There Is No Going Home

by Madalyn Morgan

  ‘Of course. How do you do, Miss Crowther, Helen,’ Ena said, taking her outstretched hand.

  ‘You’re not leaving, are you?’

  ‘Yes.’

  ‘But why?’

  Ena burst into tears.

  ‘Come now.’ Helen put her arm around Ena’s shoulder. ‘You’re shivering. You need something to drink, something to warm you up. Why don’t you come back to the house?’

  ‘Mrs Robinson has made it very clear that I am not welcome in her house. Besides, I should be getting back to London.’

  ‘You must forgive her. Losing McKenzie like that was a terrible shock. She wasn’t prepared for it. None of us were.’

  Ena smiled warmly. ‘It was a shock to everyone, not least to me.’

  Helen nodded. ‘McKenzie liked you, you know. He thought you were very brave going undercover in forty-four. He liked Henry too.’ Helen looked around. ‘I thought Henry would be here.’

  ‘He’s working.’

  Helen raised her eyebrows.

  ‘He isn’t just working, he’s… away.’ Ena didn’t need to tell Helen that. As McKenzie Robinson’s PA she would have known.

  ‘I expect someone at the office will let him know about Mac’s death.’

  ‘Yes, I’m sure they will.’ Ena looked down. She felt ashamed that Henry wasn’t there. He knew about Mac’s death before he went away. It was Henry who had told her. He should have been at the funeral.

  ‘Mac told me you had seen Commander Dalton and that you were looking into the death of Frieda Voight.’ Helen glanced over her shoulder. There were a couple of people smoking cigarettes on the veranda, but no one near enough to hear their conversation. ‘At the time the official line was Frieda had killed herself when she heard that her brother had died. Potassium cyanide pills.’

  ‘Whatever the official line, Frieda did not commit suicide then, or at any other time after Walter’s death, because I saw her not long ago in London. Frieda Voight is as alive as you and I.’

  ‘You are right, Ena. Mac knew Frieda Voight wasn’t dead.’

  And so did you as his personal assistant, Ena thought. ‘But her brother Walter is dead.’

  ‘Yes, Walter died in prison. Call me,’ Helen said, ‘I’m at Leconfield House three days a week. When I’m not there, you can get me on this number.’ She gave Ena a business card. ‘Mac would want me to help you, so if I can, I will.’

  Ena stared at the card. Miss Helen Crowther. The telephone number was not a London number. She turned it over in her hand expecting to see Helen’s address. It was blank.

  ‘I live in Brighton now. My guest room has a sea view. Come and visit. It’s quiet at this time of year. We have holidaymakers from Easter through to September, but the season has finished now.’

  Ena put the card in her handbag.

  ‘I must get back to the house. I promised Eve I would pass round sandwiches and pour cups of tea.’

  ‘Thank you, Helen.’

  ‘And don’t blame yourself for Mac’s death.’

  Ena did blame herself but gave Helen an assuring smile as she shook her hand again.

  ‘Don’t forget, anything you need to know, just pick up the telephone. Better still, let me know what time your train gets into Brighton and I’ll be on the platform to meet you. You look as if you could do with some sea air.’

  The conversation between Ena and Helen was interrupted by Eve Robinson who opened the door and glared at Ena.

  ‘I’d better get back. Goodbye, Ena. Keep me posted.’

  ‘I will. And, thank you.’ As Helen made for the steps leading to her late boss’s house, Ena braced herself against the cold wind coming off the sea and set off for the car.

  How could someone murder a patient in a hospital, a private hospital at that? She would have to go back to the Robert Bevan and talk to the staff. She also needed to talk to Henry. Or did she? Every chance he got, Henry tried to stop her from investigating Frieda Voight.

  Ena put the file Eve Robinson had given her in her satchel and smiled. Henry may not want to help her, but Mac’s personal assistant of thirty-plus years did. Helen Crowther in your corner was almost as good as having McKenzie Robinson himself.

