‘Any post for me today, Evangeline?’
His wife shook her head and carefully placed her large blue leather book in a drawer in her desk, but not before Posie had seen the fear in her eyes.
Mrs Greenwood went across to what Posie now saw was a series of wire pigeonholes on the left-hand side of the office where she retrieved a few pieces of post, delivering them directly and meekly into the hands of the men they were intended for. Posie was confused, until she saw that one of the pigeonholes was inscribed with:
E. Greenwood
Acting Secretary of the Department of Botany
So Mrs Greenwood was not an academic after all. She was the secretary.
And suddenly it dawned on Posie that Mrs Greenwood must have been the very secretary with whom Posie had communicated last year about the strange letter from Harry Eden.
So she was definitely lying. But why? But Posie realised it would have to wait for another time, another place. She had reached an impasse. She would have to try and get Mrs Greenwood alone somehow.
Dr Greenwood had crossed the large room and Posie saw that he had taken up residence at a large, leather-covered desk in the opposite corner of the room to his wife, but in a position where he could watch her every single move, and where he was able to watch the movements of everyone else who came in and out of the room. He seated himself at his desk in an important fashion and stared at Posie, seemingly willing her to leave. It occurred to Posie that Dr Greenwood must have obtained this job for his wife so he could keep an eye on her all day long. Like a rare bird trapped in a strange cage.
There was nothing for it but to go.
As she turned to leave, Posie noticed how Mrs Greenwood wouldn’t meet her eye. Instead, she sat mutely ticking off some boring administrative lists, the fat blue tome of research now banished out of sight.
So Mrs Greenwood was scared of her own husband; that must be it. That would account for the bruise. And the cowed look, too.
Posie shivered despite the warmth of her coat. She raised her hand insincerely in farewell, the uselessness of her trip to the Botany Department just sinking in.
‘Goodbye then, Dr Greenwood, and Mrs Greenwood too. It’s been a real pleasure.’
And the irony of the words tasted very bitter in her mouth indeed.
****
PART TWO
Wednesday 20th and
Thursday 21st December, 1922
Six
The Florence Restaurant on Rupert Street in Soho, London, was heaving with noisy pre-Christmas revellers. Marzipan-scented wafts of some fancy Italian liqueur which Posie didn’t recognise hung over the place, and people seemed in the mood to celebrate.
Posie had booked a table for lunch and for once, amazingly, she was early. The date had been in the diary for a good few weeks. She waited for her lunch-date to arrive, eating some crispy Italian candied peanuts which had been left temptingly next to her plate, and studying the three identical Christmas cards which she had lined up on the snow-white tablecloth in front of her.
As requested, Felicity Fyne had sent the two earlier cards from the blackmailer, and Posie had already spent an inordinate amount of time looking at them all on the previous afternoon, on her return from Cambridge.
She had been willing clues to fly up off them, but she was none the wiser now, save for feeling like she knew the blackmailer’s words off by heart. The only differences she could ascertain between the cards were the dates on them, and the fact that the first two cards were specific in mentioning the amount – thirty pounds – required to satisfy the blackmailer’s demands. But something about the cards bothered her, pulled at something in her mind that she couldn’t quite place.
Posie sighed: this case involving Dr Winter had taken up all of her day yesterday, and was threatening to take over the whole run-up to Christmas, too.
She had spent part of yesterday at the office of the Imperial War Graves Commission, checking through their records for the details of the death and the burial place of Dr Winter. She had found general details about the bombing of the Clearing Station on Valentine’s Day, 1918, as Felicity Fyne had mentioned, but Dr Winter was simply recorded as ‘missing, presumed dead’, and there was no grave listed for him.
This was in total contrast to the other members of the medical unit who had died in the blast, including Dulcie Deane, whose death was confirmed and whose place of burial was listed as being next to the Clearing Station in a small cemetery there, together with a complicated set of grid references for locating her grave.
