“A period even less well known to me,” Joe admitted. “What have you to tell me about the man whose uncompromising features appear on the obverse?”
“Ugly brute, what?” the professor agreed. “Constantius the First. Roman Emperor, but not a man of Rome originally. He was thought to have been born somewhere in central Europe. Married Helena, among others. She of the True Cross, the Christian Helena, and he fathered a much better-known figure: Constantine, his son, who became emperor in three-oh-six AD, you’ll remember. Constantius laid claim to most of Gaul and then to Britain. On the reverse side of the medal—by far the more interesting—you see him cantering about in some splendor on a war horse. Another European trying to bring about the subjugation of these islands to a central power. Not the first and not the last. This is the year two ninety-six AD and he’s meant to be entering London and accepting the surrender from the poor chap on his knees in front of the gates.”
“I don’t believe I have ever heard this fellow’s name,” Joe said. “The abject one.”
“Wouldn’t expect it,” said Stone, dismissively. “Not one you come across often. He wasn’t always abject—far from it. He was the man who had seized the chance, with all the troubles of Empire swirling about at the time, to break away from Rome and set himself up as Emperor of Britain. Allectus, his name was, and he was originally the minister for finance … something of that nature. The State moneybags. Nasty piece of work by all accounts—certainly no King Arthur figure. Surprising how often scum rises to the surface in politics if you don’t have the right checks and balances in place.”
He paused for breath and appeared suddenly struck by an intriguing idea. “Ha! Rather appropriate to our own times, eh, Sandilands? The British Chancellor of the Exchequer on his knees in London mud, begging for mercy from a swaggering conqueror?” He laughed heartily at what he would doubtless have called his little aperçu. “Coins and medals were a form of propaganda, in those times, you know. What better way of announcing to a people with negligible access to the written word that their head of state has changed? That the man to whom you now owe allegiance (and taxes!) is the man whose image you carry in your cash bag? ‘Render unto Caesar what is Caesar’s!’ It still works for us.”
Deftly, he produced a penny coin from his trouser pocket and put it down in front of Joe. “There! You see the severe features of our good King George reminding us that, out of every four similar, one at least must be rendered to him or the State over which he presides.”
Joe flipped it over. “I prefer to look at the reverse,” he said. “Where I see the unchanging image of the goddess Britannia.”
“Ah? You’d worship at her altar?”
“Certainly. I’ve even made my sacrifices,” Joe said mysteriously. “There she sits, through the centuries and all the changes, monarchs good, bad and indifferent, watching our backs, helmet on, spear at the ready, bless her!”
Stone smiled. “And it’s another Roman emperor we have to thank for that! Hadrian, the builder. He was the first ruler to have Britannia put on his coins. On the Hadrian coinage, she sits on a rock, the northern sea lapping at her feet, with shield and spear to hand. She’s a blend of Minerva and Boadicea, I always think.”
“A useful lady to have in your corner. Miss Herbert could well pose should a new model be required.”
“Indeed. I too am an admirer—though I find it politic to hide my admiration. Musn’t let these wimmin get above themselves, eh? I applaud your insight, Sandilands. Brings a tear to a patriotic eye, does it not? I am glad—surprised but glad—to see yours misting over.” The professor raised his nose and surveyed Joe again down the length of it. Caesar had by now, it seemed, assessed the strength of the opposition and concluded that victory was in the bag. Time to discuss surrender terms? “Look, here, Sandilands,” he said, weighing his words, “much of interest to chew over, I think. I see you are a fellow who enjoys a good yarn. We could continue more congenially sitting knee to knee in armchairs, sipping a whisky at my club.” He took a card from his pocket and passed it over the desk. “I’m always here on Friday evenings. If you present this to the steward, he’ll bring you through to me.”
Words failing him, Joe could only take the card and incline his head in an old-fashioned gesture of thanks.
Stone raised a finger in teasing admonition. “I’m sure I don’t need to remind a lover of Horace that aequam memento rebus in arduis servare mentem.”
