The Death of Kings

by Rennie George Airth

  • • •

  As he unlatched the gate at the bottom of the garden, Madden heard the sound of his daughter’s voice.

  ‘It’s all very well you saying it’s a nautical tradition, Mummy, but it simply won’t do. If Rob wants me to introduce him to my girlfriends, he’ll have to make some sacrifices. I’m going to insist on it. The beard must go.’

  Emerging from the orchard, he saw her standing a little way off beside Helen, who was on her knees by a flower-bed, busy with a gardening fork. Lucy held a snapshot in her hand. It was one that her brother had sent them when he had written to say that he would soon be back in England. Madden and Helen had admired the photograph, which showed their tall son in full naval uniform and sporting a handsome, bushy beard.

  ‘Daddy, don’t you agree . . . ?’ Spying her father, Lucy turned to him for support. ‘Rob simply can’t present himself in decent society looking like a savage.’

  ‘I don’t see why not.’ Madden went over to join them. ‘Your mother and I think he cuts a fine figure. The beard is particularly impressive.’

  ‘Well, I’m sorry to say you’re mistaken.’ Lucy flushed with annoyance. ‘I can’t see any of my friends wanting to dance cheek to cheek with that great hairy thing.’

  ‘Should this be of concern to Rob?’ Madden affected an air of bewilderment. ‘Not that your friends aren’t charming, I’m sure, but why are you so convinced he’ll want to dance cheek to cheek with them?’

  ‘Oh, for heaven’s sake, Daddy!’ Lucy lost patience. ‘He’s been at sea for the last six months. What do you think he’ll want to do? I’m going to give him an ultimatum. Either the beard goes or . . . or . . .’

  Unable to think of a suitable threat, she stalked off, heading up the lawn towards the house, with Hamish—her ever-faithful shadow—trotting at her heels. Madden and Helen looked at each other.

  ‘It sounds as though the battle lines have already been drawn.’ Madden ventured a comment. ‘Lucy seems almost to relish the prospect.’

  ‘Rob will be just the same.’ Helen was in no doubt. ‘There’s nothing they enjoy more. It’s a struggle to gain the upper hand, and it started in the nursery if memory serves. You’d better prepare yourself. We could be in for a lively few weeks.’

  Shedding her gloves, and helped by the hand Madden offered her, she rose from the lawn. He collected the tools she had brought.

  ‘How was your talk with Angus?’ she asked as they set off up the lawn. ‘Is he satisfied with the outcome of this case—or at least resigned to the fact that there’s nothing more anyone can do about it?’

  ‘Not entirely,’ Madden replied. ‘But he knows better than anyone that not all investigations end happily. With Garner dead I doubt the police will ever know for certain who killed Portia Blake, while if Wing had any hand in her death that’s likely to remain a mystery, too, unless the authorities can lay hands on him, which seems increasingly unlikely. I wouldn’t bet much on his chances of survival with those Triad killers after him, so whatever secrets he might harbour will probably die with him. And of course the irony is that in spite of all that has happened in the past few weeks, the police may have got it right first time around. There’s still no real evidence to suggest that it wasn’t Norris who murdered the poor girl.’

  ‘But your part in this is over?’

  ‘I certainly hope so. There’s really nothing more I can do for Angus. I’ve asked Billy to keep me abreast of developments so far as the search for Stanley Wing is concerned, but that’s for Richard’s benefit. Garner’s death has hit him hard. They grew up together. He’s still trying to cope with the idea that his old friend committed suicide, and I’m not in a position to tell him that the police are treating it as a case of murder. They don’t want that news released before the inquest.’

  They had reached the terrace, and there they parted—Helen to go upstairs and change, Madden to take the gardening tools he was carrying to the potting shed at the side of the lawn. On returning to the house he heard the phone ring in the study and went to answer it.

  ‘Richard . . . ?’ He recognized his caller’s voice.

  ‘I’m sorry to bother you, John, but will you be up in London next week?’

  ‘Just for a day or two. We’re moving out of the house for good on Wednesday. Is there something I can do for you?’

