There were other pictures on the walls, too. These weren’t painted on to the plaster but hung like ordinary pictures in frames. That was where the similarity between these and ordinary pictures started and finished. The subject of all of the pictures was, as he had expected, sex. Jack felt a stab of desire, which, as he continued to gaze, was replaced with revulsion. These brutal images weren’t about any sort of love, they were about power, the refined and complete subjection of helpless human beings. And he hated it. The paintings weren’t coarse or uncultured, they were technically brilliant and only too realistic, but there was nothing here of vigorous high spirits or animal exuberance. There was nothing in them to suggest the vitality of men or the sympathy of women. Instead they showed screaming, tortured flesh, perverted for a diseased pleasure and unnatural desire. He put his hand to his mouth, sickened by the room, with its sybaritic furniture and its images of rape and conquest.
He dragged his gaze away and forced himself to walk round the room, taking in the details. There was a door leading, he imagined, on to the main staircase but that was locked. He left the room and went back into the office.
Walking to the back staircase, he listened again for any sound, then relaxed. Going back into the office, he opened the filing cabinet, taking care to support the drawer with his hand so it opened as silently as possible. Inside were a collection of manila folders, each marked with a name. Culverton’s name leapt out at him. He had his hand on the file when there came the sound he’d been dreading. In the adjoining room, in that ghastly club, someone was turning the key in the door.
Jack put back the file, delicately closed the cabinet and escaped on to the back stairs. He didn’t close the door but pushed it to. Not only did he have to keep quiet, he wanted to know exactly where the newcomer was. As he listened he heard the sound of muffled voices. There were evidently at least two of them. He heard the click as the door to the office from the club opened and the voices got suddenly louder and clearer.
‘. . . clear away and see about getting some more champagne up from the cellar.’
Jack put his eye to the crack in the door. There were two men and he could see enough to realize he didn’t know either of them.
‘Taittinger or the cheap stuff?’
The other man laughed. ‘We’d better have enough Taittinger to whet their appetites but you know what this lot are like. Once they get going you could sell ’em anything as long as it looks all right, even if it does taste like petrol. Half of them are off their heads with snow anyway. It helps to keep up appearances, so to speak.’
They both laughed. There was the sound of a drawer opening and closing and Jack saw a hand reach forward and pick up the envelopes from the tray.
‘I’ve got to get these in the post. We’ll go out the back.’
Jack couldn’t wait. He slipped out of the office, up the stairs and back towards the attic door, sacrificing caution for speed. He groaned inwardly as the wooden stairs creaked beneath his feet and he flattened himself against the wall, not daring to move.
The two men came out of the office door. ‘Did you hear something?’ asked one.
‘I dunno.’ The voice was puzzled. ‘You don’t suppose anyone’s creeping about, do you, Steve?’
‘I wouldn’t have thought so,’ came the reassuring reply. Jack breathed a silent sigh of relief then tensed as Steve added, ‘We’d better have a look, I suppose.’
Jack sensed rather than saw the moment the men started to climb the stairs. Dropping to his knees, he hefted the champagne bottle and dropped it through the banister. There was an almighty crash as it shattered at the bottom of the stairwell, followed by a startled exclamation from the two men.
‘Strewth! What was that?’
Their feet clattered down the stairs and away. Jack momentarily closed his eyes, thanking his lucky stars, then went back into the attic. Taking off his jacket, he used it to hastily brush his footprints away behind him as he made for the safety of the eaves. Once on the other side of the little wooden door he relaxed and, still on edge for the sound of any pursuit, groped his way back along the rafters to the deserted draper’s shop.
‘Hello, ugly,’ said Bill Rackham cheerfully as Jack was shown into his office. He stopped as Jack unbuttoned his coat, revealing his dirt-smeared shirt and filthy suit. ‘What the dickens have you been doing? You look as if you’ve been climbing chimneys.’
‘Yes, the old whistle and flute copped for it a bit,’ said Jack, drawing up a chair and putting his hat on the desk. ‘I stopped off at a Gents to wash my hands and face otherwise I think your official watch-dog downstairs would have run me in for vagrancy. I’ve been visiting a club.’
