The Lazarus Secrets

by Beryl Coverdale

  This time there was a post-mortem. Mrs James had had what appeared to be consensual sexual intercourse shortly before death and died of shock and loss of blood caused by injuries inflicted to the throat by a sharp, thin blade, the facial damage having taken place after death.

  The landlady stated that Mrs James often booked into the boarding house with her husband who was a Polish flyer, now a Flight Lieutenant with the RAF. They registered as Mr and Mrs Bronski and she had no reason to doubt they were married. On the day of the murder Mrs Paula James, whom the landlady knew as Mrs Bronski, arrived alone in the late afternoon and said her husband would be joining her.

  Darrington smiled. Almost certainly Mrs Beatrice Parker was letting rooms, probably by the hour, with no questions asked. Dozens of such places operated in London during the war and landlords, or in this case a landlady, made a great deal of money from those prepared to spend it. In the midst of such violent destruction, people suddenly saw survival as pure chance and grabbed at anything they perceived to be happiness revelling in it lest their lives be cut short. He and Claudine had done much the same, not in any backstreet boarding house but in his mother’s home carelessly producing a child neither of them was there to bring up. Since the war he had shut Claudine from his mind and if he thought of her it was with bitterness for not being the person he thought she was but recently she had appeared in dreams and intermittently came into his mind in his waking hours and his feelings had changed to regret about the mistake they had made and sadness at her early death.

  When pressed Mrs Parker admitted that while sheltering under the staircase during the raid she thought she heard screaming and had been on her way to investigate when the house next door received a direct hit. The blast had rattled through her own home blowing out windows and doors, sending her screaming into the street and running for the safety of the air-raid shelter at the end of the street. She had not seen Mr Bronski arrive but thought she heard him go up the stairs shortly after the raid began.

  The investigating police officers had traced Flight Lt Stefan Bronski to an RAF officers’ club in London and he admitted having an affair with Mrs James and regularly using the boarding house for their liaisons. On the night she died, Paula James had apparently developed a latent guilty conscience and told Bronski it was to be their last meeting as her husband had been wounded and was coming home. Bronski confirmed they had intercourse and that he left shortly afterwards because he was sad and angry. He found out about Paula’s death the next day when he went to her home hoping to persuade her to change her mind and was informed by neighbours.

  Attached to his statement were those of two doormen at the officers’ club confirming his return not long after the air-raid began and neighbours’ statements corroborating Bronski’s own that the next day he was heard banging on the door of Paula’s house and yelling her name. When informed she had been killed he had collapsed in the street.

  Darrington sifted through the disorderly file looking for some sort of conclusion and eventually found a crumpled, but official-looking memo typed on notepaper headed Department of Security and dated 3 December, 1940. The document had been crushed by several other papers pushed carelessly into the file and had a rusty paper clip mark on the top left hand corner. A corresponding rust mark on the front of the file showed it had at some stage been affixed there.

  The gist of the memo was that investigation into the death of Paula James had been terminated due to lack of evidence as the main witnesses, Mrs Beatrice Parker and Flight Lt Stefan Bronski, were no longer available to give testimony. The Flight Lt was apparently on active service, but no reason was given for Mrs Parker’s unavailability. Mrs James’s husband was still seriously ill in hospital and further probing could only cause him unnecessary distress.

  Intrigued and unconvinced Darrington closed the file and put his elbows on top of it resting his chin on his interlocked fingers. The memo had the ring of officialdom, but his detective’s antennae twitched with curiosity as to where it had originated. The Department of Security in wartime could cover many areas and, probably quite intentionally, there was no address or contact reference only an illegible signature. Absentmindedly glancing out of his office window he realised Alice Bevis was watching him. She gave him a fleeting smile then looked away. Like the document in front of him, she was not quite what she appeared to be.

  At lunchtime, Max decided to take a break. Matt and Fiona had as usual gone off together to eat their sandwiches in the nearby park. He wondered if they were just friends or a couple, as these days he couldn’t tell. Miss Bevis was at her desk sipping coffee and chain smoking. In the few days he had been in the archives he hadn’t seen her take a break or eat anything during the day, in fact, she seemed never to leave the reception area. As he stood up to leave, he noticed a small, red star on the top right-hand corner of the file on Paula James.

  “I’m going for out for a breath of fresh air, Miss Bevis,” he said as he passed her desk.

  She smiled showing remarkably even, but nicotine stained teeth, “A very good idea, Chief Inspector, you shouldn’t overdue things at first.”

  He registered that she was aware of his illness and asked almost as an afterthought, “Miss Bevis there are red stars on some of the files. Is that significant?”

  Again the yellow smile but the eyes were calculating, “A red star indicates the existence of a red file under the same name. As I explained on your arrival, red files are strictly monitored and difficult to access. We would rather you didn’t use them.” The voice had gained a harder edge, “However if you deem it necessary we will, of course, make the appropriate arrangements.”

