It Begins in Betrayal

by Whishaw, Iona;

  “Goodness, she died young. Nothing for the mum?”

  The clerk shook her head impatiently. “You did just ask for Agatha Browning.” But she procured the information, laying it impatiently before Lane. “Anything else?”

  “No, thank you so much.” Lane said sweetly. Mother had died in 1890. There. She finished her notes, resolved to dispatch what she had discovered immediately by telegram to Ames at the nearest post office so that she could get on with the problem at hand.

  That done, she felt an urgent need to contact Higgins and see Darling to discuss the puzzling behaviour of Adam Watson. The wait until the next day, when the bank manager said her money would be released for Darling’s bail, seemed interminable.

  HIGGINS, HAPPILY, WAS in his chambers when she arrived. “Miss Winslow, how pleasant. Please, sit down.”

  “I’m sorry to burst in on you like this, Mr. Higgins, but I’ve had a very peculiar interaction with one of Darling’s crew members. I managed to track down the one that lives near here, in Haringey.”

  Higgins folded his hands in front of him on his desk and looked over his glasses. “I see. I wonder if it was advisable for you to . . .” he was going to say, “blunder about,” but continued with “. . . begin any research prior to our mapping out a strategy. We are going to the War Office tomorrow. You could, you see, be muddying the pond, as it were.” He sounded infinitely patient.

  Stung by both his assumption of her dimness and, in fairness, by the possibility that he might be right, Lane sat heavily back in her chair. “Yes, I see what you mean. I did speak with Darling yesterday, you see, and we discovered an address for the one man who lives near here. And, you know, after my experience today, I believe the War Office may not be as cooperative as we hoped.”

  Higgins smiled wanly. “You will, of course, have had no experience with the War Office, so I hope you will leave that part of it to me when we go there. I suppose you’d better tell me about your conversation with Watson.” He pulled a pad of foolscap forward and took up a pencil.

  Practicing enormous patience, Lane opened her notebook and recounted the conversation in full. “The singular impression I had, Mr. Higgins, is that Watson, who made us talk on the steps outside the minute he heard Darling’s name, seemed to be very suspicious. I wondered immediately why that might be. Secondly”—here she was obliged to put up her hand, as Higgins was drawing in breath to make, no doubt, another ponderous and patronizing statement—“secondly, he seemed taken aback, not to say shocked, when I told him that Darling was in prison charged with Evans’s murder. He made a face, shook his head, and looked very frightened. He could not get away fast enough, saying he ‘was not to talk’ to me, or anyone. I wondered for a moment if he meant me, in fact, or just anyone who came around asking questions. Of course, it would not be me, since no one knows that I exist, or am here.”

  Even as she said this, her heart sank. That wasn’t actually true. Someone could know. He could know the minute she presented her passport when she arrived. She shook this off as highly unlikely. Even if he did know, she’d only been there a few days. She suspected Watson had been warned off before. Long before. Here she mentally took Higgins’s advice. Don’t muddy the waters. Whatever the director was up to, it would have nothing to do with this. He just kept tabs on her as a personal project. She prayed earnestly to whatever gods monitored this sort of thing that he’d taken her at her word the summer before that she would never again be involved with the intelligence branch, and would not bother her again.

  Higgins smiled at this and put his pencil down. “Still. It is concerning, this reluctance to talk. He’s been coached, but why?”

  “And by whom,” Lane added. “It’s all part and parcel of this sudden reopening of the crash, of Darling being brought here and jailed. Something happened that set this whole train of events in motion. They, someone, wants a clear and uncontested charge of murder to be prosecuted against Darling. The question is why is it necessary?”

  “Well, we mustn’t panic.” Higgins smiled unconvincingly, as if to assuage his own anxieties, if not hers. “We’ll go to our appointment at the War Office tomorrow, and, of course, you’ll have Darling out of confinement by the afternoon. And I think I’ll have a go at Dunlop, the prosecution chap, and see what he can give me. Will that be all right?”