Rackham’s eyebrows shot up. ‘Dressed like that?’
‘Dressed, as you say, in this self-same pattern of sartorial splendour. Excuse me, I’m feeling a bit above myself. Never mind about my clothes, Bill. I’ve found the club.’
‘The club?’
‘The club,’ repeated Jack. ‘The club we’ve been looking for. The dodgy club. The very shady, very bent and obsessively secretive club. Culverton’s club. In a word, I’ve found Paris.’
‘Paris?’
‘Paris. It’s the name of the club.’
Rackham stared at him. ‘Where is it?’
‘Not far from Northumberland Avenue. It’s in Tilford Lane.’
‘Tilford Lane?’ repeated Rackham. ‘But that’s where the Continental is.’
‘Absolutely. Paris is part of the Continental. It’s hidden away upstairs. That’s not all. There’s a great many things that puzzled us and I know the answers. I know the why and the where and can make a pretty good guess as to the who. I think,’ said Jack, taking out a cigarette from his case and lighting it, ‘I’d better tell you the whole story.’
Rackham listened intently. When Jack had finished, he shook his head in disbelief. ‘You daft beggar, Jack. What if someone at the Continental had caught you?’
‘They didn’t,’ said Jack easily. ‘Relax. Don’t you think the risk was worth it, Bill? After all, we know a dickens of a lot more than we did.’ He raised an eyebrow at Rackham. ‘Enough to act on?’
‘Too right,’ said Rackham. He looked at the wax impressions of the keys Jack had put on the desk. ‘Those should make life a great deal easier. I’m glad you thought to label them.’
‘Give me some credit,’ said Jack.
‘And then there’s the letter.’ Rackham picked up the brown envelope Jack had taken from the club’s office. ‘I’d say this alone was worth going for, once you add everything else we know.’
The letter was an invitation, addressed to one Frederick Meredith White, Esq. It looked innocuous enough, requesting the pleasure of Mr White’s company at a gala evening on Friday, 30th November at 47 Tilford Lane, from eleven o’clock onwards. The usual entertainment, it added, would be provided.
‘Frederick Meredith White, Esquire, eh?’ said Rackham, looking at the envelope. ‘He’s an old friend, in a manner of speaking. I don’t suppose you’ve ever come across Freddie White?’ he added. Jack shook his head. ‘I recognized the name and address right away. He’s originally from a good family, as these things are measured, but he shirked the war and God knows what he lives on. He certainly doesn’t work, that’s for sure. I once questioned him on a suspicion of being in possession of cocaine.’
‘Did you?’ said Jack. ‘That’d fit. One of the men I overheard said that half the clientele were off their heads with snow.’
‘Did he, by jingo?’ muttered Rackham. ‘So we can add illegal drugs to all the other sins that are accumulating.’
‘Do the names I read in the diary mean anything to you?’ asked Jack. ‘G. Stoker, A. McCann and S. Bierce? I don’t know if the S. Bierce is Sholto Bierce, the MP.’
‘He could be, I suppose. Jack, you say these names were written under the word Pegasus?’ Jack nodded. ‘I wonder if they’re on the guest list for the dinner on board the aeroplane?’
‘That’
s something I can find out.’
‘Because if they are, I wouldn’t be surprised, granted that we know this gala evening, as they call it, is starting at eleven o’clock, if these three were planning to go on to Paris after the flight. It might very well be their first visit, which would account for their names being written in the diary.’
‘Shall we join them?’ asked Jack.
Rackham grinned. ‘I’d love to spoil the party. It’s a matter for the Assistant Commissioner to decide but yes, I can’t see why not.’ He rose to his feet. ‘Talking of the AC, why don’t you come and talk to him? After all, as you said, it was your idea.’
Jack glanced down at his grimy clothes. ‘Can’t I change first?’
Rackham rose to his feet. ‘Come on, Jack. Once the AC hears what you have to tell him, he’ll be thinking about other things than your trousers.’ He smiled. ‘In fact, I reckon this is going to be the best news he’s had all year.’
