Mask of the Verdoy

by Lecomber, Phil

  ‘Maybe something worse, Billy.’

  ‘Come again?’

  ‘Maybe Secret Service.’

  ‘The bastard! I always thought he was something special, you know? Good man to have at yer side … And he was gonna be promoted next week, weren’t he? Into the Elite Bodyguard.’

  ‘He still will be, Billy.’

  ‘What? How’s that work then, Ludo?’

  ‘Well, we shall be inviting Mr. Schmidt along to the ceremony … only his initiation will be something different to normal. You understand?’

  ‘Oh, I get yer—fix ’im proper, right?’

  The Italian wound the window back up and watched now as the Chadwicks drove away down the avenue.

  ‘Now that we have discovered that the BBF has been infiltrated by this Schmidt, and with this George Harley sniffing around our business … well, it has been decided that things must be speeded up. For me, this is good news. For me this is the reason I came to England.’

  ‘You mean the Correction, Ludo?’

  ‘Si, the Correction. Our moment approaches … and this is your next task to help it on its way, Billy—learn the routine of this Valentine Medini, for the party, for the cause.’

  The big man sat thinking for a while, cracking the knuckles of his oversized hand.

  ‘But what is the Correction, Ludo? … Oh, I know the idea of it all, what we’re after. But how we’re gonna do it—that’s the bit that I don’t get.’

  ‘Not yet, my friend,’ Girardi said, his smile emphasising the cruel scar on his cheek. ‘All in good time. And when that time comes, I promise you—you will be there at the centre of everything, playing a starring role.’

  ***

  Harley pulled open the lift gate and led Pearson out onto the top floor of the sleek, Art Deco apartment block. He thrust his hands into his pockets and gave a low whistle.

  ‘That’s some view,’ he said, looking at the vista of Paddington Recreation Ground. ‘Must be nice to wake up and see a bit of green like that every morning.’

  ‘Yes, it must …’ said Pearson, wistfully.

  ‘Hello! What’s all this then? Getting a bit homesick, are we?’

  ‘Oh, only every now and then. You know, you don’t really appreciate how important that stuff is when you’re surrounded by it—the countryside, the rolling hills, the trees. I’d hate to think that my littl’un might grow up not knowing what nature is all about.’

  ‘Well, there’s plenty of wildlife in The Smoke, Albert—you’ve just got to know where to look for it.’

  ‘Yes well, I don’t think that’s the kind of nature I was talking about.’

  ‘Never mind about all that, have a butcher’s at this,’ said Harley, handing Pearson an envelope.

  ‘What’s this then?’

  ‘A little note from our friend Gilby Siddons; came in the post this morning. It says that the missing dilly boy, Harper, has been in touch and he’s willing to talk.’

  ‘At the Green Fox—tomorrow night, at eight,’ said Pearson, reading the note. ‘That’s good news! But what does he mean by “don’t bring the sharpy”?’

  ‘Ah yes, well … that’s you I’m afraid.’

  ‘Oh bloody hell! Well, I’m not waiting in the car this time, that’s for sure. You can go on your own and report back to me later.’

  ‘You do realize this could be our big breakthrough, don’t you? If we manage to get our hands on whatever they stole from Freddie Daubeney … or even just find out what it is … And with a good agent like Joe managing to infiltrate the BBF; well, I reckon the tables could be turning for us, Albert.’

  ‘Blimey!’

  ‘What?’

  ‘Steady on there! It sounds to me like the hardened cynic might be getting a little excited for once.’

  ‘Well, I don’t mind telling you that this case is getting right under my skin. We could use a little bit of good luck.’

  ‘Amen to that … Let’s just hope this Harper comes up with the goods.’

  Pearson turned to peer down the long corridor of the apartment block.

  ‘Now—what number is she at?’

  ‘Oh, I don’t think we need bother about that. Apparently she’s got the whole floor.’

  Harley walked to the end of the corridor and knocked on the door. It was opened by a young girl in a maid’s uniform.

  ‘Is Lady Euphemia in?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, sir. She’s at the hospital.’