Posie had then spoken to the Red Cross Organisation and had asked for any details they might have about the bombing of the Clearing Station, but all she was told was that there had been ‘no survivors’.
Posie had also had the bright idea of badgering the Royal College of Surgeons in Lincoln’s Inn Fields to confirm whether or not a Dr William Winter was listed as actively practicing on their records at present, but they had politely refused her request, adding that unless it was a proper ‘police enquiry’ they could not release any such information. Posie had asked for details of Dr Winter’s father too, to see if he was still practicing medicine up in Glasgow, but they wouldn’t release any information on him either. Beyond this, Posie could not go.
It seemed that everywhere she was turning she faced dead ends.
Posie had come full circle and was now convinced that Felicity Fyne had seen her own husband in the flesh; that the evidence of the Porter, Bevans, was accurate, and that Dr Winter was, far from being dead, alive and well. She felt sure she was dealing with one of these complicated double-identity cases; that Dr Winter had somehow survived that terrible bombing and had vanished into thin air. But how? And why? It also seemed to Posie more than ever that this case demanded a two-pronged attack: that as well as finding Dr Winter, she needed to find the blackmailer and to stop them in their tracks.
Thwarted by the Royal College of Surgeons, she had sent off a telegram direct to the Glasgow Royal Infirmary, hopeful that the elder Dr Winter still worked there, asking him for an interview.
It seemed incomprehensible to Posie that a man who was an only child could cut off all contact with his parents, even if he was potentially in hiding from his past and his previous life. Perhaps the elder Dr Winter had heard from his son and would be able to help; to offer Posie some information.
Posie looked up and saw the large-headed, tall, swinging figure of Chief Inspector Richard Lovelace of New Scotland Yard silhouetted at the doorway of the restaurant, removing his black homburg hat and hand-knitted brown scarf in one quick, practised movement.
‘Posie!’ he called out cheerfully, bowling over and taking the chair opposite her own. ‘It’s been a little while. Thanks for the lunch invite, and Merry Christmas, almost!’
He passed across a box of Fortnum’s Rose Creams, wrapped in pink foil. ‘I know these are your favourites. And I probably won’t see you before Christmas itself.’
Posie laughed and thanked him and gave the Chief Inspector a small parcel containing the silver rattle for his baby daughter. She didn’t have anything for him personally: the lunch at the Florence was her present instead.
Ordering quickly, Posie surveyed the Inspector. He had that tired creased look about the eyes which only sleepless nights with a small baby can bring, but he looked well on it, too. His stance was of one at the pinnacle of both his personal and professional life, which was, as it happened, fairly accurate: he had been promoted to Chief Inspector only eight months previously, and had become a first-time father at almost exactly the same time. Posie smiled, happy for him.
She had worked with the maverick Inspector on several cases before, and they had helped each other out on numerous occasions, trading information and sharing methods in a wholly unorthodox manner which somehow, against the odds, seemed to work. On one memorable occasion Posie had even pretended to be the Inspector’s wife on a highly dangerous undercover operation, which had proved risky for all concerned. It would be
fair to say that the Inspector was Posie’s only really trusted contact at New Scotland Yard, although his Sergeants, Binny and Rainbird, had proven useful not infrequently.
Over a Tuscan wild-boar stew which seemed peculiarly out-of-place on the winter streets of Soho, Inspector Lovelace enthused about the charms of little Phyllis Lovelace, who, Posie was amused to observe, was obviously the centre of her doting father’s universe.
‘Golly, hark at me,’ Inspector Lovelace stopped, embarrassed, swigging from a celebratory glass of Tuscan red, ‘all I’m talking about is the baby! I forget, you’re not really a “baby person”, are you?’ But before Posie could remark that she had never had the chance to be or to become a ‘baby person’, he had sailed on enthusiastically:
‘So what’s new at the Grape Street Bureau? Len behaving himself, is he? Any spicy cases on?’