Chapter Fourteen
George Lassiter felt Anne’s unconscious grip on his arm as the vast flying-boat circled overhead, the Rolls-Royce engines thundering out their stately, rhythmic music. It was Friday night, the night of the maiden flight of the Pegasus, and everything was unexpectedly going to plan.
A line of white lights along the Embankment illuminated the flight path for the seaplane. The lights made dancing white highlights on the choppy water and showed the upturned faces of the crowd, pausing on their journey home to see this latest wonder of the greatest city on earth. On the choked Blackfriars and Waterloo Bridges, hard-pressed policemen tried to keep the traffic moving as London slowed to a crawl. Even the trams on Blackfriars Bridge seemed to be clanking along more slowly as their occupants turned for a final look at what the Daily Messenger had called, in a leader which contained more adjectives than information, A Wonder of the Aviation Age! Another first for Britain! and, rather more poetically, A man-made Monarch of the Air.
It was just as well, thought George, that the crowd had no idea of the frantic efforts, bitter arguments and last-minute compromises that had gone into getting the Monarch of the Air aloft.
After David’s arrest, Nigel had stayed at the factory, working flat out. Stella told him how she’d found Nigel asleep, slumped over the drawing board, more than once. He had only eaten when food had actually been put into his hand. Anne had gone to Tilbury to suggest that, in light of what had happened to David, the circumstances were inappropriate for the launch.
Nigel, appalled by the idea, had refused to budge. He didn’t, said Anne, seem interested in David or even Culverton. Culverton was dead and nothing could bring him back and, if David had had any consideration, he would have refrained from parading his guilty conscience until after the launch instead of trying to scupper the Pegasus yet again by hogging all the limelight. This line of argument left Anne breathless but, with Mr Lassiter still stricken and incapable from David’s arrest, Nigel was in effective control and what he said went.
It had been a desperate race against time and now it had paid off. Nigel’s plane was ready – just. George felt a lump in his throat as the magnificent machine soared, banked and turned. Nothing could take away from the enormity of what he was seeing. Although he couldn’t warm to Nigel, he had to hand it to the man. The Pegasus was a wonderful achievement. To build an aeroplane that could cross oceans and traverse continents was staggering, and now the Pegasus, with Nigel at the controls, was coming in for what only the most skilful pilot could attempt, a night landing on water.
George returned Anne’s grip as Nigel Lassiter, now only twenty feet above the river and slowed to nearly stalling speed, wafted the mighty aircraft down until it kissed the surface of the Thames, turning in a creamy wake to face upstream, hugging the shore. Along the two bridges and sparking down the Embankment, cameras blazed and caught the moment. The thrum of the engines split into a staccato tattoo and spun into silence.
George let his breath out in a whoosh. ‘That,’ he said, with deep appreciation, ‘was perfect.’ He looked at Anne, who was grinning in relief. Out on the river, Nigel Lassiter stood up in the open cockpit and waved to the crowd, who responded with a spattering of applause.
‘He loves it,’ said Anne enthusiastically, temporarily carried away. ‘He’s worked so hard for this moment. No one ever really believed he’d do it. Even David . . .’ She broke off, unable to say any more.
George cleared his throat. ‘I know,’ he said awkwardly. He covered her hand with his, unable to find any words that didn’t seem unbearably clumsy. He couldn’t, in his heart of hearts, really comprehend that David – David, for God’s sake – had confessed to murder. Mrs Culverton, he knew, had tried to get David to retract his confession, to change his mind, but he stubbornly stuck to his story. Despite a solemn warning about making a false statement, Mrs Culverton had continued to insist that David had been with her until after two in the morning on the night Culverton was murdered. David, she said, was innocent.
George sighed deeply. He could only guess at the depth of Peggy Culverton’s feelings but he knew what effect David’s confession had had on Anne and as for his grandfather – well, that was nothing short of a tragedy. He had aged years in the past few days and, for the first time, George realized just how old his grandfather was. Nothing, not the Pegasus or the firm or Anne or George himself, seemed to matter to him any more. The only one who seemed unaffected, thought George, as he watched Nigel climb down on to the wing of the plane, was Nigel.
