by Rennie Airth
Sam had his own way of dealing with the problem. Whenever he came across any of these vagrants he would stop and chat with them for a while, letting them know in a friendly way that there was someone keeping an eye on the property. They were welcome to pause for a bit, he would tell them, so long as they did no damage, but not to linger unduly; not to make themselves at home. Above all, they were to keep away from the farm buildings; otherwise a charge of trespass might follow.
It wasn’t a part of his job he enjoyed. Quite a number of the tramps were known to him, familiar faces from years back. He regarded most of them as decent men down on their luck and more often than not these meetings ended with Sam the poorer by a florin or two.
The gypsies were another matter, sullen and close-mouthed when their paths crossed, the hostility in their eyes rooted in some centuries-old soil of resentment. Whether this arose from their own natures, from the manner in which they lived, or from the way they were treated by others - by people like himself, if it came to that - was a question Sam had never resolved, and for want of any satisfactory answer he’d fallen back on a brisk, no-nonsense front when dealing with them. But the business left a bad taste in his mouth and he was always relieved when it was over and he saw the backs of their caravans receding.
He glanced at his watch. It was a quarter to four.
‘Come on, Sal. Time we were off.’
Tapping out his pipe, he rose, but had to wait while Sally levered herself up, groaning as she did so. Poor old girl. Rheumatism was starting to get into her joints. He hoped it wouldn’t reach the stage when he’d have to put her down. He wasn’t sure he could bring himself to do it.
‘Off we go, then.’
The quickest way back to his van led along the ridge to the saddle where the path ran. They soon reached it and Sam paused for a moment to cast his gaze down the length of the footway. He was thinking how easy it would be for Eddie to walk over here after work.
‘Sally!’
The high-pitched cry came from behind them and he looked round. A young girl dressed in a gymslip and carrying a school satchel was hurrying up the path towards them from the direction of the road. Sam waved to her.
‘Look, Sal—there’s your friend.’
Sally, whose eyesight wasn’t all it had once been, seemed unconvinced. She let out a speculative bark. Then her tail began to wag.
‘Oh, Sally! Didn’t you recognize me?’ The girl came up to them.
Shedding her satchel and her white straw hat, she went down on her knees and threw her arms around Sal’s neck.
Sam stood over them, grinning. ‘I thought we’d missed you today,’ he said.
Nell was her name. Nell Ramsay. She lived in Oak Green, but went to school in Midhurst, returning on the bus every afternoon. It had been early spring when they’d first bumped into her on Wood Way and since then she and Sal had become bosom pals.
‘I’m sorry, Mr Watkin. I should have said good afternoon to you first.’ Smiling, she looked up, brushing the dark hair from her eyes.
‘How’ve you been, love?’
‘Very well, thank you.’ Though she talked posh, she had no airs at all and during the course of the summer Sam had found himself beguiled by her simple manner and the openness with which she talked to him whenever they met. Truth to tell, she reminded him of his own Rosie, who was a year younger, and fair to Nell’s dark, but had the same eager expression in her eyes. The look young girls got when they were on the brink of womanhood.
Thanks to her lack of shyness, he already knew all about her - and her family. They had moved from Midhurst to Oak Green three years before, Nell had told him, but her father continued to work in the town as a chartered accountant and drove her to school every morning. Up until this year her mother had always fetched her in the afternoons. But since turning thirteen - Nell was the youngest of the Ramsays’ three children, her two brothers being at university - she’d been deemed old enough to make the journey on her own.
‘I was saving up a biscuit in case we met, Sally. But I’m not sure I ought to give it to you now. You’re getting so fat.’
At the word ‘biscuit’ Sal’s ears had pricked, and now, as though under the spell of her moist brown eyes, Nell reached blindly into her satchel and brought out a ginger snap, which was quickly disposed of. Sam could only shake his head and sigh. Greediest dog on earth.
‘I’m sorry, I’ve got to dash today.’ Nell searched for her things on the ground. ‘Aunt Edith’s coming to tea and Mummy doesn’t want me to be late.’ She planted a kiss on the silky head beside hers and stood up. ‘Goodbye, Mr Watkin. Goodbye, Sally.’
