The Death of Kings

by Rennie George Airth

  ‘Daddy, stop it.’ She circled the table to get closer to him.

  ‘Well, all right.’ He held up a hand to check her advance. ‘But you must promise to be discreet.’

  ‘I’m always discreet.’

  ‘I’m sorry to have to tell you, but it seems Portia Blake was no better than she ought to have been.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘She had a lot of men friends.’

  ‘What’s wrong with that?’ Lucy bridled.

  ‘They gave her presents . . . jewellery and the like.’

  ‘Oh . . . I see.’ Her face cleared. ‘Was the pendant a present?’

  ‘Apparently. But Miss Cooper doesn’t know who gave it to her. She knows something, though . . .’

  Madden took a sip from his glass of beer. He reflected on his words.

  ‘What do you mean . . . something?’ Lucy fought to curb her impatience.

  ‘I don’t know . . . she didn’t say.’

  He was remembering the actress’s slight hesitation.

  ‘But all at once she changed note and started telling me all sorts of malicious stories about Portia—and before I’d even asked. I think she was trying to distract me.’

  ‘From what?’

  ‘That’s what I’m not sure about. I must have missed something.’

  Madden shrugged.

  ‘I also heard a lot about this Chinese fellow, or part Chinese, Mr Wing, and the more I learn about him, the more mysterious he seems to be. I can’t make him out. I still don’t understand what role, if any, he played in this business.’

  ‘What are you going to do now?’ Lucy asked.

  ‘Have a word with Angus. I’ll ring him later. This is his affair. I don’t want to do anything without consulting him first.’

  ‘What do you think you ought to do?’

  Madden pondered.

  ‘Well, although I haven’t managed positively to identify the pendant—all Miss Cooper could tell me was that it looked like the stone Portia had—I think it’s probably the same one. She remembered it had a flaw. So the best thing now might be if I sent Sir Richard Jessup that letter Angus and I worked up requesting an interview with him.’

  ‘And then?’

  ‘Wait and see if he’s willing to talk to me.’

  7

  ‘RICHARD JESSUP? WELL, IF you have any problem there, let me know, John.’

  Ian Tremayne beamed from his place at the head of the table. A rumpled-looking figure, Lady Violet’s husband was given to wearing torn sweaters and old jackets patched at the elbows on the week-end, as a relief, perhaps, from the more formal garb required by his position as a senior official at the Foreign Office. Though a rare visitor to Highfield in the early years of their marriage—he’d been frequently posted abroad—he had lately been occupying a desk in London, and he and his wife had been dividing their time between their flat in town and Lady Violet’s ancestral home of Stratton Hall.

  ‘I see him at the club quite often. He’s very approachable.’

  ‘Yes, but he may not want all this dragged up again.’

  Still awaiting a reply to the note he had sent Jessup, Madden would not have chosen to discuss the matter at the lunch to which he and Helen had been invited that Sunday along with their daughter had Lucy not taken it into her head to air it.

  ‘Daddy’s got involved in a fascinating old murder case,’ she had announced as they sat down at the table. ‘It was one of Angus’s, and what everyone’s wondering now is whether they hanged the wrong man. Angus would be looking into it himself if he wasn’t immobilised, poor thing, so Daddy’s doing it for him. And I’m helping.’

  The subject having been raised, there was nothing Madden could do but direct a scowl of disapproval at his daughter in the vain hope that she might be persuaded to curb her tongue, a wasted endeavour, since Lucy had contrived to avoid his glance while treating the company to a colourful review of the case as she saw it together with a full account of the dramatis personae involved.

  The name Jessup—when he heard it uttered—had done more than ring a bell with Ian Tremayne.

  ‘I know him quite well,’ he told Madden, ‘and not just from seeing him at the club. We spent a few months in Hong Kong after the war, Violet and I. Richard was there for some of that time getting the company back on its feet after the Japanese occupation. I was very impressed with him. The old boy, Jack Jessup, left it in bad shape. I was told they nearly went under. But Richard seems to have done a good job and I’m given to understand that the business is prospering now.’

