He cleared his throat and looked firmly at his boss.
“I’ll have the same, please, sir.” Brown held his breath for a beat or two but the sky didn’t fall in.
“Bit of a dump,” Greene remarked, too audibly for Brown’s liking.
The landlord returned with the two glasses and a short glass of what looked like whisky and water for himself.
“So, the Thursday meetings, what can you tell me about them?”
“Look mate, I let the room out, five bob a go. Don’t bother me whether they are sorting out the state of the world or practising Japanese paper-folding up there, does it?” He grinned, showing more, of what were appalling, teeth.
“As it ‘appens, I have Gladys who claims to be able to make contact with the departed on a Monday night and some young woman, Bernice, she’s called who does physical fitness for women every Wednesday. So, you see, it’s all the same to me. Crackpots the lot of ’em, most probably, but live and let live, says I.”
Greene sipped at the glass, the half-pint pot looking wrong in the big hand, like a builder drinking from china teacup.
“I hear what you’re saying, Mr. Potts, but your argument only goes so far. If you had any inkling, for instance, that your room was being hired out for any illegal activities, then you might just come a cropper.”
He held his hand out as if to stop Potts in his tracks and Brown saw the expression on the landlord’s face. He was deprived of his angry denial by Greene.
“I know what you’re thinking, sir. Nothing illegal in a political gathering, and happen you’re probably right. Anyway, we could sit here all day debating the rights and wrongs, but I’m sure you have better things to do. My sergeant and myself need to have a word with the top man, the man as does the booking of the room. So, maybe we could have an address?”
Potts looked from one to the other of them, seemingly at a loss as to what to say next and Brown grimaced. He would put money on the landlord, scruffy article that he was, not bothering to keep records.
But, he was proved wrong.
“Hold on a minute,” he said and left the room.
Greene drained his glass and gave a look at Brown’s. Drink up, the look said and Brown thought he’d better oblige.
There was a mantel clock above the fireplace, a nice piece, but dusty like most of the other fittings in the kitchen. Five slow minutes ticked by until Potts came back and by then, Brown could feel the tension and irritation emanate from his boss.
The landlord was carrying a brown notebook with red, fraying binding.
“The name I have here is a Mr. Lionel Robinson and the address is more south of the river as it happens. Fair old bit out of his way, ‘aving his meetings here, I’d say.”
He passed the book over to Greene, who with a quick jerk indicated to Brown to write the address down, not that he needed to. Brown had thought ahead enough to already have his own notebook on the table in front of him.
“Cursed thing, these tubes,” Greene muttered and to Brown’s surprise, the old man did look uneasy, a first as far as Brown could remember.
He sat rigid, almost unblinking, and when they eventually alighted, the relief came from him in waves of bluster.
Well, well. As his mother said, everyone had their weakness.
* * *
The row of fairly recently built houses stood like a column with scrubby bits of grass and closed-off looking gates giving some semblance of privacy.
“Look around you, lad, and be thankful for the privilege of breathing the clean Yorkshire air and having the room to swing a cat.”
Brown dismissed a bizarre image of cat swinging that had flashed into his mind. He knew what the old boy meant though. There was a huge excited feeling when you were in the city, especially London, but the reality was that most people probably lived like this, too close to each other in a grimy atmosphere out in the suburbs. He tried to imagine just for a minute what it must be like to come home from work to a road like this and knew that he couldn’t do it. He would struggle to breathe and for another moment, he wondered what life in this house would really be like? He couldn’t imagine talking to the neighbours or going to the local. Maybe that was why this man met his political cronies or whatever they were in a pub several miles away.
At first, it seemed as if they were not going to get an answer, then a woman opened the door.
From her greying, scraped-back hair to her slippers, she looked downtrodden. She was thin and colourless and made Brown depressed just to look at her. It was as if all the life had seeped out of her and the same would happen to you, if you spent any time in her company.
“Mrs. Robinson?” Inspector Greene had an air of authority, absolutely no doubt about that, and just for an instant the woman looked terrified; her eyes widened and she closed the door another little bit against them almost wedging herself between wood and jamb.
“I’m Inspector Greene from North Yorkshire and this is Sergeant Brown, and we wondered if we might have a word?”
It was touch and go as to whether she would overcome her fear in the face of officialdom and authority or slam the door and rush back indoors. But she opened the door and led them through a dim, beige corridor into a soulless sitting room, unadorned apart from a large reproduction of what looked like a Scottish landscape over the unlit fire.
“My husband is out,” she said.
Brown heard hope in her voice–hope that they would just nod at that and go, presumably. He also noticed that she hadn’t said he was at work.
“And are you expecting him back soon?”
She seemed to give up the hope they would just go away and leave her in peace and indicated the two armchairs at either side of the hearth.
“He’s gone round to his mother’s but I expect he’ll be back soon. Cuppa tea?”
“No, thank you, Mrs. Robinson,” said the boss answering for both of them.
What the heck do we talk about now?
But he saw a side of Greene in the next fifteen minutes that he’d never previously encountered, and he would nearly use the word charm if the very idea wasn’t ridiculous.
