It had been a rash thing to do, meeting that man, whoever he was, in a place where at any moment one of her friends might appear, but Lydia was hardly the cautious type, nor one to dissolve into the background, unnoticed, for that matter. That day wearing a sable-trimmed coat, the colour of autumn leaves, a velvet hat of the same shade, modishly wide, perched on the heavy coils and puffs of her hair. Charming, stylish. Ridiculous on this wild day. The wind – or perhaps that meeting he’d witnessed – had whipped colour into her cheeks. She was attracting attention as she always did, but perhaps she’d been confident none of her acquaintances would venture out in such weather, fearful for their hats, or their hair.
He saw Kitty was waiting now, hoping perhaps for him to tell her that what she herself had seen – at a distance, through a window, screened to a certain extent by trees – must have some innocent explanation, but the coincidence of the two rendezvous made the lie stick in his throat. That encounter at the Academy had not been the meeting of mere acquaintances. Nor, despite the furtive exchange of whatever had been taken from Lydia’s handbag, was it in any way consistent with two people having nefarious purposes in mind. But how could he tell Kitty that? He sprang up and began to pace about again.
After a moment she said, ‘Do stop and sit down. This – person I saw with Mama. Tell me the truth. Could he have been one of those people the police are convinced she was mixed up with?’
He stopped pacing. ‘Perhaps.’ But he’d hesitated too long, and then not put enough certainty into his reply. If she hadn’t already done so, she would soon reach the same conclusion as he. I’ve lost her, he thought. I’ve shown everything in the wrong light and put thoughts and suspicions into her mind that ought not to be there. He sat down and told her, playing it down as much as he was able, about the man her mother had been with at the Academy.
She did not become as upset as he expected. Looking steadfastly at the flowers he had brought, she merely nodded as if it had confirmed what she had already thought. ‘Did you – did you know about Marie Bartholemew?’ she asked suddenly at last, bringing her gaze back to him.
‘Marie Bartholemew?’ The unexpectedness of the question completely threw him. ‘Oh – er – yes, she did tell me about the book, though I was sworn to secrecy. Your mother was a remarkable lady. Who would have thought that of her?’
‘It seems there may have been rather a lot of things one would not have thought of her, Marcus.’ She turned to leave the room. ‘Wait a moment, if you please, there’s something I’d like you to see.’
Somewhere in the past was her other life. She was living a new one now, in unknown territory, and she was a different person in it. She had sloughed off Kitty Challoner’s schoolgirl preoccupations like an outgrown skin; her new skin was thicker and less easily bruised. She would never be so easily hurt again, so gullible or trusting. As she had listened to Marcus telling her of his part in all this, she had gone through a series of conflicting emotions: first wondering at the astonishing naivety in someone like him; then thinking that perhaps it was not naivety, but cleverness, doing what he had done, that all along he had been acting for his own good, the hope that it would lead to some future prospects for himself with these people who had persuaded him to work for them … And then, the moment he told her that Lydia had confessed to being Marie Bartholemew, her doubts about him dissolved. Not even Fanny Estrabon had known that her dearest friend had a secret life, another persona. If Mama had trusted him with that, the only one outside the family as far as Kitty knew, could her own trust in him be misplaced?
For the space of a moment she was back in that dream she’d had, that search for something that was evading her, the golden feather trembling first one way and then another in her hand. The silver-hoofed white unicorn, with one foot raised, stood waiting for her in the shadows, ready to lead her on. But the legend told how you needed more than one helper to find the firebird.
She hurried back to where Marcus was waiting in the hall, which was filled with the scent of freesias from that extravagant basket of flowers he had brought. He needn’t have gone to such expense – they were lovely but she would have been just as touched had they been a handful of buttercups and daisies. With the firebird box in her hands she sat down beside him. She decided to say nothing in explanation but simply opened it and took the drawing out. She had been prepared for surprise but not for the utter astonishment that crossed his face when he saw it. ‘I keep telling myself it’s silly to think this could mean anything, but all the same … Marcus?’
‘It looks very much like a wolf.’
‘It is a wolf, or part of one.’
For answer he took out his wallet and from it another sketch, this time one of a wolf’s hindquarters. He spread both halves on the small table in front of them. The torn edges precisely matched.
They looked blankly at each other. ‘Do you have a magnifying glass? I think there’s something here.’ He pointed to a very slight smudge in the corner of Kitty’s half of the drawing.
‘Somewhere, I suppose, I’m not sure. I’ll see.’ Without asking what he thought the mark might be, she went to look for the glass Louis used for his stamp collection, kept in a cabinet in the book room where Bridget usually worked, though she wasn’t there today.
When she brought it back, Marcus had switched on a lamp above the table where the two pieces of paper lay. It was possible now to see that the smudge was the residue of what had once been a pencil mark, and with the help of the glass, to identify the indentation the pencil had made. It didn’t make any more sense than the torn drawing itself, revealing itself as nothing but a curly squiggle.