  ‘I was hoping you could join me for dinner at my club.’

  Madden hesitated. He had caught an alien note in the other man’s voice.

  ‘Is something the matter, Richard?’

  ‘You mean something apart from the frightfulness of this whole sordid business?’

  The bitter outburst took Madden by surprise. He was still trying to think of a suitable response when Jessup spoke again.

  ‘No, it’s just that I’d like to have your company, John. Would Tuesday suit?’

  24

  AS MADDEN CLIMBED OUT of the taxi he noticed a man in uniform standing on the pavement; he was looking up at the sky, which was already darkening with the onset of night.

  ‘Hullo, Lennox,’ he said. ‘Are you checking the weather? It looks as though we could have a storm before long.’

  ‘Mr Madden, sir . . .’ Jessup’s chauffeur turned to him with a smile. He doffed his peaked cap. ‘I’ve just dropped Sir Richard off. He was late getting away from the office. I’ll be driving him down to Hampshire later, and I was thinking we’d probably run into some rain.’

  As he spoke a flash of lightning showed in the blackness. It was still some distance off and the answering rumble of thunder took several seconds to reach their ears.

  ‘Being a farmer, I’ll be glad to see it. But I hope for our sake it’s not too heavy.’

  With a wave Madden went up the shallow steps and through the doors into the club. He found his host standing at the reception counter with his hat in his hand and a raincoat over his arm.

  ‘There you are, John . . .’

  Despite the smile of greeting he offered his guest, Madden noted the dark shadows under his eyes; sure signs of sleeplessness, he thought. It looked as though the strain of the past few days was taking its toll.

  ‘We appear to have been abandoned. They’re building a new cloakroom downstairs and we’re supposed to drop off our things here, but there’s no one about.’

  As he spoke the sound of laboured footsteps reached their ears. They were coming from a stairwell at the back of the lobby, and after a moment the figure of an elderly porter dressed in the customary black garments of his calling came shuffling into view. He was breathing heavily.

  ‘I’m sorry, sir.’ Panting, he addressed Jessup, whom he had just caught sight of. ‘I was just making sure the back door was locked. What a mess those builders make. They leave everything lying about. The passage to the bathroom is like an obstacle course. I’ve had complaints from the members. I meant to have a word with them about it this evening, but they slipped out before I had a chance.’

  ‘That’s all right, Tom.’ Jessup handed him their hats and coats. ‘We haven’t been waiting long. This is a guest of mine, Mr Madden. Have you got the visitors’ book handy? I ought to sign him in.’

  As the porter reached beneath the counter for his ledger, Jessup pointed to the row of campaign medals pinned to his jacket.

  ‘Those date from the Boer War, John. Parsons was at the siege of Mafeking.’ He was making an effort to sound cheerful. ‘Isn’t that so, Tom?’

  ‘Quite right, sir.’ Still pink in the face, the old man’s cheeks flushed a deeper red.

  ‘Mr Madden here was in the first war, and I was in the second. Together we make quite a trio. Someone ought to take our picture.’

  The suggestion was well received. Parsons chuckled richly.

  ‘Tom’s been at the club longer than anyone.’ Jessup bent to sign the book. ‘I can recall the first time my father brought me here, when I
was still a boy. I can’t have been older than fifteen or sixteen. It was to have lunch. You were on duty that day, Tom. Do you remember?’

  ‘Very well, sir.’ The porter beamed. ‘Sir Jack said he was going to propose you for membership in due course and that I was to keep an eye on you. “See he doesn’t get into any mischief,” he said.’

  ‘I’d forgotten that.’

  As though a magic wand had been waved across it, the strain vanished from Jessup’s face in a moment. The smile he offered the old man was full of affection.

  ‘Well, I’m not sure how successful you were, Tom, but you certainly did your best.’

  • • •

  ‘I’ve got some news for you, Richard. It’ll be welcome in its way, at least I hope so.’