  Ena decided not to go to the office. Instead of driving to Mercer Street, she drove to Lambeth, crossed the Thames on Westminster Bridge, and drove up to Whitehall and King Charles Street.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  ‘Director Bentley is in a meeting, Ena. It’s due to finish at half-past four. He was going straight into another meeting, but you’re in luck. The person has just telephoned to say he has been delayed and will be late. If you don’t mind waiting, and you don’t keep the director too long, I’ll put you down for four-thirty. Is that all right?’

  ‘It is. Thank you,’ Ena said, ‘I won’t take more than ten minutes of his time, but it is important that I see him today. If it wasn’t, I’d have gone through the proper channels.’

  Director Bentley’s secretary waved her hand in the air. A gesture that told Ena it didn’t matter. ‘Take a seat. I’ll let you know as soon as he’s free.’

  Ena plucked a magazine from the pile in front of her and flicked through it to pass the time. She put it down when two men came out of the director’s office. She looked up expectantly when the telephone rang.

  The clock on the wall behind the secretary’s desk made a dull thudding sound. Ena looked up again. It was half-past four. She was thinking about asking the secretary if Director Bentley was free yet when the telephone rang and the secretary beckoned her.

  ‘Director Bentley will see you now, Ena.’

  She knocked on the director’s door. He shouted, come in.

  As she entered the large wood-panelled office, Dick Bentley came from behind his desk to meet her. ‘Good to see you, Ena,’ he said, shaking her hand and leading her to a chair. When Ena sat down, he returned to his own chair. ‘How are you getting on in Mercer Street? Have there been any more sightings of Frieda Voight?’

  ‘No, sir. No sightings recently. But I’m not here about Voight or the work we do at the Mercer Street office, sir.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘I’ve just got back from McKenzie Robinson’s funeral.’

  ‘I know. I saw you in the church. Unfortunately, I had to leave after the service. I had a meeting that couldn’t be rescheduled, or I’d have gone to the house to pay my respects to Eve.’

  ‘I went to the house but Mrs Robinson didn’t invite me in. In fact, she did the opposite.’ Ena felt tears pricking the back of her eyes and swallowed. ‘I’ll get to the point, sir. I went to see McKenzie Robinson about Frieda Voight while he was in hospital after the stroke. Unfortunately, I wasn’t able to see him. However, the staff nurse told me he was on the mend and suggested I came back the following week.’

  ‘And by then Mac was dead.’

  ‘Yes. And today Mrs Robinson told me that her husband had been murdered.’

  Director Bentley got up and walked slowly to the window. He looked out for some minutes before turning back and facing Ena. ‘Do you think Mac was murdered?’

  ‘I don’t know. It’s possible.’

  ‘Of course, it could have been grief talking. Losing her husband so suddenly must have been a terrible shock for Eve.’

  Ena shook her head. ‘It wasn’t grief talking.’

  ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am.’

  ‘Then we have a problem.’ The director returned to his chair.

  ‘She gave me this.’ Ena took the file that Eve Robinson had given her from her satchel and showed Director Bentley.

  ‘I don’t have time to read it now. I have another meeting to go to.’ He drummed the top of his desk with the fingers of his right hand and picked up the telephone with his left. ‘There are some documents here that I need copying,’ he said, ‘Mrs Green will give them to you when she leaves.’ He put the receiver down.

  Frowning, Bentley passed the file back to Ena.

  ‘Sir, I would l
ike your permission to investigate Director Robinson’s death.’

  ‘It isn’t a cold case, Ena. You concentrate on finding Frieda Voight. If Mac Robinson was murdered the investigation will be done by MI5.’

  ‘Sir, Mrs Robinson accused me of being responsible for her husband’s death. She said if I hadn’t gone to see him about Frieda Voight he would still be alive. The papers,’ Ena nodded in the direction of the file, ‘she said were what her husband wanted me to read. The last thing she said to me before slamming the door in my face was, “Find who murdered my husband, you owe him that much!” Please let me make some enquires.’

  Deep in thought, Director Bentley rubbed his chin.

  ‘At least give me permission to speak to the hospital staff.’

  ‘Two days, Ena. If you haven’t got anything conclusive in forty-eight hours, the case goes to MI5.’

  Sid and Artie got to their feet as Ena entered the office.

  ‘Well?’ Sid said.