“Oh, I usually manage to remain calm, however rough the going gets,” Joe murmured. “This job demands it.”
As the door closed behind Reginald Stone, “Arrogant know-it-all!” Joe exclaimed under his breath, sliding the card away inside the case file. “And that professor’s no better!”
A tap on the door reminded Joe that he had neglected to name the next witness in line. The tap was followed by a floppy fair quiff and a pair of earnest brown eyes peering into the room.
“Jack Chesterton, sir. The colonel thought you’d want to see me next.”
“And he was right. Do come in!”
The young man settled down opposite Joe and produced a sheet of drawing paper from a slim attaché case. He handed it across the desk.
“I’m afraid I’m the spare wheel on this wagon, sir,” he said. “Everyone else had a part to play in the drama—and I must say, they did it splendidly! But I was left rather standing about. I took the opportunity of making an on-the-spot plan of the scene of operations while they were transporting the body and I worked it up over lunch. Scale diagrams are very much my thing, you see. I’m an architect.”
Joe studied the sheet. The site of the burial was marked, clearly set in its surroundings. A scale marked “estimated” helped him to judge the width of the riverbank and the grave’s precise location on it. Sketched from a viewpoint on the embankment, it was pinned down further by a triangulation involving the fixed points of Battersea Power Station and the Albert Bridge.
“I didn’t know the sketching convention for thick Thames mud, sir—not a substance we’re ever called on to treat as a foundation for our schemes—so I’ve left it blank.”
“It’s all perfectly clear, Mr Chesterton,” Joe said. “May I keep this for the file? My best officer couldn’t have done better. Splendid stuff!”
Chesterton smiled his satisfaction.
“Explain these markers for me, will you?” Joe asked, pointing with his pencil.
“On the left, which is the east as we’re on the north bank, is a rotting old breakwater—revêtement, whatever you want to call it. Long past its useful life. And on the right, the rounded object is an overturned boat in similar condition.”
“It’s above the waterline?”
“Yes. It was perfectly dry. The professor sat on it. Reluctantly—he claimed it stank of rotting seaweed. We put all our gear at his feet for safe keeping.”
“Any sign of habitation?”
“Rats, you mean?” Chesterton grinned. “Prof Stone made rather a show of banging about along the keel to frighten off any rodents …” His voice trailed away then resumed, “But, hang on! When we were looking for a place to park our bags, I cleared out some rubbish …” His eyes met Joe’s.
“And found the source of the pong. Chicken bones! And a paper bag—one of those little cornet-shaped ones—an empty one that had contained brown shrimps by the look and smell of it.” And, excitedly: “They weren’t rat-nibbled. You’re right, sir! Someone sleeping rough? He wasn’t there when we were. But he could have been sheltering under the boat when the body was buried, don’t you think? I’m assuming that the deed was done under cover of darkness.”
Joe agreed and thought that if he just sat there quietly this team would solve his problems for him.
“Mr. Chesterton, may I ask you to go and find Inspector Orford and tell him to come in here. I’d like you to outline your theories for him.”
Chesterton shot to his feet. “Orford? He’s in the waiting room keeping us all plied with coffee and stopping eve
ryone from scragging Prof Stone. I’ll get him.”
Orford was impressed. He beamed. He took out his pencil and scribbled a few notes on Chesterton’s plan. “I was planning to have the lads down there with measuring tapes and all the paraphernalia at first light. But before they run loose churning up the mud, I’ll send in a couple of discreet blokes—one of whom might be me—to keep watch on that boat. See if we can catch ourselves a witness. Another one,” he sighed with mock weariness. “The more, the merrier, I expect.”
“Only three to go,” said Joe. “I’ll take the colonel and his men in one job lot. Mr. Chesterton, you’ve been of great help. Could you, as you leave, ask Swinton to come in?”
SWINTON SETTLED DOWN on a chair, flanked by his Suffolk gardeners.