Marcus explained how he’d come by his half of the drawing. As they puzzled over why it had been sent to him and what the two torn halves could possibly mean, Kitty found herself telling him about the missing pendant-cross, and even about the copy icon that hung in Mama’s bedroom, which of course he had never seen. She didn’t even pause to wonder what Papa’s reaction to including Marcus in the secret would be. The relief at having someone to share it with was like a weight being lifted from her shoulders.
‘The police should know,’ he said at last.
‘What? What is there to tell? A silver cross I can’t find, and this silly business of the wolf?’
‘Is it silly? I’m far from sure. But I wasn’t thinking so much of either of those. A valuable icon and a gun have gone missing – and yes, I do see the dilemma, Kitty. Your father is choosing to believe Lydia took them and so feels there’s no necessity to tell the police, and I don’t see how we can go against him. But they should be told, really, you know – we should do something.’
‘Papa surely has compelling reasons that we don’t know about for keeping the truth about the icon from them.’
‘Hiding the truth is rarely a good idea,’ he said with feeling, frowning darkly at the two matched halves of the sketch lying on the table. ‘I don’t understand this any more than you. And I can see you feel the business of the cross is puzzling, though there’s probably a simple explanation for that not being where it’s always been. But the icon, you know – that’s a different matter. The police really should know about that.’
He must have seen the consternation she felt reflected in her face. ‘We can’t tell them, Marcus.’
‘Of course we can’t.’ His brows came together in the familiar way. ‘So your father must somehow be persuaded to tell them himself.’
‘He won’t listen to me! He can be stubborn when he wants to be.’ And more than a little bit frightening, she thought, remembering how insistent he had been when he’d told her the truth about the copy icon. ‘But it’s more than just being stubborn, there’s something behind all this that he’s not telling me.’
‘Perhaps I should add my weight to the argument.’
‘Then he’ll know I’ve told you. After I promised him I wouldn’t.’
Sixteen
Fresh from a meeting with Detective Superintendent Renshaw, the DCI and
his sergeant regarded each other glumly. Emergency meeting, that was what Renshaw had called it. It turned out that the only urgency was his need to know that the enquiry was in no danger of losing momentum, which he suspected it was. Over a week had passed, and there should have been developments. He had given them to understand, in no uncertain terms, that he – and those even higher up – wanted no pussyfooting around with this case. Trouble fermented in this sweltering heat. Everyone was touchy at the moment – a shooting in Hyde Park was just another complication they could have done without. He even had a map of the coronation processional route pinned to the wall, strategic points on it marked with red crayon, buildings where would-be assassins might hide themselves. The assassination of a monarch would be nothing to any of those Russian revolutionaries who’d sought refuge over here – they hadn’t hesitated at killing their own Tsar. To a marksman competent enough to shoot a woman horse-rider from two or three hundred yards the new King’s coach would offer little challenge.
A directive from Renshaw, a blunt, expatriate northerner nearing retirement, was not something you took lightly. He dealt fairly if you did your job as you were supposed to do, but he hadn’t got where he was by pulling punches or being nice. He was experienced enough to know the problems they were facing; at the same time he expected to see more in the way of progress. Sharpish, understand? As they left his office, Inskip had noticed a line of sweat on Gaines’ brow, whereas he himself had stayed cool and collected … hadn’t he? Though now he did desperately need a smoke.
The trouble was, Renshaw was right. He wasn’t a man to jib at underlining the obvious and as he pointed out, the news of the shooting would have the whole anarchist community on the qui vive. Sidney Street was still very much alive and the chances of finding the marksman among their number were minimal.
‘Has it struck you that the shooting of this woman might possibly have been some sort of rehearsal?’ Renshaw had demanded, the coronation concerns still obviously uppermost.
‘Yes, but I don’t think it’s likely,’ Gaines replied, not giving his reasons. Renshaw was being overly touchy. The coronation was being used as an excuse for anything at all untoward that happened, which was having the opposite effect from what was intended, making people shrug and grow careless – or even take risks. Besides, the Russian sharpshooters didn’t need any rehearsals. The super-intendent sighed and didn’t pursue it. He was aware of the need for informants but dubious about trusting them. A rumour (though not without a certain amount of truth to it) had gained credence after someone had come forward with information on the Sidney Street murderers. After the shooting of Lydia Challoner several low-life specimens had emerged from the woodwork with something to sell, but so far all of them had been discounted. On the other hand, if the information was good, if it should turn out to be the Russians, the Letts, those who were responsible for the Sidney Street debacle and the loss of those police officers, he wanted them nailed. To the floor.
Gaines rubbed his forehead, evidently more worried than he’d so far appeared to be. ‘Renshaw has to have something to complain about, I suppose,’ he grumbled. But he was thinking hard, steepling his hands together in a way that reminded Inskip of Jon Devenish. He said, ‘Loath as I am to say it, I believe I might be coming round to your idea – that the answer to this might lie closer to home than we first thought.’ Inskip’s jaw dropped. That was a first, Gaines admitting he could be wrong! ‘It won’t do any harm to dig deeper into Mrs Challoner’s personal life.’