  Lane, who had been poised to combat her own feelings if he said “dear girl,” inclined her head and stood up. “Thank you, Mr. Higgins,” she said with all the charm she could muster, and extended her hand. “I will meet you on the steps of the War Office then, at nine.”

  “IT ACTUALLY GETS harder to bear the closer I am to getting out,” Darling said, glancing at the guard, wishing for one touch of her hand. He had dreamed of being caught in long webs of torn and dirty grey cloth that was hanging from somewhere high above him, unable to escape in any direction.

  Lane would have liked to be breezy, but her interaction with Watson had badly shaken her. “Listen, darling, only one more night. I’ll take you out for a bang-up meal.” She paused. “I managed to find Adam Watson.” Darling looked encouraged. “No, don’t get excited. I expected to find him surrounded by his wife and children, but he seemed alone and very, very nervous. It was a very peculiar interaction. The upshot is, he’s frightened and has been warned off.”

  Darling leaned back and frowned when Lane had finished telling him about her visit to Haringey.

  “Weirder and weirder. I’m not, if I’m honest, surprised about no wife and children. I don’t think he was inclined that way. But what on earth is going on? Jones and Evans are dead, Anthony seems to be a stooge for the prosecution, that leaves only Watson, Belton, and Salford. Have they all been got to?”

  “Let’s not get ahead of ourselves. Higgins and I are going to the War Office at nine. What a prig, if I may say so, but he has a strong dose of native caution, which is very good under the circumstances. I’m going to the bank at eleven. I’ll have you out in the afternoon.”

  Darling smiled. “Is he being priggish to you? I’m sure you’ve set him straight.”

  “Alas, he is not the type to be set straight. He thinks women are dim and should stay prettily out of the way. He’s warned me off opening my mouth tomorrow morning.”

  SANDRA PUT THE salt and pepper on the table and sat down. “We’ll be very happy to see him back here tomorrow, I can tell you,” she said. She seemed to always dress up for dinner, Lane noticed. Today Sandra had bright red lipstick and an emerald hair band that matched her green cardigan. Did she do it because Lane was a guest, or because she wanted to be a cheerful presence for her husband? I’ve got a lot to learn if that’s the case, Lane thought.

  Rudy passed a bowl of potatoes to his guest. She had taken them up on their standing invitation to dinner, promising herself that when this was all over she would take them all to the poshest place in London as a thank you. At the moment, though, it seemed far from being all over.

  “What I don’t understand is why Watson was so skittish. I’m terrified that the other two will be like that and we will have no witnesses at all. I think we have to assume they have all been got at. What we are going to have to do is go back a step and try to understand why.”

  “A step at a time, love, don’t you think? Perhaps a way will seem clearer down the road a bit,” Sandra said.

  “I expect you’re right,” Lane said. But, she thought, what if the road isn’t clearer? This is not some story. It is real life, and sometimes things just don’t come out all right.

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  LANE CAME OUT OF THE Charing Cross station and oriented herself. She was a few minutes early, but it was sunny without the threat of a sudden rain like the day before, and for a change, perhaps because of the proximity to the river, the air was clear and fresh. A few minutes in the sun on the steps of the War Office building in Whitehall would allow her to collect herself for whatever ordeal of silence Mr. Higgins had planned for her. Dressed in a demure grey suit and a small dark blu
e hat lent to her by Sandra that set off her auburn hair, Lane tried her earnest best to look like the docile little woman, complete with gloves. These she now took off and held in her hand, watching the traffic beginning to build up along Whitehall Road.

  THE DIRECTOR LOVED the city in the morning and decided to walk to the War Office for his appointment with General Haight. It was a pity to waste such a lovely day. He was scheduled to meet the general to discuss the possibility of improving surveillance along the Yugoslav border, so he had a light briefcase with him. He made his way along Curzon Street and turned into St James; from there he would walk along Pall Mall. The birdsong lifted his spirits no end. He was tempted to remove his hat. His wife and children had already decamped to their country home, and he was hopeful of getting a week’s holiday when this bit of work was done. Sighing in preparation for the job of persuasion required to help the general understand what modern surveillance entailed, he turned the corner and then stopped dead. Instinctively, he turned his back to the figure at the top of the stairs.