“And how do you find this part of London, Mrs. Robinson?” Greene began and before she could answer had begun to tell her about their journey down and the part of Yorkshire they came from.
She didn’t exactly relax, but at least perched on the edge of a chair and gave the impression of listening.
“Fancy.” She said at one point when Greene told her about the heavy snows of the dales.
Brown couldn’t recall him ever talking that much before and thought of his mother’s saying, “There’s nowt as queer as folk.”
Then the husband returned, and the charming chatterbox disappeared as though in a puff of wind.
“What’s all this, Mu?” the husband asked.
Must be short for Muriel. Brown eyed up the middle-aged balding man, wiry and pinched looking like his wife. He didn’t exactly look as if he would be a firebrand or for that matter, a man that Giles Etherington would have any truck with. The whole thing was becoming very unlikely and Brown felt sure that this was one big, time-consuming and expensive waste of time. Giles Etherington’s murder had its roots in Yorkshire soil or he was a Dutchman.
“I believe you belong to some sort of political movement and you meet in The King’s Arms in Hackney on the first Thursday of every month. Is that right?”
Brown thought the man might be thrown by two policemen coming to his house–but far from it. He stood up a bit straighter and then took off the green sports jacket, revealing a brown and yellow hand-knitted slipover. Bet his politics are as skew-whiff as his taste in clothes.
“That’s right, Inspector. We’re starting a new political party, not like what you’ve seen in Great Britain before. Similar to others in Europe though. I’m not sure, though, with all due respect, why that should draw the attention of the police?”
“Tea, Muriel, please, my dear,” He waved in the direction of the two men.
None of the other three occupants of the room could be bothered to tell him tea had already been offered and refused. The woman looked relieved to have a reason to leave the room. Small blame to her; the husband was a pompous windbag and no mistake.
“Well, we’re not here to enquire about your politics, Mr. Brown, or not directly, anyway. I’m afraid one of your members, one of your key members I believe, has died in suspicious circumstances.”
Like a cornered rat. The words flashed into Brown’s mind as he looked at Robinson, whose eyes blinked rapidly and then he dismissed the thought. Anybody would be shocked at such news.
“Who?” he asked.
Brown saw the man’s eyes shift again, and knew he had made the connection with Yorkshire. His body stiffened as though someone was aiming a punch at his gut. There was a short silence, and the tension built like steam in a kettle.
“Giles Etherington.” Greene’s words were blunt and his eyes were fixed on the other man’s face.
“Mr. Etherington,” said Robinson. “That’s dreadful news, terrible news. It could have nothing to do with anyone in our group, you know. He was liked and respected, the real ticket, inspector. An officer and a gentleman, and I truly mean that. How did it happen?”
“He was shot.” Greene’s responses were a marked contrast to how he’d been with Muriel Robinson. Here was no charm, here was the bluff Yorkshireman, with knobs on.
No doubt about it, the more time he spent with his boss, the less he really knew him.
“We’re looking at all aspects of Mr. Etherington’s life at this stage. I’m sure you’ll understand that, Mr. Robinson, a man with political aspiration like yourself. You will have an understanding of the way of the world and how things work.”
Brown couldn’t be sure whether there was mockery in the inspector’s tone–or was it a challenge? Whatever it was, even he breathed a bit easier when Mrs. Robinson came back into the room carrying a big brown tray with tea things and a plate of custard creams. Greene gave him the nod and he hurried to take the tray from her.
She poured out the tea and handed it to the men and then looked anxiously around as if undecided whether to sit down or leave the room.
She looked at her husband and though Brown didn’t see any signs from him, there must have been something because she said, “I’ll leave you to your talk and make a start on the dinner.”
The silence that fell when she left the room was heavy, and Robinson sank back into the beige cushions and closed his eyes for a moment.
Then, like a trickle the words came. “It’s hard for a man to have no job and it’s not right. I was never idle in my life…didn’t have the best of wars…my nerves haven’t been the same, not as bad as some, of course, but still…” He rubbed a hand across his forehead and for a moment bent his head to rest his forehead it in his cupped palm.
“It’s not right, Inspector. Men who fought and gave so much, ruined their health in many cases. You come back and you work and try to pick up the reins. The banks get themselves in a mess, and all you read when you pick up the newspaper is depression and there’s the Jews…”
Brown frowned, the man was rambling…where did Jews come into all of this? He had been feeling sorry for the man, but now he wasn’t so sure. Greene must have been wondering too.
“With all due respect, sir, I don’t think we have the time to listen to the ins and outs of your politics. But, I do need to find out a bit more about your group, for instance, who’s the key man?”
Brown was watching Robinson’s face. It hardened and the expression closed. He had the strong feeling this was where they’d hit their brick wall. But he had reckoned without the determination of Inspector Brown.
After a tense parry, Robinson handed over a list of members. “I’m not happy about this, Inspector…not at all. At the very least, I should have been given a chance to speak to them to let them know, before you get in touch with them.”
Greene stood up and picked his hat up from the floor beside his chair.
Brown stood too, trying to unobtrusively brush biscuit crumbs from his uniform trousers.