  They had paused only briefly in the bar for a glass of sherry before going into the dining-room, where Jessup, who seemed more troubled than ever, sat drumming his finger-tips on the table while the waiter brought their food and filled their wine glasses.

  ‘I spoke to Billy Styles today. The police here have had word from the Hong Kong CID. They’ve finally tracked down that woman Garner assaulted years ago. She was a prostitute, but she’s married now with a family and doesn’t want the matter brought up again. The point is she survived the beating.’

  ‘So Rex didn’t kill her.’ Jessup’s face cleared momentarily. ‘Well, thank God for that.’

  ‘It’s the first piece of solid information the police have had. So much of this case has been supposition. Unfortunately it tends to strengthen the case against Garner as far as Miss Blake’s murder is concerned. It’s the only other thing Wing could have had over him. And he did send Garner those photographs.’

  Silence fell as Jessup pondered his words.

  ‘Look, John, I realise that the police think Garner killed Miss Blake, but will they take it any further now? Will they make that public? As I said before, it seems hard to condemn a man when he isn’t alive to defend himself.’

  Madden saw what was troubling him.

  ‘Truthfully, I can’t answer that, Richard. It’s not for me to say. But I don’t believe they will, partly for the reason you give and partly because there are still missing links in the chain of evidence and without them they can’t prove that Garner was guilty. It’s my belief they’ll let the matter drop. At worst they may say that they’re not looking into the Portia Blake case any longer and leave the public to draw their own conclusions.’

  Jessup sat brooding. He had hardly touched his food.

  ‘I can’t tell you how hard I find it thinking about Rex.’ He spoke at last. ‘We were such friends when we were boys. My mother thought he was a bad influence on me, but she was wrong. We both liked breaking the rules and we egged each other on. But there comes a time when you have to grow up, and poor Rex never realised that. He thought he could live life on his terms, bend it to his will. But it broke him in the end and he began to drink more and more. He became a sad figure and people tended to avoid him. I’m ashamed to say I was one of them, and he felt the betrayal keenly. There’s a particular pain that comes from shedding old friends. Do you know what I mean, John?’

  His glance pleaded for understanding, and Madden dipped his head in silent acknowledgement.

  ‘I’m going to tell you something I shouldn’t,’ he said, ‘but it may help ease any guilt you feel about Garner. He didn’t commit suicide, as was thought. He was murdered.’

  ‘Good God!’ Jessup was dumbfounded.

  ‘You must keep this to yourself. It can’t come out till the inquest. But the pathologist who examined the body is confident that Garner was strangled before he was strung up, and with the same length of flex.’

  ‘But . . . but who by?’

  ‘The betting is on Stanley Wing. He had a motive of sorts. It’s clear that Garner wasn’t in a position to meet his supposed blackmail demands—we know that from you—and it also seems likely that Wing hated him. There’s no proof as yet that Wing was ever in Garner’s house, but that may change in the next few days.’

  ‘Change . . . how?’

  ‘There were some fingerprints left on the bannisters which don’t match Garner’s or any of his staff’s. It’s likely they were left by the killer when he dragged the body up to the gallery to hang it. The police are expecting to receive a copy of Wing’s prints from the Hong Kong police any day now. If the two sets match, the police will know he was there.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then the police will be faced with another puzzle.’ Madden shrugged. ‘But that’s been a feature of this inquiry from the start. All it’s ever done is to raise more questions than it answers.’

  He caught his host’s eye.

  ‘As far as the inquest is concerned, at least you won’t have to answer questions about the conversation you had with Garner here at the club before his death. In fact I doubt that the name of Portia Blake will even come up. You’ll only be asked to help establish his movements, to say how he got home, which is something Lennox can confirm. You will have to say he was drunk, I’m afraid. That can’t be avoided. It may explain why he was unable to defend himself.’

  Jessup shook his head hopelessly.

  ‘God, I wish Sarah were here.’ The words burst from his lips. ‘I miss her terribly.’

  ‘Will she be returning soon?’ Madden asked.

