The Marx Sisters bak-1

by Barry Maitland

  ‘We said yes, if it wouldn’t disturb them, and she explained that they always went out on a Sunday afternoon, but that they wouldn’t mind if we went upstairs and had a little look.’

  ‘You said she was very particular about when you called,’ Kathy said. ‘Are you saying she intentionally made it for a time when her sisters would be out?’

  ‘I didn’t really think about it. I suppose it’s possible. We went upstairs with her, and into a flat with the name “Harper”, I think it was. Judith’s eyes lit up when she saw the wall of books in the main room inside.

  “Eleanor loves books,” Mrs Winterbottom said. “Most are fairly recent, I suppose, but I’m sure there are a few old ones that came from our grandmother to our mother.”

  ‘Judith was rapidly scanning the titles, as if she might at any moment be deprived of her opportunity. When she had looked at everything once, she returned to some old volumes on the shelves by the window. She took them out, one by one, turning to the flyleaf and then flicking through the pages. She had her back to me as she examined them, but I could hear her intake of breath as each book was opened.

  ‘I went over and asked her if she’d found something. “Proudhon’s Confessions,” she said. “And look!” Her eyes were shining with excitement as she pointed to the handwritten dedication in the flyleaf. It was in the same black spidery writing as in the letter I’d found, though it had been more carefully scripted, and it was clearly signed “Karl Marx”.

  ‘“Are they the sort of thing you’d be interested in, then?” Mrs Winterbottom had been watching us from the centre of the room. I remember that as she turned to answer her, Judith suddenly stopped and stared at an old photograph hanging on the wall. She said something like, “Oh, how extraordinary”, and the old lady told her it was their great-aunt, whom her sister admired enormously. “Mind you,” she added, “some of our Eleanor’s ideas are a bit odd to my way of thinking. She’s an intellectual. Both of my sisters are. I inherited the common sense rather than the brain-power. But I’m the one what pays the bills.” Then she said, quick as a flash, “And do you think them books might be worth a bob or two, then?”

  ‘She caught Judith off guard, and I began to see that she was probably quite a shrewd old duck.

  ‘“Well, frankly, Mrs Winterbottom,” Judith said, “I don’t think they would fetch much just left out on the shelves of Mr Kowalski’s bookshop. But on the other hand they would be of value to someone like myself, studying the history of that period. I think I could probably persuade my university to come up with quite a reasonable figure for them.”

  ‘It sounded to me that she was patronizing the old dear, and I wasn’t sure it was going to work.

  ‘“My granddaughter is at the London University,” Mrs Winterbottom said innocently. “Is that where you are too, dear?” Judith said no, she was at Princeton, in the United States. “Oh, an American university, eh? They have lots of money, I dare say.”

  ‘Judith began to look a bit worried. “Well, I don’t know about that,” she said. “But I think they might be willing to pay your sister

  … oh, perhaps fifty or even a hundred pounds each for these older books.”

  ‘“A hundred nicker! Well! That’s better than a slap in the face with a cold kipper, eh, Mr Jones?” And she dug me in the ribs with her elbow and cackled happily. Judith said, “But do you think your sister would be interested in selling, though, Mrs Winterbottom? She might be attached to these books?” She sounded pretty anxious.

  ‘ “Well, you’d best leave that to me, dear,” the old lady said. “She may not want to sell. But on the other hand we have a lot of expenses at the moment, and neither of my sisters contributes much in the way of cash, like. The pensions from their work weren’t so good in their day, and they’d always rented, never bought as my Frank used to tell them-which is just money down the drain, isn’t it? So these books, which was left to all of us, like, when our mother died, perhaps they’re something that my sisters might feel they could now contribute toward the household expenses, now that we’re in need. But I’d have to put it to them.”’

  ‘So she was quite specific about needing money?’ Kathy said.

  Jones nodded.

  ‘And you don’t think she’d previously had any idea that the books might be valuable?’

