe. He would have liked Roy Beck to hang for his viciousness. Jamie was one of the innocents. He had to be protected from a world all too ready to chew him up and spit him out. He hadn’t been able to save Fiona, but he’d certainly fight to save Jamie.

  Jamie wasn’t quite the son he’d wished for, but he was a fine soul. And he liked the idea of a brother for Rosie.

  “Audrey. I’ve been thinking.”

  “What about, dear?”

  “Jamie doesn’t have anyone at all except us. I think we should do something about it, legally, I mean. I’d like to talk to Chatterton about making him our ward. Or even adopting him.”

  “I think that’s a wonderful idea, Geoffrey. I’ve been so worried about him.” Audrey’s hand fluttered to her breast. Jamie’s plight must have been weighing on her, too.

  “Me too. You know, we’ve got to explain a few things to him.”

  “Like what?”

  “Well, he’s got to know that the chocolates were for him and that the other chap died by mistake. That they think Roy killed his grandmother and set fire to the flat.”

  “I thought he knew.”

  “I think he suspects now that his grandmother was already dead when the house burned, but I never spelled it out. There’s no absolute proof, of course, but Ronnie tells me there were signs the flat was set on fire, but it was bombed soon after some firemen discovered the body. They found that green toy of Jamie’s too and saved it, just in case. It’s wonderful how people do these small kindnesses, even when they’re afraid for their lives. Anyway, no one had time to do anything about it that night. That was the worst attack on London so far. Hard to imagine there weren’t more killed and injured. So many historic buildings gone.”

  “Yes, I suppose we’re relatively lucky down here.”

  “And he doesn’t know his cousin is dead.”

  “Oh God, I�
�d forgotten that. Why don’t we have Stanton send him into us now, Geoffrey? It may as well be now. And I think it’s best if Rosie comes too.” She took a deep breath, steeling herself for Jamie’s sorrow.

  Geoffrey lay back and closed his eyes, vaguely hearing Audrey speaking to Stanton while he tried to think how best to soften the dreadful truth for Jamie. Good news first, of course.

  * * *

  “Daddy? Stanton said you wanted us.”

  He sat up with a start. “Oh, yes, Rosie, we have to tell Jamie a few things. But first, Jamie, we would like you to know that we want to talk to our solicitor about you coming to live with us for always. You’d be like our son. Would that be all right with you?”

  “Oh! Yes, yes, Sir Geoffrey!” Jamie’s smile almost seemed to split his face, and he shuffle-hopped from one foot to the other, not quite knowing what to do with his delight.

  “Daddy, Mummy, that’s wonderful! Thank you so much.” Rosie hugged them in turn with a show of ebullience not seen since she got engaged. “Jamie, you’ll be like my brother. I’ve always wanted a brother!” And she hugged him too.

  Geoffrey flushed and he noticed Audrey’s eyes were brimming, but with happy tears for a change.

  “Now, Jamie, we have some serious things to tell you too. Not quite such nice things, I’m afraid.”

  His mouth quavered. “I can’t stay after all?”

  “Yes, of course you can, I just said so. Other things. Jamie, do you understand that your grandmother was already dead before the house was bombed? Take it slowly.

  “Yes, I’ve been thinking. When you said that about the blood when I told the story. I never thought. Poor Gran. I might have helped her.”

  “No, I don’t think you could. She died at once. I’m afraid we think Roy hurt her.

  “No!” A cry from a chasm of sorrow. “No, no, no!”

  Keep your voice level. Gentle. Don’t look at Audrey. “He was very angry with her, wasn’t he?”

  “Yes. She said she’d have to turn him in. He took stuff from people’s houses. And he put it in the shed of one of her ladies,” Jamie said, the words puffing out of him as his fists opened and clenched. “Of course, it was only us in the house. I should have known.”