Grinning, Sam waved a farewell to her and then watched as she went hurrying off down the path, hoisting her satchel onto her shoulders and clutching at her hat. He turned to leave, but had to pause once more, finding Sally firmly planted on her haunches behind him, busy scratching behind one ear. Or trying to. It was a struggle to reach the awkward spot these days and she was putting all her effort into the task.
‘Come on, old girl. I’ll do that for you.’
But though he gave her a good scratch, it failed to produce the desired result, and as soon as he’d finished she went back to what she’d been doing before, leaving Sam no option but to wait until she was ready to move on.
He glanced down the path again and saw that Nell was well along it, approaching the fork that would take her to Oak Green.
Then he noticed something else. The bloke he’d spotted earlier, up on the ridge opposite, across the valley. The one with the fieldglasses. He was still there.
Sam had taken him for a birdwatcher. There were plenty of them around, particularly in the summer, and it was easy to spot them. They were forever scanning the heavens, sometimes making notes of what they saw. But whatever this bloke was looking at now, it wasn’t a bird. He had his binoculars trained on the valley below him, which was strange, Sam thought, since there was nothing there to see. Nothing of interest.
Unless it was the sight of Nell’s figure hurrying across the open field away from the path towards the red roofs of Oak Green, her white hat bobbing up and down like a flower carried on a stream.
15
‘VANE? PHILIP Vane?’ Bennett stared at the chief inspector with incredulity. ‘Are you serious?’
‘Perfectly, sir. Do you know him?’ The photograph which Sinclair had just withdrawn from his file remained in his hand.
Bennett gestured impatiently for it and he handed him the glossy print. Procured from a magazine archive, it was a studio portrait of a man in his forties with narrow, well-bred features composed in an expression of boredom. Elegant in evening dress, he wore the ribbon of some decoration about his neck. The assistant commissioner stared at the picture for a moment, then nodded.
‘That’s Vane,’ he acknowledged. ‘We’ve met several times.’ He looked at the chief inspector, then glanced at Holly, who was sitting beside him. The dull autumn light coming through the windows of his office gave a leaden tinge to their faces. ‘Have either of you any idea who he is?’ he asked in a neutral tone.
‘Never heard of him, sir.’
While Holly’s reply had been prompt, Sinclair took his time responding. Warned by their superior’s manner, he chose his words carefully. ‘I’m aware that he works at the Foreign Office,’ he said. In fact, he was a good deal better informed than that about the individual in question, but seeing the look in Bennett’s eye, he realized it might be wise if he kept this intelligence to himself, at least for the time being.
‘Oh, there’s a little more to him than that, you know.’ Bennett’s tone was silky, but the chief inspector did not fail to catch the warning note in it. ‘Vane’s a specialist in European affairs, quite a senior figure.’
Sinclair contrived to look impressed.
‘He lunches at the palace, what’s more. Did you know that?’
‘I did not, sir.’ In the circumstances, the lie seemed permissable.
‘Yes, and he shoots at S
andringham.’ Bennett’s gaze was penetrating.
‘My word!’ Holly whistled. ‘Is this the chappie with the car, then?’
Bennett ignored him. He kept his gaze on Sinclair’s face. The chief inspector had come to this meeting, arranged at his request, in a state of some tension. Now he spoke bluntly.
‘With respect, sir, the question here is not whether Philip Vane is well regarded at the Foreign Office - I’m sure he is - nor even if he’s on the palace’s guest list. The issue’s a simple one. Is he, or is he not a murderer?’
Bennett drew in his breath sharply and the chief inspector braced himself for the explosion he could see was coming. Having spent half a lifetime working on the fringes of Whitehall, he knew only too well what effect even a whiff of scandal could have on those in high office. But he’d been surprised all the same by the sharpness of his superior’s reaction and for an uneasy moment he wondered if there was even more at stake here than he’d supposed.