  ‘That’s right. My impression was that she was pretty sharp, and she probably guessed as soon as Kowalski contacted her that she might have something of value. Presumably she’d insisted on meeting us herself, rather than go through the book dealer. And once Judith started looking inside those books she really hadn’t been able to hide her excitement. It was obvious to me, and it must have been to Mrs Winterbottom too.’

  ‘What about Judith’s valuation of them? Was it fair?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. My guess, listening to her, was that they had to be worth more.’

  ‘And if Mrs Winterbottom was as smart as you think, she probably drew the same conclusion?’

  ‘I wouldn’t be surprised.’

  ‘Go on, then.’

  ‘We had a look in Peg’s flat too, but there were far fewer books there, and none held the same interest for Judith. Then we went back down to the first-floor flat, where we chatted about the weather. We assumed that was the end of our meeting, when Mrs Winterbottom suddenly asked if we were interested in papers as well as books, because she’d had a bit of a look and had come across one or two things. We sat down in her living room again while she disappeared into her bedroom. She waddled back in with two sheets of paper covered with the same black ink scrawl as on the letter. As soon as I saw it, I felt the hairs stand up on the back of my neck. I looked across at Judith and she was frozen in her seat, her eyes fixed on the pages.

  ‘Eventually Judith asked, very quietly, what they were, and Mrs Winterbottom said that they were just a couple of sheets from a bundle of old stuff she’d found among her mother’s papers. There were more, but most of them were in store. She wondered if this was the sort of thing Judith was interested in.

  ‘Judith took the sheets carefully from her and studied the writing intently. Just the way she held them you could tell she felt as if she was handling something very precious. The old lady was delighted. “I can’t make heads nor tails of it,” she cackled. “It’s like doctor’s writing.”

  ‘Judith explained that it was very difficult for her, just sitting there, to tell what it might be. She said she’d really have to take them away and show them to someone else.

  ‘“Oh well, that’s all right, dear, I trust you,” Mrs Winterbottom said. “Only, you might like to show good faith, like, and leave a small deposit.”

  ‘Judith jumped at the offer, then realized that she was only carrying francs and dollars. I had two ten-pound notes in my wallet, and she reached over and pulled both out and gave them to Mrs Winterbottom.

  ‘“Thank you, dear,” she said. “I suppose they must be worth at least that? So if there were a few hundred sheets, they’d be worth a few thousand quid?”

  ‘Judith’s jaw dropped. “There’s a few hundred?”

  ‘“Oh, I couldn’t say for sure, dear. Not till I look. But I was saying just supposing.”

  ‘“Well, I don’t know. Perhaps.”

  ‘“Course if they was valuable,” the old bird went on innocently, “I mean part of our heritage, like, perhaps it would be wrong to sell them to an American university. Maybe I should see if a British university would like to buy them.”

  ‘To give her credit, Judith didn’t show the panic she must have felt. She gave the old dear a warm smile and said, oh no, it was a specialized field, and Judith was about the only person working in it. She didn’t think there’d be any British university interested in that sort of thing. There were so many old papers in people’s attics, after all. It was a matter of being lucky enough to find a researcher interested in the specific ones. She said it so smoothly and casually. It was interesting to watch someone that you knew doing that, lying through their
teeth.

  ‘Mrs Winterbottom insisted that we drink a glass of port with her to toast our business partnership, as she called it, and then we left. Judith put the sheets between two layers of cardboard which she clutched tightly on her lap all the way back to the airport. She didn’t want to talk. She just stared out of the car window, eyes shining.

  ‘We didn’t hear anything for a while, then Mrs Winterbottom contacted me again, making the appointment for last Sunday. Judith flew over especially from the States for the meeting, arriving at Heathrow that Sunday morning. She was bubbling with anticipation. The handwriting on the two pages was definitely Marx’s, and the text was an excerpt from the draft of an essay on the theory of socialism, to which she hadn’t been able to find any reference in any of the text books. In my car as we drove from the airport, and all the time we waited for the meeting, she couldn’t stop talking about it. She went on and on about how she hadn’t been able to sleep for thinking about the hundreds of pages that might be lying in some store-box somewhere.’