  ‘How was the funeral?’ Artie asked.

  Sid gave Artie a sideways glance. ‘You’re late getting back.’

  ‘That’s because I’ve been to see Dick Bentley.’ Ena sat down at her desk and taking in both men said, ‘Eve Robinson thinks McKenzie was murdered.’

  ‘Good God!’

  ‘How?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘The how, I don’t know. The why, well,’ Ena inhaled and exhaled slowly, ‘Eve Robinson said it was because of me; because of what’s in this file. Mac must have told her that Commander Dalton at Bletchley had asked him to help me with the Frieda Voight case, or he wouldn’t have given her this to pass on to me.’

  Ena took the file from her satchel and threw it across her desk.

  ‘Can we read it?’ Sid asked.

  ‘Of course. It’s the original, so don’t spill coffee on it.’ And while you read it, I’m going to work out an itinerary for the next forty-eight hours.’ Both men looked quizzically at her. ‘That’s how long Dick Bentley has given us to find Mac Robinson’s killer. If we don’t come up with something by five o’clock the day after tomorrow, Bentley is going to give the case to MI5.’

  ‘I feel it’s going to be a long night. Have you eaten anything?’ Sid asked.

  ‘Not since breakfast.’

  ‘Right, Artie, put the kettle on. I’ll nip to that new café on Langley Street and get some sandwiches. Any preferences?’ Already pawing over the first few pages, neither Ena nor Artie replied. ‘Whatever they’ve got left then. Artie? Artie!’ Sid’s young colleague lifted his head. ‘Kettle!’

  By the time Sid returned, Ena had moved the file and other relevant documents to the conference table and Artie had made the tea. Sid put the food next to the teapot and poured himself a cup. ‘Found anything?’

  Artie shook his head. Concentrating on what he was reading, he reached across the table and grabbed a sandwich. The pages she and Artie had already read Ena passed to Sid. While she read she drank tea, ate sandwiches and drew up a plan of action for the following day. When she had finished, she began checking files.

  At midnight, Ena put to one side the files she thought important to their investigation, yawned and rubbed her eyes. ‘That’s it!’ she slammed the last file shut. ‘I’ve just read the same paragraph three times. Come on,’ she said to Sid and Artie, ‘it’s time to go. We’ll come back to this lot in the morning. The car’s across the road, I’ll drop you off on my way home.’

  ‘I’m going to walk,’ Artie said, ‘I’m as stiff as a board.’ He tilted his head from side to side and rolled his shoulders. ‘And I need some air.’

  ‘I’ll take you up on a lift, Ena. Mum will wonder where I’ve got to.’ Ena gave Sid a concerned look. ‘Don’t worry, she isn’t on her own. My sister brings her dinner round every evening and stays until I get home. She only lives a few doors away, so it works out well.’

  It took a quarter of the time to get home after dropping Sid off without the daytime traffic. Ena put her key in the lock and turned it. The mechanism didn’t engage properly. There was no pressure on the key that usually needed a firm twist to push back the double locking system. It wasn’t on. Relief swept over her. Henry was back. She turned the key once and pushed open the door. She put the straps of her satchel and handbag over a coat hook in the hall, shrugged off her coat, and hung it on top. She was about to call out to Henry when she heard the sound of breaking glass. A loud crash followed by several tinkling sounds. Ena strained her ears.

  She tiptoed across the hall and poked her head round the sitting room door. The table lamp was on and the wireless was playing jazz. Henry didn’t like jazz, he preferred classical music. A draught coming from the direction of the kitchen cut across her ankles. She peered through the door and exhaled with relief. She had left the kitchen window open. The curtains, blowing inwards, had caught a drinking glass and swept it off the work surface.

  Laughing and trembling at the same time, Ena crossed to the window to close it. Closer inspection revealed the window had not been left open, it had been smashed from the inside. Her stomach lurched. Someone had been in the flat when she arrived home.

  Shaking with anger she ran out of the kitchen and into the sitting room. Nothing had been disturbed as far as she could see. She went to the bedroom and flicked on the light. Nothing was out of place. The few pieces of good jewellery she owned were still in the jewellery box. As far as she could tell the bedroom hadn’t been touched. On her way back to the sitting room she looked in the spare bedroom. Nothing out of place in there either. She had come home before the burglar had time to steal anything.