  ‘That’s perfectly true.’ Lady Violet had been paying close attention to what her husband was saying. ‘But you’re leaving out the most important part,’ she said.

  As slender as a reed in her youth, Helen’s childhood friend had acquired over the years a figure more in keeping with mature middle age, without, however, losing any of her taste for mischievous gossip.

  ‘It’s what made all the difference, really.’

  ‘I expect you’re referring to his marriage.’ Ian turned to his wife with a faint but detectable sigh.

  ‘Of course I am. You can’t pretend it didn’t have any effect on the company’s fortunes. Sarah Temple was a very wealthy young woman. Marrying her was one of the cleverest things Richard ever did.’

  This time her husband’s sigh was more audible; it bore a long-suffering note.

  ‘One could put it that way,’ he said. ‘Except you make it sound calculated and cold-blooded when it was nothing of the sort. By all accounts they were smitten with each other. And just to put the record straight, it wasn’t Sarah’s money that went into Jessup’s: it was her family’s—her father’s, to be precise—and he made a business decision. Richard had already begun negotiations with the investment group Temple headed before he and Sarah ever met.’

  ‘If you say so, dear.’ Violet’s smile suggested she knew better.

  ‘They were married shortly before the war started.’ Ian turned back to Madden. ‘Richard was away a lot of the time, on active service, but Sarah stuck it out in London throughout the Blitz. We met her in Hong Kong when they came out. She immediately got involved in relief work with refugees. She’s a woman of strong principles. The Temples are a Quaker family.’

  ‘You make her sound rather formidable.’ Helen’s interest had been roused.

  ‘Then I’ve given you the wrong impression.’ He turned to her. ‘She’s not like that at all—at least, not in my opinion—just . . . just upright. And very attractive. Richard’s devoted to her.’

  ‘And there’s someone else you must talk to, John.’ Lady Violet was just warming to the subject. ‘You’ll have heard the name Adele Castleton, I’m sure?’

  ‘It’s been mentioned.’ Madden frowned. His reluctance to pursue the topic seemed to have escaped their hostess.

  ‘La Belle Dame Sans Merci!’

  ‘The what . . . ?’

  ‘That’s what she was called in her heyday.’ Violet’s eyes sparkled. ‘Men used to go mad over her. They would lose their senses, poor things, and when she was done with them, which was soon enough, they’d be found alone and palely loitering, like that poor man in Keats’s poem.’

  ‘Honestly, Violet.’ Helen was laughing. ‘What nonsense you talk.’

  ‘It isn’t nonsense at all. It’s perfectly true. In fact if I were you I wouldn’t let John go anywhere near her unescorted.’

  ‘What was she like?’ Lucy was enthralled.

  ‘Well, whenever she arrived at a party a hush would fall.’ Violet turned to her. ‘Then the whispering would start. Was it true she’d been having an affair with the Duke of So-and-so? Had she actually abandoned him in Deauville, like they said, and run off with a jockey?’

  ‘What did she look like? Was she lovely?’

  ‘Not beautiful exactly, but st
riking: dark-haired, dark-eyed, and with a doomed air.’

  ‘A doomed air . . . !’ Lucy echoed the words with a sigh. ‘Is that something you can cultivate . . . with practice, I mean?’

  ‘No, and don’t let me catch you trying.’ Helen fixed her daughter with a stern parental eye. ‘And don’t listen to Violet, either. She’s exaggerating, as usual. It’s true, a lot of men fell for Adele Castleton, but she wasn’t like her reputation. I met her once—properly, I mean, not just to be introduced. It was at one of those parties. We happened to find ourselves alone and we sat down and talked. All I can tell you is she couldn’t have been nicer.’

  ‘Don’t spoil my story,’ Violet pleaded.

  Madden saw Tremayne roll his eyes in despair. For his own part he had given up any hope of diverting the conversation into other channels.

  ‘I spent a morning down in Kent last week talking to the detective who worked on the case with Angus, a man called Derry.’ He addressed the remark to Ian. ‘I was surprised to hear that Sir Richard was selling his father’s house, particularly since it’s been in the family for generations.’