  Bob Jones smiled at the recollection, and shifted his empty glass around on the table top.

  ‘I thought she looked just like the agitated student she’d never been at university. I much preferred her this way, excited, enthusiastic… vulnerable, I suppose, although I’d have liked it better if she could have transferred some of that excitement in my direction. Oh well.’ He shrugged ruefully.

  ‘Anyway, you can understand why we were so disappointed when we couldn’t get to see Mrs Winterbottom that afternoon. After we looked around at number 22, we decided to go and have a cup of tea somewhere and come back in half an hour, when she might have woken up. Actually we phoned then, but there was no reply. We tried again after another half-hour, and when there was still no reply, we walked back to Jerusalem Lane. That’s when we saw the ambulance there, and somebody in the street said that Mrs Winterbottom had been taken seriously ill. Judith was devastated, but she had to catch the evening flight back to New York and couldn’t wait.’

  Jones sat back in his chair and took a deep breath. His chin sank on his chest and he seemed suddenly drained, as if completing his account had exhausted him. Kathy looked at him, wondering. She glanced at Brock, who gave no indication of wanting to pursue the interview.

  ‘Did you talk to Mrs Winterbottom about the redevelopment of Jerusalem Lane?’ she asked.

  Jones shook his head.

  ‘Oh, come on. You knew what was going on in the background, the plans that were being prepared. Surely you must have been curious about how she stood?’

  Jones sighed and avoided meeting her eyes. ‘To be perfectly honest, I was embarrassed. I would have liked to know if she and the other residents realized what was going on, but I didn’t want to have to answer her questions if she thought I maybe knew things that she didn’t. Also, I felt I had an obligation to Slade to keep quiet. And

  … I felt guilty, I suppose. The first time we met her I did mention that I’d noticed that the bookshop seemed to have closed down. She said the Kowalskis were leaving the neighbourhood, and I asked her if she had any plans like that. It was as far as I felt I could go. She said she didn’t.’

  ‘What about the books and manuscript? Have you got an idea of their total value? Did Judith mention anything?’

  ‘No, no.’ He shook his head wearily. ‘Those figures I gave you were all that she said to me. She didn’t talk about money at all when we met last Sunday, and of course we had no idea how much stuff Mrs Winterbottom was going to come up with.’

  Kathy said nothing for a moment, then quietly, ‘What were your first thoughts when you read that Mrs Winterbottom might have been murdered?’

  Jones looked up at her, and she thought she saw anguish in his eyes. ‘I… I don’t know. I suppose I wondered if it could have had anything to do with what Judith was interested in, but it seemed so unlikely. I mean she may not be the only scholar in the world interested in Marxist sources, but it’s a bit esoteric as a motive for murder, isn’t it? Then I thought…’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘I thought… about the redevelopment project. I thought about that big office in Docklands with all those blokes drawing away like mad. I thought about the cost of servicing the site purchase-funding and the cost of delays… When I asked Mrs Winterbottom about moving, she said she’d recently had an offer to sell, but she said she never would. She said they’d have to carry her out in a box.’

  They returned to the car. There had been a short break in the rain, but water still coursed along the gutters.

  ‘Can you drop me off at the Yard?’ Brock asked. ‘I have some things to catch up on.’ He seemed preoccupied.

  ‘Of course.’

  They drove in silence for a while. Then Brock said, ‘The lawyers would have a great time with him in the witness box. It’d take a week to get through his opening statement.’

  ‘He did go on a bit,’ Kathy said, glad to talk about it. ‘I didn’t really mind, though. I found the background about Slade quite interesting.’

  ‘Hmm.’ Brock stared out of the side window, arms folded. ‘If it’s relevant. You liked him.’ It was a statement.

  ‘Oh…’ Kathy hesitated. ‘Well, yes, I suppose I did. I liked the way he was honest about his failures. He was almost painfully open about them, I thought-about trying to seduce Judith Naismith, and the fiasco with his design for the Lane. And I liked his enthusiasm, the way he really believed in what he was doing.’ She glanced over at Brock. ‘You don’t agree?’