  ‘Really?’ said Harley, looking concerned. ‘Is she alright? I mean—I know she got knocked about a bit by the blast, but, well … when we left her she seemed to be—’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the maid, with a little nervous giggle. ‘Not like that, sir! It’s Wednesday, you see—she works at the hospital on a Wednesday, sir.’

  ‘Oh, yeah—of course,’ said Harley, looking a little embarrassed. ‘The family health clinic, right?’

  ‘That’s right, sir.’

  ‘Listen, now—you don’t have to call me “sir”, you know. What’s your name?’

  ‘Violet, sir—oops!’

  The maid gave another little nervous giggle.

  ‘There you go again. Well, Violet, my name’s George, George Harley … and this ’ere’s Albert Pearson, Detective Constable Pearson. We need to speak to Lady Euphemia, you see, about something important. You wouldn’t happen to have the address of this hospital, would you?’

  ‘Of course, Mr. Harley—I’ll get you one of the information leaflets.’

  ***

  Harley and Pearson followed the nurse’s brisk stride through the freshly painted hospital corridor, the heels of their shoes clopping on the polished linoleum.

  ‘Get a lungful of that carbolic, Pearson,’ said Harley, sniffing at the air. He noticed the policeman’s face had turned ashen.

  ‘’Ere, you alright?’

  ‘Hospitals—they give me the collywobbles.’

  ‘Yeah well, try and keep on yer feet—I wasn’t planning on an overnight stay.’

  He quickened his step to match the pace of the nurse.

  ‘It all looks very new and ship-shape, sister.’

  The nurse stopped to push a trolley closer into the wall. She turned to Harley with a hint of pride in her eyes.

  ‘Yes, wonderful isn’t it? We’ve only been here a couple of months. Previously it was one of the old Poor Law Hospitals and, well, quite frankly it was a fright of a place. Dark and dirty—a breeding ground for infection.’ She started off purposefully down the corridor again. ‘Lady Euphemia has worked wonders, she really has. And it’s not just the facility, you understand, it’s the concept, the forward thinking—managing the future health of the patients rather than just administering to their current ailments. Attending to the chronic as well as the acute.’

  ‘By education? Dietary planning?’ asked Harley.

  ‘Yes,’ said the nurse with a toothy smile, stopping at a pair of double doors, ‘amongst other things … Now gentlemen, if you’d just wait here for a moment?’

  She disappeared into the room briefly, and then returned to open the door wide.

  ‘In you come, gentlemen! As you can see, Lady Euphemia is just finishing up with a patient, but if you wouldn’t mind just sitting quietly over there she’ll be with you presently.’

  ‘Thank you, sister,’ said Harley removing his hat as they entered the consultation room.

  They took a seat on a bank of metal-framed chairs lining the wall. On the far side of the room, caught in a diagonal swathe of buttery sunlight sat Euphemia. Harley’s heart quickened a little as he caught sight of her, poised and elegant in a crisp nursing uniform. Along with a young doctor she was attending to a small family group—a mother and two daughters, one around eight-years-old, the other in her early teens. The teenager had unusually long, flax-coloured hair and on hearing the door bang shut as the nurse left the room she turned her head and stared at the newcomers … and continued to stare with drear, lifeless eyes—a bleak gaze that reminded Harley o
f the mannequins in the Oxford Street stores.

  Maybe it was the trigger of seeing Euphemia again—her resemblance to Cynthia—but at the thought of shop window dummies Harley’s mind jumped now to an image of that naked, headless torso, lying like a waxen effigy in the pale moonlight …

  ‘Do you know her, Harley?’

  ‘Hmm?’

  Harley dragged himself back to the present.

  ‘That girl. Look at her—gazing at you like that.’

  ‘I don’t think she’s all there, Albert,’ said Harley, smiling at the girl to see if he could elicit a change in her frozen expression; but the girl continued her lifeless stare until her mother placed a hand on her shoulder and drew her attention back to the conversation.

  ‘Shame, isn’t it?’ said Pearson. ‘Such a pretty girl as well.’

  Across the room the consultation was coming to a close. The doctor wrote out a prescription and the family said their goodbyes and stood up to leave. As the eight-year-old dragged her sister towards the door the older girl once more turned to fix Harley with her bleak stare.

