‘I’ll show you where she works.’ Kitty hoped he had been trying to be kind to her, yet she had sensed the steel under the velvet glove. She was more than willing to leave him to the tender mercies of Hester Drax, though she felt bound to give him some warning. ‘She can be a little intimidating, but she really is awfully efficient. My mother was not especially good at spelling and grammar and that sort of thing, but she used to say Miss Drax wrought marvels, tidying it all up.’
The SFRF was a society dedicated to stirring public opinion outside Russia against the iniquitous system of government prevailing in that country, where basic human freedoms were denied, and where suffering, deprivations and even the torture of its oppressed people were the norm. As well as Russian émigrés resident in Britain, the members who made up the society included many British and American sympathisers, among them not only hot-headed students, but also intellectuals, political thinkers of left wing tendencies, and writers such as the famous playwright Mr Bernard Shaw.
The aims of the society were to make the stark facts of what was happening in Russia known to other peoples in the world by means of lectures, the distribution of literature and the publication of its newspaper, Free Russia. Anyone who read it – as in fact Kitty herself had, from time to time – would know that it was not in any way sympathetic to the criminal methods used by those confessed anarchists now causing such trouble in Britain – like those who had attempted to rob the Houndsditch jeweller (expropriation of funds, they called it, money to send home to their revolutionary-minded contemporaries, though to everyone else it was just plain theft) and which had ended with such tragic consequences. She was furious that merely being a member of the society and reading its newspaper should be held against her mother.
Some people, of course, might have been mistaken and believed that it should be. Had Mama been shot by someone like that, some wildly illogical, mad person who in some twisted way thought that because of her Russian birth she must be on the side of the terrorists and therefore deserved to be killed?
And Jon. What had Gaines meant when he had made the point about the newspaper he edited being owned by a Russian? Kitty didn’t really know why that surprised her, yet although she had to acknowledge it must be true, it didn’t follow that Jon could possibly have anything to do with the death of an innocent woman – his aunt, for heaven’s sake! To whom, she reminded herself, he had always been so close.
The unanswered questions hovered, gathered, like an impending storm, an incipient headache. She was utterly confused and her overwhelming feeling was that she desperately needed to talk things over with someone. They came to mind one by one, but one by one she rejected the idea of approaching any of them: Papa, too wrapped up in his own misery at the moment; Aunt Ursula, practical and bracing but a little biased in the matter of her mother, to be honest; even Bridget, especially Bridget: clever, clear-headed and usually all too willing to give advice but not now, for some reason.
There was, of course, Marcus. Marcus Villiers, who had been with Mama when she died. He was a large part of what Kitty didn’t understand. Yet she knew suddenly, with certainty, regardless of her ambivalence about him, that Marcus was someone with whom she felt she should talk. This despite the fact that there was so much that was unexplained, mysterious even, about him. And in any case, where was he? He had not put in an appearance yet, though he had promised they would speak soon, and whispered that she should trust him. He had looked stricken as he had said, ‘I should have protected her.’ Why was he blaming himself for something he surely couldn’t have prevented?
Gaines, left in Miss Drax’s workroom with her, began by asking her the same questions he’d asked everyone else: how had Mrs Challoner seemed recently? Had she been worried about anything? Acted unusually? He received the negative answers he’d expected, the sort most people gave when a loved one had been murdered – no one was going to admit that she’d been anything less than perfect. He then said he would like to examine any papers and so on Mrs Challoner had left behind, to which she tightened her lips further and remarked tartly she hadn’t supposed he was there for any other reason.