  ‘By the end of the week, she says. We talk every evening by telephone, but it’s not the same.’

  ‘As soon as she’s back and settled you must all come over to Highfield. Helen is counting on it.’

  Jessup brightened on hearing the words. The cloud on his face seemed to lift.

  ‘I can’t think of anything I’d like more.’

  Madden searched his memory to see if there was anything else he could tell his companion that might serve to ease his mind.

  ‘I do have some news about Wing,’ he said. ‘He was staying in a boarding-house in Brent Cross a fortnight ago. The landlady remembers him. But he’s disappeared since then. He probably found a room somewhere, the sort that are advertised in tobacconists’ windows and don’t involve any record being kept.’

  ‘He’s a fool to have stayed here so long.’ Jessup’s tone had turned grim again.

  ‘I believe you’re right. It seems certain those Triad killers are on his trail. At least one of them—not the enforcer himself, his assistant, the young man who came to your office with Lin—has been asking questions and showing Wing’s photograph to members of the Chinese community. They seem to know he’s here.’

  About to continue, he paused. Jessup’s expression had changed. He was looking past him, and when Madden turned he saw a black-suited figure standing at the entrance to the dining-room. It was Parsons, the porter from downstairs. He was peering about him. When his eye fell on Jessup he hurried across the room to their table.

  ‘I’m sorry to interrupt, sir.’ He bent to murmur in Sir Richard’s ear. ‘There’s a phone call for you—it’s a Detective-Inspector Styles, of Scotland Yard. I tried to explain that you were having dinner with a guest, but he insisted on speaking to you.’

  ‘Thank you, Tom.’

  Jessup rose. He shot a glance at Madden, who shook his head.

  ‘I’m sorry, Richard. I’ve no idea what it’s about.’

  ‘I’d better have a word with him.’

  Madden watched as he left the room and then gestured to the waiter, who was standing beside the table with a wine bottle in his hand waiting to fill his glass. He couldn’t imagine what might have prompted Billy to call at this hour. But it had to be something important or he would have waited until the morning. Casting his mind back, he recalled the look on Jessup’s face when he had watched the body of Rex Garner being lowered to the floor: the pain he must have felt at that moment. All he could hope now was that whatever Billy had to say wouldn’t add to his dist
ress.

  The sight of Tom Parsons bending to whisper anxiously in his host’s ear a moment before reminded him of the scene downstairs, when Jessup had made much of the old man, putting his own cares aside to cheer him and bring a flush of pleasure to his cheeks. It had been the action of a man, as he himself had put it to Helen, who would rather give than receive, and the memory brought a smile to Madden’s lips as he sipped his wine. Just then, though, another thought occurred to him, an idea so startling—and unwelcome—that instinctively he thrust it from his mind.

  ‘John . . . !’

  Madden looked up with a start.

  ‘Richard . . . what is it?’

  Jessup stood beside him. His face had paled in the few seconds he’d been absent from the table.

  ‘They’ve found Wing.’

  ‘The police . . . where . . . ?’ Madden pushed back his chair.

  ‘In the docks. . . . That’s to say they think it’s him. They want me to go over there.’

  ‘Why? Is it his body? Is that what you mean?’

  ‘Not exactly . . .’

  Jessup looked away. For a moment he seemed he might be unable to speak. But then he forced the words from his lips.

  ‘All they have is his head.’

  25

  A BOLT OF FORKED lightning split the sky above them. It was followed by a peal of thunder that echoed like a roll of giant drums for long seconds before it died away. The rain that had started to fall in scattered heavy drops a few minutes earlier just as they entered the dock gates turned suddenly into a downpour. The long-awaited storm had finally arrived.

  Madden and Jessup had already opened the two umbrellas which Lennox had retrieved from the boot of the car, but Lily Poole, who had been waiting at the dock gates to meet them, had only a raincoat to protect her and Madden drew her into the shelter of his. Leaving car and chauffeur parked at a spot a short distance from the gates, the two men had set off with their guide, but had hardly taken more than a dozen paces when the heavens opened.