  ‘So was I,’ Ian agreed. ‘In fact, I asked him about it once. We dine together at the club now and then. The answer was quite simple. He’s never thought of it as home.’

  ‘Why was that?’

  ‘Well, I don’t know if you’re aware of it, but his parents separated when he was very young and he was brought up by his mother.’

  ‘Derry said something of the sort.’

  ‘She lived in Hampshire, not far from Petersfield, and Richard always loved their house. When he took Sarah there she said at once it was where she wanted to live. Jack Jessup was very ill at the time, and Richard kept their decision from him. But once the war was over, he let the house in Kent to tenants, and then later, decided to get rid of it. The last I heard there was a plan afoot to turn it into a school. Richard’s mother died only a year or so after Jack passed away, and he and Sarah settled in Hampshire when the war was over. From what he’s told me they seem to be very happy there.’

  He reflected on his words.

  ‘He’s an impressive fellow in all sorts of ways, Richard Jessup. He had an outstanding record in the war, as well. He started with a commission in the Guards, but he got himself transferred to the Parachute Regiment and was highly decorated. I didn’t get that from him, incidentally. He never talks about it. But I know for a fact that he jumped at Arnhem and managed to get what was left of his company back across the Rhine when the Germans had our chaps surrounded. I hope you manage to talk to him. It’ll be well worth your while.’

  • • •

  ‘I know, I know—I shouldn’t have done it. I can’t imagine what came over me.’

  Lucy buried her face in her hands.

  ‘I suddenly realised when I saw you scowling at me. Is it that serious?’

  ‘That all depends.’ Sitting in the front seat of the car beside Helen, Madden had to twist his body round to look at his daughter, who was seated in the back. ‘You’ve just blurted out the whole story to one of the biggest gossips in England. Before we left I had to ask Ian—beg him—to speak to Violet: to make sure she understood that she simply mustn’t talk about this case to anyone. The last thing we want is to see it plastered all over the newspapers. But if Violet has her way that’s exactly what will happen.’

  Madden fixed her with what he hoped was his fiercest scowl.

  ‘And only the other day you were telling me how discreet you were.’

  ‘I just thought it was something we could talk about at lunch.’ Lucy appeared genuinely stricken. ‘Have I really done something terrible?’

  ‘We’ll have to wait and see. Ian will try his hardest, I know, but one can’t trust Violet an inch. She’s incapable of keeping anything to herself.’

  ‘Oh, dear . . .’ Lucy covered her face again.

  Helen brought the car to a stop. She cleared her throat.

  ‘Here we are,’ she announced brightly. They had stopped in front of one of the cottages on the outskirts of Highfield village. ‘Oh, look—there’s Mrs Tomkins waving from the window.’

  She turned to her husband.

  ‘Lucy’s going to make a dress for her,’ she explained. ‘She has to measure her up first.’

  ‘Mrs Tomkins . . .’ Madden’s laugh was bitter. ‘There’s another chatterbox.’ He glared at his daughter. ‘Try to restrain yourself this time. Keep your mouth full of pins, or whatever it is you do when you measure someone up.’

  Lucy dropped her hands.

  ‘That’s a horrible thing to say,’ she said. ‘You’re being sarcastic. You’re never sarcastic. Not with me.’

  ‘Yes, all right, I’m sorry.’ Knocked off balance by the unexpected angle of attack, Madden was momentarily robbed of words. ‘But you see what you’ve driven me to.’

  He watched as she opened the car door.

  ‘And from now on we’re not going to talk about this case any longer; we’re not going to discuss it. I’ll do what I can for Angus, and that’ll be the end of it.’

  Choosing not to reply, his daughter climbed out of the car. Head held high, she walked down the short path to the front door of the cottage, which opened as she reached it. In a moment she had disappeared inside.

  ‘Oh, lord . . . !’ Madden groaned. ‘I’ve upset her.’

  Helen’s face was a study.

  ‘Are you trying not to laugh?’