She seemed to be living up to her reputation as a bit of a Gorgon, though apart from the primly folded mouth and a frown of disapproval, she was in fact a handsome, if rather cold-looking, woman, somewhere in her early thirties, he estimated. The thick bottle-bottomed spectacles she was presumably forced to wear did her no favours of course, drawing attention from a good skin and classic features, thick and glossy dark brown hair, which it was a pity she chose to wear severely drawn back like that. She was thin, flat as a washboard, but wore her unobtrusive clothes with a certain elegance. A glance told him she worked meticulously on an uncluttered desk. He noted a top copy and two carbons rolled into her typewriter; on the right of her desk were three separate piles of finished pages, precisely squared up, and to her left was an open exercise book. A tray of sharpened pencils stood handy. She sat with her hands poised above her machine, as if she wished to dissociate herself from the proceedings and was only waiting to recommence typing immediately after this unasked-for interruption to her work.
Hers was not the only desk in the room, though it was the largest, a sturdy, workmanlike construction. It stood at right angles to one of the two windows in the room, which was a smallish, corner one; there was a less imposing desk, which Miss Drax said was the one her employer had used only when they needed to work together. As he looked around for somewhere to sit she indicated its chair.
‘A kind of collaboration between you and Mrs Challoner, was it?’ he asked, turning the chair to face her.
‘It was not.’ She sounded affronted. ‘I merely typed out each day what she had written and prepared the manuscript for publication.’
Which might, he thought, have been no easy task, if the incomprehensible squiggles he could see as he squinted at the exercise book from the wrong side of the desk were anything to go by. ‘That seems like a hard day’s work.’
‘Not at all. I was able to offer a few suggestions as to spelling and so on, but that was all that was needed, indeed all I could contribute. I have no imagination,’ she said flatly.
‘Very well, then, Miss Drax, if this was Mrs Challoner’s desk, I’d better have a look inside it.’
She seemed to take great pleasure in telling him that he wouldn’t find anything which was going to help and when he began to open the drawers he saw this was likely to be true. Like those in the little writing table in her bedroom, they were almost empty of anything interesting. Apart from a small book he picked up, there was little more than a good supply of new, marbled-covered exercise books and one or two other odds and ends. He was beginning to adjust to a different view of authorship. Not the author starving in a garret, this one, tearing her hair, constantly crossing out, altering and rewriting; nor yet a modern-day Ouida, reclining on a sofa with a cigarette in a holder, dictating ad lib. Or perhaps that was what Marie Bartholemew had done. ‘Did she dictate her work?’
Miss Drax looked rather as though this was a suggestion beneath contempt. ‘Never.’
‘Did she write anything other than novels?’
‘No,’ she said dismissively, adjusting her spectacles and bending over the exercise book once more.
‘Miss Drax.’ She looked up again, her eyes immediately drawn to the little book he was still holding, elegantly covered in grey watered silk and fastened with a pretty little gilt clasp. ‘I think I need to take this with me.’
‘I’m afraid you can’t. That’s her personal diary. It’s private.’ She held out her hand for it.
‘Is there something in it you think I shouldn’t see?’
‘How should I know? I was not party to her private thoughts.’
‘I’m sorry, but I must insist.’
‘It’s locked.’
It was. Tiny as the decorative clasp appeared, it was actually a lock – pretty useless as a security device, but enough to deter casual curiosity. ‘Then I shall ne
ed the key. Otherwise, I must force it open.’
He had succeeded in disturbing Miss Drax’s icy calm. She had flushed in a dull, unbecoming way and opened her mouth as if to argue the point, but he forestalled her by putting the diary into his attaché case along with the Russian tracts he had picked up in Lydia’s bedroom. Eventually she opened one of the drawers in her own desk and took out a tiny key which she offered reluctantly. ‘Thank you. I’ll give you a receipt for it, of course.’
He put it into his attaché case and as he raised his head he caught a glimpse of her unguarded face. She looked anguished. After a moment he said, ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything you want to tell me?’
‘Why should there be?’
A few minutes later, after writing his receipt and handing it to her, he was at the foot of the stairs, in the hall.
For a while he contemplated talking once again to Louis Challoner, the only one he hadn’t seen this morning, but he was pretty certain they’d got out of him yesterday all he was prepared to give, for the time being at any rate. He was already sweating. It wouldn’t do any harm to let him sweat a bit more.