The sergeant jumped up and moved restlessly about the room. He thought better on his feet; he wasn’t patient, like Gaines, now silently following the train his thoughts had set up, though it wasn’t helping now.
Lydia, Gaines was thinking, a lady apparently following the usual frivolous pursuits of one in her position, except for the career she’d had as a writer – and which for some reason she’d deemed necessary to keep secret. It had never occurred to him to question why. Writers used pen names for different reasons and rightly or wrongly he’d assumed it might be thought infra dig in the circles she moved in to write for money. Nevertheless, writing books didn’t seem to have prevented her from leading a very full and interesting social life. Her husband hadn’t given them much help with insights into anything else she might have been involved in, but Louis Challoner was an enigma himself. Take the pistol allegedly missing from his safe. That was still a puzzle.
‘Supposing Challoner did shoot his wife?’ he said suddenly. He was, after all, still the chief – the only – suspect. Everything pointed that way and it was true that the obvious solution was usually the right one – in this case, murder by someone known to the victim. ‘What motive could he have? Jealousy? A quarrel? But if so, why choose such a method? I’m sure a man like him could think of other ways of getting rid of an unwanted or troublesome wife.’
‘Not if you want to kill two birds with one stone. Shooting someone from a distance isn’t close up and personal, as might be expected of a husband, and doing it with a Mauser C96 was bound to throw suspicion on the Letts, as we’ve just said.’
‘But that gun of his – it struck me at the time it should have been obvious it wasn’t there as soon as he opened the safe door – it’s only a small safe – yet he fiddled around a hell of a long time looking for it. And he looked pretty damn sick when he turned round – as if he wasn’t really all that surprised. Maybe the gun was never there – though if it had been, Mrs C was the only one who had access to the safe. Which he well knew.’
‘Why would she take anything at all, especially the gun? They all claim she hated guns.’
‘If she was up to something shady, maybe she’d begun to fear a time might come when she was likely to need it, at least in self-defence.’
‘Do you think he suspected she was? Doing something she shouldn’t? And did something about it?’
On the surface, Challoner as a murderer seemed unlikely. He didn’t seem as though he’d have the guts. But so far, it was at least as likely as any other theory they’d played around with. Certainly more so than the random killing they’d mooted, for instance, done for some obscure reason: to bring attention to some grievance, real or imaginary, that was held by some disaffected member of the public? Those who habitually rode in Rotten Row were more often than not perceived to be plutocrats, toffs with means and leisure to ride and own horses, and if some member of a less privileged class had taken it into their heads to make an example … Well, it wasn’t impossible. All was not milk and honey in this glorious year of celebration, especially in view of the amount of money that was being spent on what a lot of people saw as an unnecessary public display of pomp and pageantry. Hostility against the moneyed classes was sweeping through the labour force of the country. The dockers and others were threatening strike because of lowered wages and longer hours, backed by the Trade Unions and the memory of starving miners being forced back to work after that unsuccessful strike the previous year, poor devils.
And you couldn’t ignore the Irish terrorists either, a constant thorn in the flesh of Parliament – the extremists fighting for Home Rule for Ireland. That was a debate which had dominated British politics for decades. Dynamite was more in their line, though, preferably in a public place. Still, a threat posed by them or anyone like them was a particular headache in this coronation year: there had been a bomb plot against Queen Victoria in her Jubilee year. That suffragette protest? An unlikely possibility that it had gone as far as that, already discounted. In any case, if it had been them, they would have claimed responsibility. That was what their actions were all about – publicity. They’d come a long way along the path of violence, but not so far as murder yet, thank God. All of which indicated that this murder hadn’t been a random, symbolic act. It had been personal. Lydia Challoner had for some reason been deliberately targeted.
‘Bringing us back to where we started with Challoner – and to what motive, if any, he could have had. Jealousy? Insurance, even?’ Gaines stroked his
moustache.
‘Jealousy, maybe. Insurance – that would depend on how much for. He hardly seems to be in need of money.’
‘Hardly without, that’s true. All that Russian stuff they have in the house, the vases and what not, I’m willing to bet it’s worth a fortune, and it couldn’t have been inherited. Not from Lydia’s father, anyway. Nikolai Kasparov left Russia without a penny in his pocket and he couldn’t have earned much after that, not in the way of life he chose to follow. She bought the stuff, I suppose, with Challoner’s money. Wealthy family, aren’t they?’
Owning a house in Egremont Gardens clearly indicated no shortage of funds. But appearances could be deceptive; people put up a front, for themselves as much as for other folks. Behind the prosperous façade there might be real desperation. There could be business worries. Jealousy and money were prime motivators. Gaines flicked through his file. ‘Challoner and Estrabon, Stockbrokers. Challoner is the third generation in the firm. Paul Estrabon? Personal friend as well as business partner. Fancy a visit?’
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