  ‘I’m sorry, my dear.’ She put a hand to her mouth. ‘I’m just wondering how long that particular resolution will last.’

  ‘What resolution . . . ? Oh . . . I see.’ He scowled. ‘You mean you think she’ll talk me out of it?’

  ‘Heaven forbid.’

  ‘That’s what you’re implying, though, isn’t it?’

  Helen was mute.

  ‘You think I’m putty in her fingers.’

  ‘Have I ever said that?’

  ‘Yes, as a matter of fact you have. I remember the occasion distinctly.’

  Madden had given up trying not to laugh himself.

  ‘You said Lucy had always known how to handle me, and when I protested and said that wasn’t true, you corrected yourself. Not always, you agreed. That wasn’t fair. She hadn’t really got the hang of it until she was six.’

  • • •

  ‘So you think this man Wing may be the key to the problem. But is there a problem? You’ve been at it now for a while, John. What’s your feeling?’

  Angus Sinclair shifted in his chair. Given the warmth of the day, Madden had expected to find his old friend outside. He had come prepared to help with any chores that might need doing only to discover that another of the chief inspector’s willing helpers had anticipated him.

  ‘I thought I’d give the hedge a trim,’ Will Stackpole announced from the top of the ladder, where Madden had found him perched when he came in through the garden gate.

  Clad in rough trousers and a flannel shirt, rather than his customary blue—it being a Sunday—Highfield’s bobby had ascended a set of rickety steps to a point where he was able to ply the shears he was wielding to and fro along the top of the tall laurel hedge flanking the small garden. Madden had paused to talk to him—and to inquire as to the chief inspector’s whereabouts.

  ‘He was sitting out here until ten minutes ago.’ Will nodded at the cane chair positioned under an apple tree. ‘But he said it was getting too warm for him, so he went inside.’

  ‘How is he moving now?’

  ‘Better, I reckon.’ The constable’s tone was judicious. ‘He’s still not walking as such. More like hobbling, I should say. But don’t tell him I said that.’ He grinned.

  ‘Helen says it’ll likely be a couple of weeks before he’s properly back on his feet.’

  ‘Ah, well, she would know.’ Will accepted the verdict with a solemn n
od. His lifelong admiration for Madden’s wife, dating as it did from the time when they had played together as children, had never wavered. His face brightened. ‘I bumped into Lucy in the village yesterday. She tells me she’s helping you with these inquiries you’re making for Mr Sinclair.’

  ‘Gave you a rundown on the case, did she?’

  ‘I wouldn’t call it that exactly.’ Will scratched his head. ‘But she said you were learning some interesting things, the pair of you.’

  ‘The pair of us . . .’ Madden growled. ‘Listen, Will, I’ve told her she’s not to go around chattering about this business. If the papers get wind of it they’ll turn it into a story in no time. Some of the people involved are well known to the public. If Lucy so much as mentions it to you again you’re to speak sternly to her. Tell her she’s meddling in what could be official police business. Be firm.’

  ‘With Lucy?’ Stackpole appeared to find the prospect unnerving. ‘Well, if you say so, sir . . .’

  ‘I do, Will. I do.’

  Leaving the constable suitably awed (or so he hoped), Madden had gone inside then to find Sinclair seated in an armchair with his foot resting, as before, on a cushioned stool. A pile of books stood on the low table beside him and he had one open on his lap.

  ‘I’m finally acquainting myself with the crimes and follies of mankind,’ he announced as Madden made his entry. ‘A little late in the day for a retired chief inspector, you might think. But I persevere. This is Gibbon’s Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire.’ He patted the tall pile beside him. ‘I’m barely into the second century A.D. and already I’m appalled by the depths to which human depravity can sink. Speaking of which, have you anything new to report?’

  Madden had earlier given his old colleague a brief account by phone of his meeting with Audrey Cooper and they had decided there was reason enough for him to send the letter the two of them had already composed to Richard Jessup requesting an interview. Now he enlarged on what the actress had told him during their talk, with particular reference to what she had had to say about Stanley Wing.