  ‘I kept thinking,’ Brock said after a long pause, ‘that he had an awful lot of overheads to support on one loft conversion in Maida Vale.’

  14

  Kathy stared up at the reflection of herself in the mirrored ceiling. Against the crumpled satin sheets her body and that of Martin beside her looked as if they had been pinned untidily into some giant specimen case.

  ‘This place is so gross,’ she said. ‘Why do all your friends have such bad taste? They think “expensive” means “smart”.’

  Martin stirred and traced a finger down her side. ‘Very convenient, though. Two minutes from the office. OK?’ he murmured.

  ‘Mmm. Always.’ Actually it hadn’t been so good. Martin was tense and hurried.

  ‘Lot on?’ she asked.

  ‘Oh, yes. Difficult case in court later on this afternoon. You?’

  ‘Always variety, you know. Yesterday we went to the seaside in the morning, a funeral in the afternoon, and heard a long shaggy dog story from an architect in the evening.’

  ‘What was he like?’

  ‘Who?’

  ‘The architect.’

  ‘Oh, I don’t know. Quite sweet, I suppose. Except we don’t know how much to believe.’

  ‘Never mind. Not long before we get away from all this.’

  ‘I dream about it. Seven wonderful days and nights with you, without an alarm clock or an appointment in court.’

  The ostensible purpose of the trip to Grenada was Martin’s attendance at an international conference of criminal lawyers, but he would duck out after the first day. He had booked them into a hotel so luxurious that each suite had its own swimming pool.

  ‘How’s it going with Brock?’

  ‘Good. He was quite talkative yesterday. Still don’t know much about him really, except that he’s very gloomy about marriage-and just about any other kind of relationship too, as far as I can gather. “Doomed” was his word, I think.’

  Martin laughed. ‘What about his big case? Did he say any more about that?’

  ‘Upper North? Yes, he said a bit.’ She hesitated.

  ‘Well?’

  ‘I don’t think I can tell you.’

  ‘What?’

  ‘What he told me. It was in confidence.’

  ‘He told you not to tell anyone?’

  ‘No. But I don’t think he expected me to. You’re annoyed?’

  Martin had that sulky set to his lower lip which she had once thought appealing, until she had seen i
t on a photograph of him as a little boy standing next to his big brother who was holding a cricket bat.

  ‘I just wonder sometimes what kind of relationship you can have with someone you don’t trust, that’s all.’

  ‘That’s not fair, Martin. You don’t tell me everything about your work.’

  ‘Oh yes I do.’ His mood brightened. ‘I told you all about the woman with the fish.’

  Kathy laughed. ‘Yes.’

  ‘And the man who tried to steal the three-piece suite from Harrods.’

  ‘Yes, yes.’ He was tickling the soles of her feet.

  ‘Well then, you can tell me all about the fiendish plot to recapture Upper North!’

  ‘No, Martin. Brock-’

  But Martin had turned abruptly and pushed himself off the bed, the joke over. ‘Bugger Brock,’ he snapped, and strode out to the bathroom.

  Kathy rolled over and swore quietly into the pillow.

  She met Brock at the south end of Jerusalem Lane, as arranged.

  He nodded as she got into the car. ‘Productive morning?’

  ‘A bit. Commercial Section are doing checks on Derek Slade and known past associates. Also Herbert Lowell and Bob Jones. Sylvia Pemberton can’t be more specific about when she saw Adam Kowalski, but I’ve arranged for people to check with the book dealer in Notting Hill and the van rental place in Camden Town about the timing of the Kowalskis’ movements that afternoon.’

  ‘Yes, good. Thought any more about Jones’s story?’

  ‘I have been thinking about it, yes, sir. There are things about it that bother me now. He was very shaken up when we first told him why we were there, but his story didn’t give much grounds for that, if it was true. Bits of it just don’t make sense, and other bits sound like fantasy.’

  ‘Which bits don’t make sense?’