Bennett, meanwhile, was struggling to retain his poise. He spoke in a controlled tone. ‘Apart from the fact that he owns a motor car of this make, have you any reason to think he might be?’
‘Sir, all I have at the moment is information—’
‘Can you really think a man like Philip Vane guilty of such bestial crimes?’ The assistant commissioner interrupted him, staring. ‘In all honesty now, Chief Inspector?’
‘Why, I have no opinion one way or the other.’ Sinclair took care to appear scandalized by the suggestion. He saw he’d stumbled into a minefield. ‘What I must emphasize, though, is there’s every likelihood the man we’re seeking has an unusual background. Otherwise we’d have caught him by now. And no one can be excluded simply because of his position. His class...’
Franz Weiss’s words on the subject had returned to the chief inspector’s mind while he was speaking.
‘That said, all I’m interested in at present are facts. Let me tell you what I’ve learned.’ He’d already opened the file on his knee and he continued before Bennett could interrupt him again. ‘Vane purchased a Mercedes-Benz of the relevant model in June, 1929 - you’ ll recall the Henley child disappeared in July of that year. In October he was posted to the British Embassy in Berlin where he remained until July of this year, when he was recalled to London.’ Sinclair looked up. ‘We’ve been puzzled by the long gap between the earlier case and the Bognor Regis murder, which occurred in late July, and we’ve discussed the possibility that the killer might have been abroad during that time.’ He lowered his eyes again. ‘Oh, by the way, the reason he bought a Mercedes rather than a British-made car was precisely because he was going to Germany. He apparently thought it would be easier to get the vehicle serviced and repaired there.’
Silence fell in the office. Holly looked at them both. The assistant commissioner had turned pale. When he spoke, the anger in his voice seemed barely in check. ‘Have you been making inquiries about Vane among his colleagues and friends, Chief Inspector?’
‘Good heavens, no. He’s a public servant, sir. This is all a matter of record.’ Sinclair tapped the file on his knee. ‘As is his purchase of that motor car.’
‘And his reasons, his personal reasons, for buying a German-made machine? Were those on the record?’
‘Gossip, sir. Common knowledge.’ Sinclair retained his composure. ‘His name was on the list the Mercedes people sent us. It’s the only one we haven’t checked. In the normal course, I would probably have spoken to him already if he wasn’t out of the country at present. But I’m assured he’ll be back shortly.’
‘It’s as well for you that you didn’t,’ Bennett said quietly, causing Angus Sinclair’s eyebrows to shoot up in amazement. ‘I’m warning you now, Chief Inspector. Take care. If this blows up in your face, there will be hell to pay. And, as of this moment, you are treading on very thin ice.’
‘Am I, sir?’ Angered himself, Sinclair met his superior’s heated gaze coolly. ‘Well, so be it. As of this moment Philip Vane is a suspect. He must be asked to give a detailed account of his movements on the relevant days in July and September and to provide supporting evidence, if possible.’
‘And what explanation do you propose to offer him for this intrusion into his private life?’
‘None, unless he asks for one, in which case. I’ll tell him the truth.’
Bennett breathed deeply. His pallor had receded, but in its place twin red spots had appeared in his cheeks like warning signals. He stared at the chief inspector, blinking rapidly.
Holly cleared his throat. ‘While you’re thinking about that, sir, there’s something else you might consider doing.’
‘What’s that, Arthur?’ It was Sinclair who put the question. His gaze remained locked to the assistant commissioner’s.
‘We could keep an eye on him.’
‘Put a tail on Philip Vane?’ Bennett gave vent to his feelings, bringing his fist down hard on the desktop. ‘Are you out of your mind?’
‘No, sir. Quite rational, I believe. Hungry, though.’ Holly smiled ruefully, easing the strained atmosphere just a little. ‘But until you decide whether or not Angus is to talk to this fellow, where’s the harm in keeping a watch on his movements?’
‘Out of the question. Is that clear?’
‘Then may I suggest a compromise?’ Sinclair intervened without allowing a pause. ‘Vane still owns that car. It’s garaged here in London. What I would urge, sir, and very strongly, is that the car at least should be kept under surveillance until further notice. If Vane leaves the city in it, he must be followed.’