Posie shook her head, outlining a few of the bigger cases she was working on, but without much enthusiasm. In truth, the case of Dr Winter was perplexing her and consuming all her thoughts.
She wrestled with whether or not to speak to him about her visit to Cambridge, especially as Felicity Fyne had said she didn’t want any police involvement, but the combination of the tart red wine, the delicious food and the party atmosphere of the Florence Restaurant loosened her tongue. Besides, Inspector Lovelace was discreet to his very core, and Posie felt that she needed someone to bounce ideas off. In fact, she felt utterly stuck. Where on earth would she find Dr Winter if he didn’t want to be found? Besides, if she couldn’t speak about it to the Inspector, who could she speak to?
She found herself quickly outlining the little case over a large portion of the excellent tiramisu which the restaurant was justly famous for, and, surprisingly, she found herself eagerly looking to Inspector Lovelace for what to do next. He rubbed his large hand over his gingery, stubbly chin thoughtfully.
‘Tricky,’ he said eventually, pursing his lips. ‘If a fella wants to go to ground, there’s not much you can do about it. I see it time and time again. Easy enough after the chaos of the Great War. It’s more than likely he doesn’t want to be found. If you’re convinced it really was him, that is.’
‘But a person can’t simply just disappear into thin air!’ Posie insisted heatedly. ‘How do you live? How do you eat? You need money. There are barely enough jobs in the country right now as it is, with unemployment at an all-time high, even if you do have the right paperwork! And Dr Winter doesn’t even have that! His wife kept all of his documents so that she could claim her War Widow’s Pension. Officially he’s dead.’
Inspector Lovelace gave Posie a meaningful glance. ‘We both know that documents can be faked, Posie. We’ve both dealt with clever forgery gangs before.’
‘But this is a highly trained surgeon! How can he work without the right paperwork?’
‘A pseudonym perhaps? We’ve both dealt with those before, too…’
A thought struck her.
‘I say, you couldn’t do me a favour, could you…?’
The Inspector groaned, but good-humouredly. After all, it was almost Christmas, and he found himself agreeing to call the Royal College of Surgeons to ask them to confirm whether Dr William Winter was currently on their books as an acting surgeon.
‘I’ll telephone you this afternoon,’ he promised. ‘But I can see this case is eating you up, and that’s always dangerous. I know there’s a personal connection, but don’t let it get to you too much. So much of what happened in the war was so sad; it’s sometimes best for people to have a fresh start. Don’t deny this poor fella that. Perhaps he had some sort of a breakdown? Shell-shock after the sights he saw, maybe? Happened to the best of us, you know. I still dream about all the noise.’
‘I don’t care about fresh starts,’ Posie said hotly, fishing in her carpet bag for her purse to pay the bill as a smart waiter hovered discreetly nearby. ‘I just want to find out the truth.’
When she looked up again she saw the Inspector was looking intently at the three Christmas cards Felicity Fyne had received from the blackmailer, together with their envelopes. A familiar look was playing about his eyes: he had caught the scent of the mystery and was hooked.
‘You know what?’ the Inspector said, interest now rising in his voice, ‘these letters were all sent from this very street. Here in Soho. The Rupert Street Post Office. How bizarre is that? What a coincidence! In the whole of London we happen to eat lunch in the very place where these were posted from! Shall we take a gander and amble past the Post Office itself?’
Posie privately thought that the coincidence was nothing special. But she agreed: after all, she didn’t have anything else particularly pressing to get back for, and with no other leads as yet, she felt like letting her mind wander.
Outside on the pavement the thick, grey afternoon air was growing chill and a London fog was rising, wrapping itself around pedestrians like a soft, damp blanket. The bitter cold hit them. It was growing dark already although it was only half-past two.
Posie shivered and took the Inspector’s arm when he offered it. They walked along the street in a companionable silence. Rupert Street was dimly lit with street-lamps and was full of small cafés and inauspicious restaurants catering for office workers. Some of the buildings were obviously brand new and were roughly built, as if they had been put up in a real hurry, and some of the spaces facing the road were totally empty, protected by big corrugated-iron hoardings, as if the buildings which had previously been there had been ripped down in a frantic race against the clock and were waiting to be re-assembled.