  How was it possible? There, clearly waiting for someone, was Lane Winslow, as heart-stoppingly beautiful as ever. He walked away, toward the west door, and then turned and watched her from under the brim of his hat. He had the advantage. She clearly had not seen him. Indeed, she was glancing at her watch and looking in the opposite direction for someone she evidently expected to come that way. The director was in turmoil. She was supposed to be in Canada. What was she doing in London? How had he missed it? She must have been in town only a short time. It might take a few days for the reports to reach him of any of his people coming and going through customs.

  As he watched, a short man hurried up the stairs and nodded at Lane, and they turned and went into the building. Who was that? He’d seen him before . . . something legal, he was sure. The name Higgins came to mind. A barrister who’d mounted a hopeless, as it turned out, defence of a functionary at the War Office who had mishandled sensitive information, the director now recalled. In a second, he understood. He mentally smote his own forehead at his stupidity. It was brought on by the shock of seeing her, he told himself. One thing was clear. Things had gone much further than he imagined. His obligation to the general forgotten, he hailed a cab.

  “Middle Temple,” he said tersely.

  “CAPTAIN HOGARTH IS ready for you now,” the young man said. Lane and Higgins had been sitting side by side on wooden chairs placed along the wall of a dark hallway. Higgins had cautioned silence once inside the building, and so they had sat like an estranged couple, Lane looking longingly toward the end of the long gallery, where light from the distant square of window made no dent on the murkiness.

  They were ushered into a wood-panelled office, where they were greeted by, to Lane’s surprise, a woman in a khaki uniform. “Good morning. Captain Hogarth, Ats. Please sit down.” She did not offer to shake hands.

  Higgins said, “I’m Drake Higgins, barrister-at-law. Flight Lieutenant Higgins.”

  “I know who you are. Who’s this?” she said crisply.

  Lane smiled, she hoped innocuously, and said, “Lane Winslow.” She prayed she would not have to explain her presence.

  The captain looked at her curiously and pursed her lips, and then redirected her attention to the barrister. “So, I understand you need information regarding a couple of airmen.”

  “Yes, they were members of a bomber crew, and we do need to get hold of them urgently as witnesses in a pending court matter,” Higgins said. “I submitted three names when I made the appointment.”

  “Donald Belton, Harold Salford, and Neville Anthony. I’m afraid I’ve been unable to find what you want.” She looked up at them as if defying them to contradict her.

  “The information doesn’t exist, or you are unable to provide it?” asked Higgins, but he found the captain’s attention was on Lane.

  “Courier,” Captain Hogarth said suddenly. “I remember now. I thought I’d seen you before. You won’t remember me, of course. We never met officially.”

  Lane looked closely at the woman behind the desk but could not place her. She had said “courier.” Was she involved with the air detail that dropped them off in France? She smiled. “Just desk work, I’m afraid.”

  “Good for you,” the captain said, smiling. “My mistake. We meet so many people here. One loses track. Would you excuse me a moment?” She got up and went out the door, closing it carefully behind her. In the silence that followed, Higgins turned to Lane.

  “What was that in aid of, I wonder? Have you worked here? You didn’t say.” He had a slightly aggrieved tone.

  “I had a tiny little desk job in the basement of another building. It can have no relevance.”

  “On the contrary, it could impede our ability to get anything out of these people if it turns out you worked here and they have reason, for instance, to distrust you. Were you sacked? Is that why you said nothing?”

  “I was not sacked,” she said, her amused smile belying her sudden doubt. Why had it not occurred to her that in a place the size of the War Office there could possibly be someone who recognized her? Of course, it hadn’t even been her headquarters for the period she had had a desk job. She had worked at Wormwood Scrubs, but she saw now there must be many people who stayed on, changing jobs and functions to meet the new postwar reality.