Wearing the look of a man forced to swallow a dose of cyanide, Bennett nodded. ‘Very well. I’ll agree to that. But no more.’
‘And then there’s the matter of the interview.’ Sinclair refused to let the issue rest. ‘I’m requesting your authorization to speak to Philip Vane, and at the earliest possible moment. If he’s in the clear, so much the better. We can strike his name from our files.’
The assistant commissioner sat hunched in his chair, his lips drawn together in a thin line. ‘I’m forced to remind you that you have no evidence against this man.’
‘I’m aware of that, sir.’
‘Yes, but do you truly understand what it is you’re proposing to do? It’s not simply a question of Vane’s position at the Foreign Office. He has powerful friends and supporters in other quarters.’
‘I’m sure you’re not suggesting those are reasons why we shouldn’t interview him, sir.’
Bennett’s lips whitened in anger. Holly looked anxiously from one to the other, wondering if he should intervene. He was becoming concerned for his friend.
‘I want to think this matter over.’ The assistant commissioner spoke in dead tones. He was making an effort to remain calm.
‘Quite, sir. But not for too long, I trust.’ Sinclair was relentless.
‘Chief Inspector! You’ve made your point. Don’t labour it!’ Bennett glared at him. ‘I’ll see you both at five o’clock. That will be all.’
The two men rose and left the office in silence. No sooner had they passed through the anteroom and gone out into the corridor than Holly seized the other’s arm.
‘What’s got into you, Angus? Are you pushing for an early pension, man?’
‘He lunches at the palace. He shoots at Sandringham!’
Holly saw he’d been deceived by his friend’s icy demeanour inside Bennett’s office. The chief inspector’s cheeks were flushed with anger. His flint-grey eyes, normally cool, threw off sparks.
‘Calm down, for goodness sake,’ he urged. ‘You’ve gone at this like a bull at a gate. It’s not like you. Give Bennett some time to think it over.’
Grim-faced, Sinclair waited in silence while two detectives walked by them in the corridor. He responded to their greetings with the briefest of nods.
‘He’s looking for a way out of this. You’ll see - he won’t let me near Vane.’
‘Now you don’t know that.’ Holly shook an admonishing finger.
‘Give the man a chance. Anyway, we’ll know soon enough. Five o’clock, he said.’
But they didn’t have to wait that long. Fully an hour before the time set, Sinclair received an urgent telephoned summons to return to the assistant commissioner’s office. Hurrying down the stairs to the corridor below, he caught sight of the chief super, a trimmer figure after his weeks of dieting, walking briskly in the same direction.
‘What now, I wonder?’ Sinclair had caught up with him in the anteroom. They waited while Bennett’s secretary reported their arrival. ‘I wouldn’t have thought our lord and master was in any hurry to get this settled.’
The chief inspector had come psychologically prepared to resume the struggle - he was determined not to yield on the issue - but he saw at a glance as they entered the office that the situation had changed. Bennett, paler than usual, was seated at his desk. The unnatural brightness of his gaze, as he looked up, hinted at some recent shock undergone. His face wore a look of deep anxiety.
‘Sit down, gentlemen, please.’
Obeying, Sinclair noticed a stack of telegram forms lying on the desk blotter. Bennett had been looking at them when they came in, and now he turned his attention back to the shallow pile, leafing through the pages for several seconds, before raising his eyes once more and regarding them both.
‘Since we met earlier, I’ve received a message in response to the request we sent to the International Police Commission. You’ll recall we asked them for any information they might have relating to crimes similiar to the ones we’re investigating.’
‘Have they a record of such cases in Vienna?’ Sinclair couldn’t contain his eagerness for the answer.
‘Yes ... I imagine so ... now.’ Bennett hesitated. ‘But this telegram comes from Berlin. It was sent to me by Arthur Nebe.’ He glanced up and met Sinclair’s eye.
‘Nebe?’ Holly struggled with the unfamiliar pronunciation.