  Who was ‘we’? Darrington wondered and would she be ringing the other part of the plural while he was at lunch or was he developing Hitler-like paranoia cooped up in what Fiona and Matt referred to as ‘the bunker?’

  Free of the artificial lighting and controlled air of the archives the sun was shining and a warm, gentle breeze wafted through the ancient Winchester streets. Steeped in history, the beautiful old city was at its best and Darrington decided he should make time to see more of it while he had the opportunity to wander the peaceful streets, visit the Cathedral and the marketplace and generally soak up the ambience. He had tenaciously dived into his new task, it was how he worked, but reminding himself why he was there in the first place, he determined to pull back a little and get into light duties mode. Checking his watch he planned to walk for twenty minutes and then have something to eat in one of the many excellent tea shops dotted around the city centre.

  Walking back to the archives after his walk and lunch, he caught sight of Fiona and Matt sitting on a bench in the park their packets of sandwiches open in their laps. They were not eating but speaking intently, Matt had his hand resting lightly on Fiona’s shoulder — definitely a couple.

  Chapter Eleven

  My Dear David,

  Finally I’ve returned to work, albeit on light duties, and although collating statistics for the government sounds dull, it is, in fact, quite interesting. I’m based in Winchester and although it’s a fairly long drive each day I’m working my own hours which means I travel at a leisurely pace. Believe it or not I avoid getting agitated at other drivers, actually keep to the speed limit and listen to classical music on the radio, arriving at the office and home again in a very peaceful frame of mind which as you know is something quite new for me!

  David, the above is not just mindless chatter; it’s an indication of how well I’m feeling. I’m fully recovered and light duties are just a sensible precaution taken by my superiors. I have spoken at length with your mother about how you are feeling and I want you to know that the events leading to the heart attack were almost entirely work related. I hate to think of you carrying some totally unwarranted sense of guilt over your surprise on New Year’s Eve. I am delighted you have found your niche in life and, please believe me when I say you have my total and unflinching support. I know the difficulties and disappointments yo
u faced prior to making this excellent choice and also know my being overbearing and demanding didn’t help. I’m afraid these qualities go with parenthood and my intolerance is something inherent in my nature — blame Uncle Alexander and please see these failings as misplaced concern for your future!

  It was wartime when I joined the navy and I should not have done so otherwise, but I was as enthusiastic and excited as you must have been. Before the war, I was at Oxford but took time off from my studies to train with a team of naval ratings who were preparing to break the record for a Channel swim. This appealed to me enormously as my Grandfather Xavier had such ambitions, he actually drowned in the sea while training and I longed to be the hero who could achieve this honour in his memory. I thoroughly enjoyed my time spent with the navy chaps, which is probably why I chose to join the navy later rather than the army or the airforce.

  All this will seem strange to you, as my fear of water has always been something of a family joke and because I had no desire to relive the things leading to this aversion, I allowed the amusement to continue. The war interrupted the Channel swim plans but not before I’d become an extremely strong swimmer an attribute that was to save my life.

  I joined my first ship in Southampton on New Year’s Day 1940 and shortly afterwards married my first wife, Claudine, and Jules was born that year. It has given your mother and I such joy that the children by our previous marriages and those of our own, regard and love one another as true siblings and because of this we rarely referred to our former partners. Your mother’s first marriage was a happy one but unfortunately mine was very brief and not happy. Out of respect for Jules, I will not go into details and in any case, blame cannot be apportioned to either one of us bearing in mind we were younger than you are now when, anxious not to miss any experience in what could have been a short life, we hurtled headlong into a situation neither of us was mature enough to cope with.

  When Jules was a few months old the ship on which I was serving in the Atlantic was torpedoed and without warning I was transported into a vision straight from hell as the ship ground and heaved, tearing herself apart and injured and burning men died screaming on her decks. A second hit threw me into the sea and what happened next is a nightmarish blur when the dark bottomless ocean threatened to pull me into its frightful depths. I must have lost consciousness for a while because the next thing I remember was utter silence and complete darkness. The ship, the fires, the men and the noise had disappeared and I believed myself to be encased in some dark water filled compartment in the bowels of the ship. It is hard to explain how absolutely nothing can be so fearful, but I admit to you now that I screamed and screamed in abject terror.

  When I could scream no more I began to swim, I kept myself going by pretending I was swimming the Channel to France where my grandparents waited for me. I couldn’t let them down and so I ploughed on and on for what seemed like days but was in fact hours. Eventually, a ship picked me up and it was generally considered a miracle that I had survived so long and that a sharp-eyed sailor had spotted me, a tiny speck in the huge ocean. Here again luck was on my side; ships’ captains had strict orders not to endanger the ship by stopping to pick up survivors, but the ship that rescued me had engine trouble and had to stop for a short time while repairs were carried out. They hauled me from the sea and took me back to shore with them.