  Ena poured herself a whisky and took a drink. She rummaged through the drawers for a cigarette. Henry always kept a pack in the house, but she couldn’t find them and went into the bedroom again. She searched the pockets of his jackets and found a packet of Players. Returning to the sitting room she noticed the door to the street was ajar. She took the key from the lock on the outside and kicked the door shut. Not feeling safe with only the lock on, she slid the bolt across.

  Still shaking, Ena looked in the rooms again and when she was sure there was no one hiding in the wardrobe or under the bed, she checked the windows were closed and drew the curtains.

  Satisfied that no one could now get into the flat, Ena poured herself a second whisky and lit a cigarette. She flopped onto the settee. Cold air whipped through from the kitchen window causing a draught and bringing the temperature in the sitting room to below bearable. Stubbing out the cigarette she went into the kitchen.

  After brushing up the broken drinking glass, Ena leaned over the work surface and pulled on the window’s ornate handle. The wind was strong, forcing the window back against the wall. It took several minutes and some swearing before she managed to close it. There was only one pane missing so as a temporary measure she took an old tea towel from the drawer, a hammer and nails from Henry’s toolbox under the sink, and nailed the towel to the wooden frame. Finally, she jammed the breadboard under the handle. Standing back, Ena looked at the distance between the smashed pane and the handle and doubted anyone had long enough arms to reach down and open the window. To be sure, she lined up all the pots and pans she could find along the work surface. ‘If anyone gets in now there’ll be a hell of a racket when that lot is knocked off,’ she told herself.

  Ena fetched her satchel from the hall and settled down in the sitting room to look over the plans for the next day. She groaned. Before she did anything tomorrow she needed to telephone the landlord about getting a glazier. He was a tight-wad. He’ll probably do the job himself to save money. Ena didn’t care who repaired the window as long as it was done. Pouring another drink she decided not to go to bed. She couldn’t be certain whoever had broken in wouldn’t come back. They say criminals don’t return to the scene of the crime. Ena wasn’t going to risk it.

  Unlocking the door on Mercer Street, Ena entered what was once a courtyard. She closed the door and stuck her hand into the metal basket under the letterbox
that caught the post. It was empty. She crossed to the cold cases office, and through the panels of frosted glass in the top of the door she saw the lights were on. Someone was early. Pushing open the door she found Sid and Artie on their knees peering at the contents of the bottom drawer of the filing cabinet. ‘What are you two doing?’

  ‘We’ve been burgled,’ Artie said.

  ‘Not burgled, exactly,’ Sid corrected. ‘As far as I can see nothing has been taken. There were fifteen files to go through when we left here last night.’ He nodded towards the stack of files on the table. ‘There are still fifteen.’

  ‘I noticed the bottom drawer of this cabinet was slightly open when I arrived, so we’re checking each file against my inventory, see if any selected for investigation are missing.’

  ‘Ena went across to her desk. Do we know how they got in?’

  ‘No. You locked up last night, I saw you,’ Sid said.

  ‘I did.’ Ena slowly pulled open the top drawer of the desk, then the second and the third. ‘My drawers have been gone through. It isn’t obvious and nothing seems to be missing, but… Good Lord!’

  ‘What is it?’ Sid asked.

  ‘Someone broke into my flat last night. A bit of a coincidence, don’t you think?’ She took off her coat and threw it over the back of her chair. ‘As I opened the front door they left by the kitchen window.’

  Artie gasped. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Yes, I’m fine. I daren’t go to sleep afterwards in case they came back, so I’m tired.’

  ‘I’m not surprised,’ Sid said.

  Ena took her notebook from her satchel. ‘I was scared, I don’t mind telling you, but if someone, or some organisation, thinks they are going to frighten me off investigating–’ She stopped speaking mid-sentence and waved her hands about frantically.

  Sid looked bewildered. ‘What?’

  Ena put her forefinger to her lips. ‘Would you like a coffee, Sid?’ she asked, putting her thumb up and nodding.