‘There was a Zeppelin raid here in the war,’ said the Inspector by way of quick explanation as they crossed over a piece of curling, soggy wet duckboard on the pavement outside the Post Office. ‘A good many shops and buildings were hit. Must have been awful.’
The Post Office was small and dim and nothing particularly special. A line of nondescript muffled-up office workers were queuing to reach a wooden counter with partitions, and a gaggle of white-hooded nurses were taking up the rear. Most were carrying last-minute Christmas parcels done up with string.
‘Dead end,’ said Posie rather huffily. ‘What exactly are we hoping to achieve? We can’t very well ask in here if anyone remembers who sent this card last week, or in the two previous years. They must get hundreds of Christmas cards posted from here every day! It’s not as if there’s anything special about the card or the writing, either!’
They left the Post Office together.
‘Brrr! It’s icy out here!’ The Inspector shivered, nestling his chin into his thick brown scarf. ‘You’re right: it’s a dead end. If I think of anything else I’ll let you know, but I have to say I’m not hopeful for you.’
Posie said goodbye, turning office-wards, not liking to admit that privately she totally agreed with the Inspector’s pessimistic view.
****
Seven
The fire in her small office at the Grape Street Bureau blazed lustily throughout the afternoon and Posie sat lost in thought at her desk with Mr Minks, her beloved Siamese cat, resting warily upon her knee. Outside her window the sky was now pitch black.
When Prudence Smythe, Posie’s highly efficient secretary, popped her head around the door and announced Inspector Lovelace’s telephone call, Posie nearly jumped out of her skin.
‘As we thought,’ the Inspector’s voice crackled down the line.
‘Not a dicky-bird at the Royal College of Surgeons. No mention of a Dr William Winter since before the war. Nothing. I checked out any possible pseudonyms by using the date of birth and area of medical expertise you gave me, but there was nothing doing. Frosty lot, aren’t they, doctors? I felt like a naughty schoolboy asking them for the information. I half expected to be given lines to be written on the chalkboard as a punishment! Being a Chief Inspector seemed to cut no mustard, either. So he’s definitely dead, your doctor, or else he’s doing something else…’
‘A chalkboard? Did you just say?’
; But Posie wasn’t really listening to the Inspector’s answer. Her mind was working ten to the dozen, racing helter-skelter over a possible theory. He’s doing something else…
She remembered what Felicity had said; that the doctor had been wearing a long black university gown, and that he had looked odd; that he looked sort of dusty.
But, based on the observations of the keen-eyed and mysterious Porter, Bevans, it seemed that the gown Dr Winter had been wearing had been different to other university gowns. So what if the gown Dr Winter had been wearing was in fact a Schoolmaster’s gown, such as those worn by hundreds of men who taught boys in private schools up and down the country?
To the untrained eye, or to someone far away, it would look like a university gown, but to someone who saw university gowns hundreds of times a day – someone such as a Porter – it would be instantly recognisable as being different. But it would have made a perfect disguise for Dr Winter at the Memorial Service, allowing him to blend in. It was virtually an invisibility cloak. And didn’t it make sense that the dust on the black gown was in fact chalk dust, which was known to be fiendishly difficult to remove?
‘That’s it!’ Posie breathed certainly.
‘Eh?’
‘He is doing something else. Change of plan!’
The Inspector groaned. ‘I knew I should have left this well alone.’
‘One last favour. Only one. I promise.’
‘Go on.’
‘Something you just said made me think that perhaps Dr Winter is living incognito, even at the cost of having given up his profession. I think, Chief Inspector, that he’s working as a Schoolmaster. We need to find him!’
The Vanishing of Dr Winter: A Posie Parker Mystery (The Posie Parker Mystery Series Book 4) Page 7