  “Right,” Captain Hogarth said, coming in and standing by Lane’s chair. “There really is nothing we can do, I’m afraid.” As Lane stood up, Captain Hogarth offered Lane her hand, smiling genially. Lane could feel the small folded piece of paper pressed against her palm and, shrugging with an, “oh well, we tried,” expression, pushed it quickly into her handbag and snapped the bag shut. The door behind them was ajar.

  “Thank you for trying, Captain Hogarth. We’re sorry for taking up so much of your time.” The captain offered a quick shadow of a smile. “I’ll bid you good day, then.” She nodded at Lane’s companion. “Mr. Higgins.”

  “THIS IS A brilliant cup of tea,” Lane commented. They had walked in silence toward Charing Cross, Higgins guiding the way, and now sat in a teashop. Lane had the folded paper in her hand. “We’d better see what we have, then.” She opened the paper and placed it between them. Three names, three addresses.

  Higgins looked at her narrowly. “How, exactly, did you do this?”

  “I couldn’t say.” She couldn’t, but she silently thanked Captain Hogarth for what appeared to be her notion of solidarity. She knew it must be because of her war work. Hogarth could have been part of the ground crew. Lane wished now she’d paid more attention, but she’d always been in the grip of nerves before each flight and had focused intensely on what she was to do and what coded information she had to carry. Lane smiled briefly at the idea that it was simply because they were women, and Hogarth might have had her fill of trying to prove herself to the men around her who, no doubt, expressed surprise that a flighty woman with no head for machinery, or weapons, or whatever she’d been called on to do, could manage.

  Higgins pocketed the paper. “I’ll get started on these. I understand you’ll have the means to get Flight Lieutenant Darling out this afternoon. We’ll meet at the Donaldsons’ at, say, five?”

  Lane nodded, gulping the last of her tea, and then took a handkerchief out of her handbag and wrapped up the remaining scone. “You don’t mind do you? It will provide a bedtime snack at the peerless Mrs. Macdonald’s rooming house. She shuts the larder up tight immediately after dinner.”

  LANE HAD COMPLETED her business at the bank, which true to its word had opened up an account for her and issued a draft for five hundred pounds without too much fuss, since she’d been a customer there during the war. She had brought to England an additional hundred for living expenses and in case she had to travel about. The addresses on the paper were local enough. One in Kent, that was Anthony, and one in Sussex, Belton. The third, Salford, was in Norfolk. That was going to be farther away to travel.

  As she made her way to the courthouse,
she wondered how Higgins would approach contact with the aircrew. She felt the urge to be in charge of getting the witness statements but knew that, in spite of his officiousness, Higgins knew his business. She smiled at the memory of his surprise at the turn of events at the War Office. She appreciated that he made no mention of it but seemed to just take it on board. She felt herself warming up to him slightly—and to everything else at the moment. She’d soon be walking out in the sunshine with Darling. They could pretend, if only for a short time, that they were just a couple in love gadding about London. She put firmly out of her mind the coming ordeal of the trial as she approached the clerk at the prison.

  “I have the bond money for Frederick Darling,” she said. “His hearing was on Friday.”

  “Darling, Darling. Yes, here we are. Five hundred pounds.” The clerk had an air of complete lack of interest, as if such sums were a daily occurrence.

  Lane opened her bag, took out the draft, and slid it forward under the grill.

  “No, wait,” the clerk said suddenly, looking again at the paperwork. “That bond has been withdrawn.” He closed the file and looked up as if he was ready for the next customer. Lane glanced behind her, trying to still the turmoil of anger and fear she felt.

  “Withdrawn? What do you mean?”

  The clerk reopened the file. “Just what I said. The judge has withdrawn the bond provision. Not surprising, really. It’s a murder charge.”

  Lane shook her head. “Who can I talk to?”

  “No one here, miss. You’ll have to talk to his brief.”

  Lane turned away from the clerk and tried to pull her thoughts together. She’d have to see Darling, tell him. Her heart sank. He was living on the hope of getting out. She would tell him that she was going right back to Higgins. He could do whatever lawyers did to right this. She would try to sound hopeful and businesslike. With this resolve, she went to the prison and asked to see him.