  ‘Blimey, Harley—if looks could kill, eh?’

  ‘Oh, I’m sure she don’t mean any harm—just a little lakes, ain’t she?’

  ‘Lakes?’

  ‘Lakes of Killarney—barmy,’ said Harley, smiling and tapping his temple.

  But in truth the incident had unnerved Harley and he struggled for a moment to prevent his thoughts returning to the image of Cynthia’s butchered corpse … until Pearson nudged him in the side and they both stood up as Euphemia made her way over to greet them.

  ‘Gentlemen! What a lovely surprise.’

  ‘Miss Daubeney.’

  ‘Please, Mr. Harley, call me Effie. I feel that after our recent shared experience, that terrible explosion … well, we’re no longer exactly strangers, are we?’

  ‘I suppose not, Effie. And it’s George, by the way.’

  ‘Well, George—before we go any further I really must give you my sincere thanks for the way you looked after me that night.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t remember doing anything special …’

  He paused as she stepped closer, bringing with her that hint of jasmine. She placed a hand on his arm.

  ‘Nonsense! I behaved like a silly little schoolgirl and there you were,’ she tilted her head a little and her closeness forced a smile to his lips. ‘Cool-headed, professional … decisive.’

  Harley shook his head.

  ‘I think you’re being hard on yourself. Anyone would have reacted the same, finding that thing, lying in your lap like—’

  She hushed him with a finger to his lips.

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘You’re welcome.’

  ‘Now, what can I do for you?’

  ‘We just have a few questions—about the bombing, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson, beginning to wonder if they realized he was still in the room.

  ‘Of course, Mr. Pearson. Shall we sit?’

  She led them over to the consultation area.

  ‘You’ve got an impressive set-up here, Effie,’ said Harley.

  ‘Thank you. Yes, we’ve made good progress in the last few months. It has not been easy though, I must admit.’

  ‘Tell me,’ said Pearson, taking a seat at the table. ‘That young girl just now, with her family …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘Well, was she quite … quite normal?’

  ‘Feeble-minded, I’m afraid, Mr. Pearson; an interesting case. Actually the family were not here regarding the girl. We’re treating the mother’s bronchitis with a sulphonamide preparation—one of the compounds that I helped to develop with my father. But as you know, we’re concerned here at the clinic with hereditary conditions. The mother’s brother is also feeble-minded, and yet both the mother and younger daughter seem to be of roughly average intelligence—for their social class and education, that is.’

  ‘So you think the condition is hereditary, but isn’t always passed on?’ asked Harley.

  ‘Exactly. What Gregor Mendel described as a recessive trait. So, in exchange for treating the mother’s bronchitis for free, we’ve persuaded her to allow us to make a study of her family—to see if we might identify some shared factor, a marker that might help us determine the likelihood of the condition manifesting itself. You see, although the younger daughter remains unaffected, there’s a high probability that the mother is acting as a carrier of the trait. And, of course, as she’s now pregnant again …’

  ‘Do you advocate birth control at the clinic, Effie?’ asked Harley.

  Euphemia glanced over at Pearson before answering.

  ‘In the right circumstances, yes, we do. Most of these families are extremely poor, you understand, living in deprived conditions. Multiple pregnancies take such a toll on a woman’s body living in such conditions … not to mention the additional strain on the family’s resources … However, maybe this isn’t the time and place to debate such a controversial topic?’

  ‘You mentioned Mendel, he’s the fella with the pea plants, right?’

  ‘I think, George,’ said Euphemia, with a smile, ‘I shall make it a personal mission of mine to discover a topic of conversation of which you have no prior knowledge.’

  ‘I wish you luck with that, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson. ‘My theory is that he swallowed an encyclopaedia when he was a youngster.’

  ‘We’ve just had a wonderful new X-ray apparatus installed in the basement, maybe we should admit him for an examination, Mr. Pearson—what do you think? Anyway, apart from diagnosing Mr. Harley’s intelligence, what else can I do for you?’

  Harley pulled a folded piece of paper from his jacket. He opened it out and placed it on the table.

  ‘Do you recognize this, Effie?’