Sam and Joel gazed about them, recording yet another experience of the city with wide-eyed disbelief. For men whose sole previous contact with the law of the land had been the village bobby’s boot up the bum as they fled an orchard with pockets full of scrumped apples twenty years before, their presence in the office of a top man at Scotland Yard was overwhelming. And, in some ways, disappointing. Not at all what they’d expected. No clanking cell doors, no manacles, no screams, not even many men in uniform. Their tea had been served from a trolley by a flirty old biddy in a white pinny. In the top bloke’s office there were more surprises. All here was neatness and order with pictures on the walls like someone’s front parlour. A telephone stood to attention on an expanse of gleaming mahogany desk. Across the desk a smiling young gentleman in a smart city suit greeted them by name and they listened with disbelief as he told them who he was.
He began his business by thanking the pair for their efforts and the speed with which they’d worked to secure a vulnerable corpse.
“Weren’t nothin’ else we could ’a done,” said Joel modestly. “Blowed if we was goin’ to let that old river have her!”
“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that we have a very strong line of enquiry going at the moment and we’re expecting very soon to be able to give your girl an identity. We’ll let you know her name before much longer.”
This was what they were anxious to hear. Two more victims, Joe thought, ensnared by the dead girl whose grip showed no sign of loosening.
“We’ll be glad to give our statements, Commissioner,” the colonel said. “And if there’s anything else we can supply—anything at all—you know where we are. We’ll stay on in London until someone sounds the all clear. Pleased to be of help.”
“A few questions, for the moment,” Joe said. “I was wondering how you got yourselves into this predicament. Tell me—it was Miss Herbert’s selection of terrain, was it? This stretch of riverbank?”
“Not exactly. In fact I take full responsibility for the choice of that patch. Hermione was determined to stage her dowsing experiment and, having been consulted, I cast a soldier’s eye on the problem. Three things recommended the Chelsea reach to me.
“One: ease of digging. Mud not pleasant underfoot but quickly moved with the right spades.
“Two: strong possibility of making a find. The banks of the Thames are a rich hunting ground. The museums of London are stuffed with items brought to light by a swirl of those dark waters. From very ancient times up to the day before yesterday. And that particular bit seems to have been in use in the Roman-British period, which is always of interest. Certainly of interest to Reginald Stone. He, for one, was quite keen when I proposed it, though I’m sure he would deny any enthusiasm if you asked him. Yes, Reginald had a definite gleam in his evil old eye!”
Ambushed by a stray thought, Swinton unlocked his eyes from Joe’s. The clipped ops-room tone was abandoned as he added: “Yes … he leapt straight on to it, you might say. The coin, I mean. He turned that riverbank into a lecture theatre.” He snorted with laughter. “Had my lads gripped all right, didn’t he?”
Sam and Joel grinned and nodded agreement. “Never knew that about coins!”
“Well, that’s ivory-tower dwelling intellectuals for you! Corpse on our hands, Thames lapping round our ankles and the prof’s raving on about some petty little military venture that occurred about two thousand years ago!” the colonel huffed with amusement.
“Still, that did come to pass on that very spot, didn’t it?” Joel objected mildly to his boss’s dismissive tone. “That were weird!” he said, eyes appealing to Joe. “Man on his knees in front of them towers, the river behind him and a ship going by. I got a good look at it before the colonel took it off the prof and made it safe. Like a photograph from the past. It fair made my skin crawl! And the prof—he were explaining as how it were the young lady’s fare across the river. But not the Thames …”
“Lethe, he called it,” Sam supplied. “Lethe—the river of Hell. Entrance to the Underworld.”
Joe broke the automatic silence of respect for the dead that followed. “I’ll settle for a bunch of roses and a corner of a Surrey churchyard when someone decides my time has come,” was his quiet comment. “And then the colonel took the item into safe custody, as you say, Joel. Your handkerchief, Swinton?”
“Certainly. And with care. I know you fellows are fanatical about fingerprints though I don’t suppose any suspect ones would survive the conditions they were subjected to—saliva, river water?”