His visit had been disappointing, he decided as the front door closed behind him and he ran down the steps. He’d expected to gather more from the interviews he’d had with the people who had lived with Lydia Challoner and known her best. But this was often the case in the first days after a family tragedy, especially when it had been as traumatic as this. They might have had second thoughts and found reasons to be more forthcoming with what they were presently holding back the next time he interviewed them.
Twelve
Inskip, after having failed to make contact with Marcus Villiers, made his way towards the Britannia Voice offices in Whitechapel, where he instantly felt more at home amongst the familiar clamour of everyday life, regardless of the stench issuing from the glue and soap-boiling factories and the odours of foreign food permeating everywhere from the main streets to the noisome back alleys. It was all malarkey in his opinion, thinking the Bolshies had anything to do with this murder. But he was happy enough to do as he was told and to leave the other side of the enquiry to Gaines, though he wasn’t the only one working on the same lines: as well as liaising with Special Branch, as many men as Gaines could justifiably spare had been detailed to check on those foreigners under constant surveillance, most of them speaking barely a word of English, or acting sullen and uncommunicative. Gaines was right to insist every line of enquiry should be pursued, of course, but Inskip privately believed it ludicrous to contemplate a lady of Mrs Challoner’s class having anything to do with these foreign gangs, simply because of some tenuous Russian connection. Their lives were as far apart as the North and South poles; they were from different worlds … she from very near the top and the others from somewhere near the dregs of society. For all her supposed gift with words, he doubted if even her imagination could have extended to encompass the way these desperadoes she was supposed to have associated with existed – little more than cut-throats, thieves and robbers, when you came down toit.
The assistant behind the counter in the pie-maker’s shop over which the premises of the newspaper were situated directed him to a side door which opened on to a narrow, shabby, lino-covered staircase, but he found his means of ascent presently barred by the heavily built person who was coming down the stairs. He stepped aside, raising his hat politely. ‘Mr Devenish?’ The big fellow, who Inskip now saw was probably too old for the young chap he’d come to see, gave him a look, jerked his thumb upwards but said nothing and continued on his way down.
Inskip shrugged and carried on to a half-landing. Another leg of the staircase went up to the next floor but here was a door with peeling green paint and a slightly tattered piece of cardboard pinned to it, a temporary-looking expedient which hadn’t stood the test of time. BRITANNIA VOICE, it announced in large, black, printed capitals, underneath a crudely drawn logo. The untidy young chap at the desk facing him when he opened the door looked up and smiled pleasantly. The smile still held but became ever so slightly strained when Inskip introduced himself and produced his warrant card, but he stood up and came round the desk, offering his hand.
‘I’d like a few words with you, Mr Devenish. Is there somewhere we can be private?’
‘Miss Brent-Paxton is entirely discreet.’
The pretty, dark-haired young woman who had been following what was being said with bright-eyed interest, lowered her gaze, picked up a sheaf of papers and began reading intently.
Inskip mentally shrugged. If Devenish didn’t mind discussing his private affairs in front of his staff, that was up to him.
‘I know why you’re here, Sergeant, I’ve been expecting someone.’ The young chap had an engaging air of frankness, waving him to a chair and perching himself on one corner of his desk, projecting nonchalance with a swinging foot. Inskip noticed at once that he had on odd socks. ‘It’s this sorry business about my aunt, I presume?’
‘Mrs Lydia Challoner, yes. What can you tell me about her?’
‘What is there to tell? Except that I was extremely fond of her – as most people who knew her were.’
‘Someone wasn’t. Someone made a point of shooting and killing her.’
The assumed nonchalance slipped and a curious expression crossed his face. He was evidently upset about his aunt’s death but Inskip could recognize anger too when he saw it. Devenish folded his arms across his chest and drawled, ‘So what steps, may one ask, are our police taking to find him?’