A group of workers from the Lassiter factory were waiting on the shore below the Embankment. They threw a rope to the plane and Nigel secured it, standing as proudly as any captain of old on his quarterdeck as the Pegasus was pulled steadily into the bank.
Anne’s face twisted as she heard his shout of encouragement to the men. ‘He hardly seems to have realized what’s happened, you know. I wish I was like him,’ she added savagely. ‘So caught up in my own affairs that I simply didn’t know what was going on around me.’
‘You don’t mean that,’ said George.
Anne smiled bitterly. ‘Don’t I? It would hurt a lot less.’ George, unable to find an answer, squeezed her hand once more. Anne blinked very rapidly then, withdrawing her hand, took a handkerchief from her bag and blew her nose in a gesture of finality. ‘This is no good,’ she said in an attempt at briskness. ‘I’ve got work to do. The caterers are here, I know, but now the Pegasus has landed I have to get everything sorted out.’
‘We’ll be able to get on board soon,’ said George, watching as the Lassiter men tethered the aircraft. They had a temporary jetty ready and Nigel, grinning broadly, climbed out of the aircraft and walked ashore. ‘Let’s go and see him, shall we?’
They had to wait. Nigel was quickly surrounded by a group of pressmen and more cameras blazed. There were, predictably, questions about David, which Nigel dealt with by ignoring them completely. Gradually the crowd thinned and Nigel caught sight of them. ‘Come and join me,’ he called with a welcoming wave of his arm.
‘She’s an absolute beauty,’ George said sincerely. ‘I’ve never seen a plane like it. You made a perfect landing.’
Nigel’s smile increased. ‘Of course, you know something about aeroplanes, don’t you? I’d forgotten.’
‘George owned a seaplane,’ Anne put in.
Nigel ignored her. ‘This is the most advanced aircraft in the world. Nothing can match her, nothing. Why don’t you come on board?’
‘I’ve got to come on board,’ said Anne. ‘I’m in charge of the arrangements for the dinner, remember?’
‘So you are,’ said Nigel. ‘You’d better get on with it. We don’t have that much time before the guests arrive.’ Another reporter hailed him and Nigel looked at her with a touch of impatience. ‘Go on, Anne. I’m busy.’ He walked past them to where the reporter stood.
Anne turned to George with a rueful smile. ‘Did he say thank you or did I miss it?’
‘You didn’t miss it,’ said George curtly. Nigel Lassiter, h
e thought, was a very difficult person to like. However, he had to admit, as he followed Anne along the jetty and into the passenger compartment in the pontoons, he could build aircraft.
It looked stunning. George followed Anne through the main door. Concealed lights set into the bulkheads shone on polished mahogany and gleaming brass. The entire pontoon was sixty feet in length and it looked more like the stateroom of a luxury liner than an aeroplane. Deep leather seats sat two abreast beside each window and through a door he could see the dining room set with tables.
‘Good grief, Anne,’ he said in amazement. ‘It’s more like a hotel than an aeroplane.’ He looked round, puzzled. ‘Where will everyone sleep?’
‘In the dining room.’ She led the way through the door. ‘All these tables are clamped to the floor by removable bolts. For one thing we can’t have them sliding round and for another, we have to use the space for cabins. Once the tables are removed then we can put up stowable night-berths, showers and wash-basins. People – the sort of people we want to attract – simply won’t rough it and there’s really no reason why they should. We’ll have to wait until we actually take off to set the tables, but you can imagine how this will look with linen, china and flowers. We’re going to eat in the air, then, before we land, the waiters are going to clear away and, once we’re back on the river, Nigel can change and join us for the speeches and drinks.’
‘It’ll look wonderful,’ said George warmly. He ran his fingers lightly round the brass-bound edge of a table. ‘Is there a galley? Where will all the food be cooked?’
‘The galley’s in the crew’s quarters, but we’re cheating slightly tonight. We’re having the food brought aboard already cooked and kept warm.’
‘It’s a far cry from my old Short 184,’ said George. ‘Did you have a hand in the design?’
As if by Magic Page 26