“Mr. Robinson, is your organisation a secret one?”
“No, Inspector, of course not.”
“And it’s open to people to join?”
Robinson hesitated, unclear how to answer this. “Well, yes…”
“Then your membership should be a matter of public record, as you have nothing to hide, and even if it wasn’t, I think you’d find that a murder investigation would mean that as an investigating officer, I have a right to see this. Sergeant Brown will make a copy of it and we’ll return it to you before the end of the day. Thank your good lady for the biscuits and the tea.”
* * *
They sat in a cafe surrounded by what to Brown’s ears sounded like shrieking and very foreign voices. Strange to think that with the exception of what looked like a couple of Spanish men, the rest were fellow Britons. Brown could make some sense of Londoners when it was on a one-to-one basis and he concentrated, but in a group like this, he couldn’t make head nor tail of most of it.
“Have you copied it out?” Greene asked.
No patience, thought Brown. “Almost, sir.
“Well, hurry up with it. I’m full to the gills with cups of tea, and I want to see what further ground we can cover today.
The man at the top of the list was a Major Eric Chapman and he was the one Greene was most interested in.
“We are staying overnight, after all, and we will be heading out to Sussex in the morning to speak to Major Chapman. Glad you came prepared, now, lad eh?”
Brown gulped. The last thing he wanted was to stay in some lodging house or down-at-heel cheap hotel for the night. The thought of the train home and his own bed and his mother’s cooking filled his mind until he realised the inspector had raised his voice.
“I said, wake up Sergeant, and get on with the job in hand.”
Chapter 14
“Do you want me to go?”
Edith hoped and prayed that Julia wouldn’t say yes, but she had to say something to break the miserable silence that filled the room with a thick vapour of resentment.
She would shock her friend out of her attitude. I’m being unfair, she told herself.
It had been even worse than she had anticipated. In the end, she’d gone to Julia’s on her own. It had been very tempting to take up Henry’s offer to go with her, but that was making too much of her meeting with Daphne. It would shout out that she felt guilty, and after all, what did she really have to feel guilty about?
“I went to meet her because I didn’t know how to refuse, I suppose.”
“Well, you did what you felt best, then, Edith.”
Edith spoke after what was definitely several seconds’ stunned silence. “Julia, don’t be like that. Look, I wasn’t going round to make friends with her or to hear her side of the story or anything at all like that. She sounded desperate and…”
There was a noise from Julia, a loud angry sigh. “My heart bleeds.”
Edith felt a bubble of anger that was coming rapidly to the surface. She opened her mouth to speak to say, look I didn’t ask the bloody woman to ring me up…do you really think I wanted to be dragged into this?
But, she managed to bite the words back. She had to make allowances. But she would also not justify herself any longer. She’d meant no harm here, and she wouldn’t just keep endlessly accepting blame. “Surely, you don’t think I wanted to meet the woman?” she said eventually.
“Actually I’d better go,” she said, after a moment, when Julia didn’t answer her. “I didn’t know what to do for the best, Julia. I thought Daphne was a loose cannon, and that it would be better if I heard her out.”
Julia turned hostile eyes on her. “What did she want, anyway?”
Edith, half out of her chair, sat back down. This was the question she’d been dreading. She wasn’t clear about the answer, and with the mood Julia was in, she was prett
y sure that whatever she said was going to be wrong.
“It was a bit like she was when she came here, I suppose. Asking questions about Giles’s…what happened.”
“Giles’s death, you can say it, you know.”
Julia’s tone was bitter and again, Edith felt a twist of anger and told herself, again, that she wasn’t being fair, she needed at this moment to be more tolerant.
Edith heard her own angry sigh. “She also gave me the impression that she was frightened of her husband and of the police knocking on her door and I suppose, blowing everything wide open.”
“Maybe she should have thought about that before she decided to have an affair with someone else’s husband–and father.”
“Yes, I agree. But, I told you why I went. It was difficult to refuse, and I suppose I thought I might appease her a bit. I know you’re frightened about what she might do, turn up to the funeral and upset the children. Maybe now, she might think there’s nothing else for her to find out up here, and she will just go back to London and not cause any more problems.”
“I suppose I should be thanking you, then.”
From the flat tone of Julia’s voice, Edith couldn’t be completely sure that she was being sarcastic, but she probably was.
Well, she was going to go now. Julia in this mood was impossible, and she was damned if she was going to spend any more time trying to do her best in what was an impossible situation.
“I’ll see you, then, Julia.” There was no answer.
As she let herself into her house back in Ellbeck, a wave of desolation sideswiped Edith. She’d honestly not meant any harm, and for all they’d been through in the past decades, things had never before come to this between her and Julia, her best friend, and, these days, one of her few friends.
Archie was in the surgery scrubbing his hands. There was a lull between morning and afternoon surgery, and she ought to catch up with neglected tasks. There were prescriptions to fill and sign and the appointments book to bring up to date.
At least he was busy, very busy. After Mrs. Butler’s death, Archie’s practice had suffered. But it had picked up again. He talked sometimes about taking on a partner, but he also claimed to be far too used to working on his own.
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