Inskip did not respond to the jibe. ‘Every step we can, sir. Which includes talking to anyone who knew her well. Especially her family. Where were you, for instance, at midday on Sunday?’
If he’d been expecting a visit from the police, he must have known this would be asked but it evidently nettled him. ‘I? What does it matter where I was? My God. You are unbelievable.’ It was to be hoped he meant the police in general and not Inskip in particular. ‘I was here, working.’
‘On Sunday?’
‘Yes,’ he replied shortly. ‘I live through there.’ He indicated a door at the far end of the office. ‘I was here until my mother rang me with the news. After which I went straight away to Egremont Gardens to see if there was anything I could do. And if you want to know if anyone can corroborate my being here, you should speak to the paper’s owner. He was in the office with me until about half past twelve.’
‘And the owner is?’
‘His name is Lukin, Aleksandr Lukin. You’ve just missed him. He was here until a few minutes ago.’
‘Ah.’ The blond giant he’d passed on the stairs – he should have known. ‘The name sounds Russian.’ Jon nodded. So the information given them about the proprietor of the Voice had not been mere speculation, then. ‘Your aunt was Russian, too, wasn’t she?’
‘Not really. Not in any meaningful way. She happened to have been born in Russia, that’s all. To all intents and purposes, she was as English as you or I.’
Inskip let that pass. ‘Your paper’s a newish venture, I understand, Mr Devenish. Doing well?’ He had already made it in his way to read through several back numbers. The paper was small, both in size and content, and seemed to have been written mostly by its editor, the other contributors being regular but extremely few in number. It could hardly be paying Devenish much, if anything, and could even be running at a loss, Inskip suspected. These small newspapers came and went, but he knew Devenish was Sir Jonathan, a title he disdained to use, and presumably he had a private income which he very likely did not. One of the new breed of young idealists who’d been stricken with a social conscience and felt able, with the weight of privilege behind them, to challenge the prevailing class system without undue hardship to themselves.
‘What sort of woman was your aunt?’
‘She was beautiful. Not in the accepted sense but …’ He spread his hands helplessly. ‘Exceptional.’
‘And talented.’
‘That, too.’
‘Did she have any connections with this paper?’
‘The Voice? What on earth gave you that idea?’
‘She was a writer, wasn’t she? And never mind her Britishness, she was of Russian descent. You tell me the owner of your paper is Russian. Did your aunt never write anything for you?’
Jon didn’t hide his amusement. ‘Have you read that book she wrote? No? You should. Not great literature, admittedly, but not a penny novelette.’
Why should that preclude any other type of writing? Words were words, as far as Inskip could see – nor would it have prevented her from using a pen name, as in fact she had done when she’d written that novel as Marie Bartholemew, but he didn’t think it necessary to say this. Devenish had taken the point.
‘Look here, I’ll tell you frankly, Sergeant, you’re wasting your time pursuing that line. Added to which I’ve no more idea than you how my aunt came to have been killed. But I can tell you it had nothing to do with any sympathies or otherwise she might have had with Russian politics.’
‘She was shot with the sort of gun these anarchists favour – a Mauser pistol, to be precise.’
‘Then I don’t follow your logic. If she was, as you seem to think, on their side, why should they have shot her?’
Hard to explain the reasoning.
Devenish, who had resumed the chair behind his desk, leaned back to a dangerous extent and regarded Inskip over his steepled fingers. He smiled, as if he had divined what the other was thinking. ‘You are wasting your time, you know,’ he repeated. ‘Even if it should turn out to be one of those gang members, you’re unlikely to find which one – wouldn’t you say?’
The tone nettled Inskip, but it was only echoing what he thought himself. It was only too true that they didn’t have a cat in hell’s chances of finding the perpetrator – much less nailing him for it, even if by some miracle they did. All the same … His glance fell on the large round clock on the wall and he did a double take. ‘Is that the time?’
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