  I was in hospital for a while and it was there I learned I was the only survivor, all those men, friends and shipmates were lost. I was on watch at the time of the explosion and for years carried a futile guilt for what was an act of war during war but the self-doubt left its legacy and the experience my morbid dread of water. To add to my desolation Claudine was killed in an air-raid leaving me with Jules to care for and but for the support of your grandmother, Alexander, Charles and Barbara, I don’t think I would have coped at all.

  A humorous aside to this story is that while in hospital I was not allowed visitors and Uncle Alex got it into his head I was being ill-treated and barged in threatening the staff with all sorts of mayhem until he was allowed to see me. I feel sure they dare not do anything but admit him but, his actions were the result of scars he still carries from the First World War.

  God grant that the world has learned something from the two bouts of utter madness played out in this century and you and your generation serve in peace.

  It was at this time I met your godfather, Douglas Hood. He helped me more than I can tell you and impressed me so much with his bravery and compassion that I decided, with his encouragement, to become a special constable and so my police career began and then I was lucky enough to meet your mother and my life literally began again.

  Perhaps I should have explained these things to you before now and having done so it may appear my collapse was caused by the sight of you in a navy uniform but please believe me when I say I’d been feeling unwell for several hours. As you know, the case I was on was a particularly unpleasant one, and before coming home I visited the young couple whose child was raped and murdered. They are a family like ours; two boys and two girls and seeing them trying to come to terms with what had happened to their child tore my heart out.

  As a police officer, I’m obliged to control my emotions in public and the depression that came over me after the elation of catching Calway was probably far too much for an old man of fifty. Top that with the most wonderful surprise imaginable and large quantities of tempting food and drink and quite honestly it’s no wonder I ended up in hospital.

  I’ve been as honest as I can, David, and hope this epistle goes some way to bridge any rift between us and assures you that in no way are you responsible for what happened.

  Good luck in your career, son. Remember always that your mother and I love you unconditionally and wherever you are, whatever you are doing, you are constantly in our thoughts.

  Yours aye,

  Dad

  Sarah’s lips trembled. “Of course, it’s all right Max. It’s wonderful and exactly what he needs to know and what I needed to know too, I just wish you’d told me sooner.”

  “I know,” said Max, “perhaps I should have done but after the war we agreed to make a new start. We were trying to forget and put it behind us and get on with life denied to so many others, so I locked it away.” Momentarily he closed his eyes and pictured himself standing on a trapdoor that was pushing open beneath his feet. There were other demons trying to escape, but he intended to see they did not. He opened his eyes and looked at Sarah, “I was once told me these things would come back to haunt me in my old age.”

  Chapter Twelve

  Mildred Jefferson, another prostitute, was the third victim of the wartime killer. In her early forties, she was older than the previous victims and her body was found two months subsequent to that of Paula James, after one of the worst of the nightly raids on 29 December, 1940. The date established the first possibly recognisable pattern, each killing occurring at the end of a month suggesting that perhaps the killer was only in London at that time.

  Darrington wondered about November. Was Mildred Jefferson really the next victim or the next to be discovered? With air-raids almost every night any number of women could have been slain, their bodies crushed by falling debris and all evidence of the crime destroyed in the unchecked fires burning for hours. They would have been added to the mounting number of air-raid casualties or missing persons and with no official warning about a possible serial killer on the loose, those dealing with the dead were not looking for anything suspicious.

  Many of the witnesses who had seen Mildred Jefferson on the night she died knew her and how she earned her living; she worked a regular beat along the riverbank or on colder nights around the railway stations. She was seen with a man in the early evening. But as it was already dark, descriptions of him varied from middle-aged and well-built to young, tall and slightly built, dressed in a dark uniform possibly naval, a dark civilian suit, a police uniform or a light grey jacket. The only thing, upon which they all agreed was
he did not wear a hat

  Obviously Mildred Jefferson was a familiar sight often seen plying her trade and heading off with any number of men and at least some of the witnesses would have mistaken the date. Her body was found under a pile of rubble that had once been a row of shops with flats above them. A large concrete block had come to rest on the remains of a wall and in the space beneath, the body lay intact apart from injuries inflicted by the killer. An autopsy revealed she’d had intercourse prior to death, she had VD, and liver damage probably due to alcoholism and died from shock and loss of blood caused by a wound to the throat, damage to the face was again post-mortem.

  The scant police report gave no details of any further enquiries and once again Darrington sensed procedures had either been interrupted or taken over by some other authority before the normal police routine was complete. It was a hunch, he had no proof and, against his unproven unease, had to weigh the fact that in war time London procedures might well have been ignored by untrained special constables like himself or exhausted officers, working incredibly long hours and more interested in protecting the living than spending time on dead prostitutes.

  Placing the file of Mildred Jefferson with those he had already read, Darrington left his office and set off once more on his lunchtime excursion. Protected from the elements underground he was surprised to find the day had turned cold and it was starting to rain. Forgoing his walk, he headed straight to the tea room where he was becoming a regular and ordered tea and a sandwich.