  ‘Why, yes, of course—how could I forget?’ she said, glancing at Harley’s sketch of the Ukrainian tattoo. ‘The bombing … the severed hand …’

  ‘That’s right. But before that? Have you ever seen it before? Take your time, have a good look.’

  Euphemia studied the drawing of the tattoo.

  ‘No—not before that night. Not that I recall … It belonged to that poor man, the chauffeur?’

  ‘That’s correct,’ said Pearson, pulling out his notebook. ‘Although we’re having great difficulty discovering anything about the man himself. Did you know him well, Miss Daubeney?’

  ‘I’d never met him.’

  ‘But I thought you said that Earl Daubeney leant you the use of his driver whenever you were in London?’

  ‘And so he does. But my uncle’s regular man was away that day—off visiting relatives in Birmingham. I assume this unfortunate man was a temporary, from an agency.’

  ‘You’ve spoken to your uncle about it?’ asked Harley.

  ‘Only very briefly, when he telephoned to see that I was unhurt. We’ve both been rather busy lately, I’m afraid. We haven’t had chance to meet up since the explosion.’

  ‘And do you have a name for this temporary driver?’ asked Pearson. ‘Do you know what nationality he was?’

  ‘Nationality? Why, English I’d have thought—wouldn’t you? I’m afraid I don’t know anything about it, Mr. Pearson. I would imagine my uncle’s private secretary will have all of the details.’

  ‘How did you get to Spitalfields, Effie?’ asked Harley. ‘Didn’t the temporary fella drive you?’

  ‘No, Giles gave me a lift—Giles Pembroke. Remember you met him that night, in the office?’

  ‘The vicar?’

  ‘Yes. You see, Giles normally gives me a lift to and from the drop-in, but for some reason that night he had to rush off early.’

  ‘Really?’ said Pearson, making a note in his book. ‘Do you recall what for?’

  ‘I don’t think he said. Is it important?’

  ‘Probably not. We’ll ask him when we interview him.’

  ‘You’ll be interviewing Giles?’

  ‘Just a formality,’ said Harley. ‘We need to speak to every
one we can who was there that night, to see if they remember anything significant.’

  ‘But, surely, the bombing didn’t have anything to do with the welfare drop-in? These anarchists are choosing their targets at random, aren’t they? That’s how it’s been reported in the newspapers.’

  ‘We can’t discount any motive at the moment, Miss Daubeney,’ said Pearson. ‘Now, can you think of anyone who you’d class as an enemy? Anyone who might have reason to cause you harm? You mentioned the clinic’s stance on birth control. As you say, it’s a highly controversial subject—have you had any direct threats regarding it?’

  Euphemia looked perplexed for a moment at the question.

  ‘Surely you don’t believe that I was the intended victim, Detective Constable?’ she turned to Harley. ‘George?’

  ‘Just before the explosion we saw Pembroke driving off at speed in a maroon Austin 7. Is that his vehicle?’ asked Harley.

  ‘I’m afraid I’m no motor car enthusiast, but I believe it is maroon-coloured, yes … a rather small affair—a sit-up-and-beg type.’

  ‘And does he always drive so erratically?’ asked Pearson.

  ‘Well, Giles is a little inconsistent in most things practical, but I wouldn’t say his driving is erratic exactly. I’m sure he’s not a danger to anyone … And there’s simply no way that he could be involved in any kind of anarchist group, if that’s what you’re implying. He’s a man of the cloth. The C of E is hardly a hotbed of extremist politics, is it? No, no—the whole things laughable.’

  ‘Listen, Effie, we don’t know for sure that this last explosion has got anything to do with politics, but can you think of any association with Russia or the Ukraine that your uncle might have—any business ties, foreign nationals on his staff?’

  ‘Russia?’

  Euphemia thought hard for a moment.

  ‘No, there’s nothing that springs to mind. I’m sure you are already aware that he was Viceroy of India for a while, and my aunt has some French relations I believe, on her mother’s side … Russia, you say? You think there’s some connection with the Soviets?’

  ‘I can’t say at the moment, I’m afraid. But think now, Effie—is there anyone that might want to do you harm? Have you noticed anything untoward lately? Any strange characters hanging around?’