Joe counted himself no boffin and had no clear idea either but the three men were looking at him with the eager enquiry of students sitting in the front row on the first day of term. He replied firmly, “The forensic techniques we have these days surprise even me, colonel. Our backroom boys have made huge advances since the war. I’m always amazed by the ability of the most minute traces of natural grease excreted by the human skin to survive adverse conditions. And, if we’re so lucky as to find them on a resistant surface such as metal or glass, an imprint can stay clear for years. As both you and the professor handled it, Colonel, I shall have to ask you both to supply—”
“Already done, old chap. Orford here—it was one of the first things he arranged.” He nodded at the inspector, acknowledging his efficiency.
“And the third attraction of the Chelsea foreshore?” Joe prompted.
“Ah, yes. Three: discretion. If we’d put our waders on and started squelching about outside Westminster or in the Archbishop’s front garden … well, questions would have been asked. But out there in Chelsea … that’s still quite a rough area with a reputation for a certain bohemian laissez-faire atmosphere. Full of poets and painters and other lefty loose-livers who aren’t going to pay much attention to a group like us: busy bees braying across the mud to each other in confident English voices. An irritation at the most. Clear field given.”
“So all those involved knew the location some time before the dig?”
“Six days before,” said the colonel firmly. “Ah. I follow. That would be three or four days before she died, if Hermione got it right.”
“Hermione got it right,” Joe confirmed with a smile. “Now, sir, would you take me through the moment of discovery once again? It was Miss da Silva, I understand whose implement was responsible?”
The colonel was on Joe’s wavelength with alarming speed. “I see where you’re going with this. Ludicrous notion—I agree!—but you have to follow it to source to discount it. Yes—she alone, I’d say, located whatever it was she located. The coin? The dead flesh? Who really knows what triggered the response? I don’t claim to. No one indicated that precise spot. She was merely trawling over the wide area Hermione had outlined. I’ll swear no human agency guided her hand. It could just as well have fallen to young Jack to feel the twitch of his device. And, well, you’ve seen our Doris! No malice aforethought, I’m sure,” he concluded comfortably, closing Joe’s main line of enquiry.
“By your group, perhaps, Colonel. But someone was malicious enough and murderous enough to kill that poor child and leave her to rot in London mud. I won’t rest until I have him.”
The colonel’s chin went up as he said, with feeling: “By Jove! That’
s the stuff! I only wish the villain were here to see the light in your eye, Commissioner.”
CHAPTER 8
Left alone with the inspector, Joe was amused to see a swiftly stifled expression of relief flit across the stolid features when he announced that he was returning to Claridge’s and leaving Orford in charge. But relief was chased away by a growing uncertainty and it was with a brave show of confidence that the inspector confirmed he had the night’s procedure in hand and would report back any interesting development to Joe.
“You have good men on this?” Joe asked, distancing himself yet showing support.
“I’ve hand picked ’em.” Orford passed a list over the desk. “Mix of uniform and CID. I’ve added a couple of blokes I know in the River Police. Good lads.” And, casually: “Shall I be reporting back to you, sir?”
“Yes. Here. Could you manage this evening? I’m planning to hang around pestering Rippon for his conclusions so you may find me in the labs. I’ll leave a message for you at the desk downstairs.”
As the inspector left, Joe called after him, “Don’t think I’m deserting you, Inspector. I’m following a different track. A track which may, if things go very badly, lead to the same outcome. I pray I’m heading in entirely the wrong direction.”
AS THE DOOR closed, Joe lifted the phone and a minute or two later he had Bacchus at the other end.
“Still there, James?”
“Still there, Joe? I was just knocking off. Look—are you there at your desk for the next half hour?”
“I can be. Something on your mind, James?”
“Yes. I need to give you the usual update but there’s something more.”
“I’ll be here.”
James Bacchus came in clutching a sheaf of files under his arm and settled down, a weary smile on his face. “On my way to the Savoy. The French are kicking up again. How do you say, ‘Up yours!’ in French, Joe?”
A Spider in the Cup Page 9