by Jim Eldridge
‘Do you think there’s … anything between them?’ asked Danvers.
‘There’d better not be!’ growled Colonel Danvers. ‘But, as I said, I don’t trust the man.’
‘What about the man who was murdered? Carl Adams?’
‘Lettie told me she met Mr Adams with Cavendish at an art gallery, a preview of an exhibition by some painter whose name I can’t recall,’ said his mother.
‘The Bright Young Things, they call themselves,’ growled his father. ‘A fast set. Loose morals.’
‘Perhaps I’d better have a word with her,’ said Danvers. ‘I’m trying to find out all I can about this Carl Adams. She might be able to point me in the right direction. The best people to talk to, that sort of thing.’
‘Perhaps you could have a word with her about Cavendish while you’re at it,’ muttered his father. ‘She listens to you. You might be able to talk some sense into her. Heaven knows, she won’t take any notice of your mother or me.’
‘What do you want me to say?’ asked Danvers uncertainly.
‘Warn her about him, obviously,’ said his father irritably.
‘But I don’t know him,’ protested Danvers. ‘I’ve never met the man.’
‘Well, I have and I can tell you he’s a bad lot,’ insisted his father.
‘Perhaps if you just suggested that Lettie … calm herself down a little over him,’ suggested his mother. ‘Especially in view of this murder. After all, we don’t know what Mr Adams may have been involved in.’
‘Someone has suggested that he wasn’t the real target,’ Danvers said. ‘They seem to think that Lord Fairfax was the real target and that Mr Adams just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time.’
Suddenly, he stopped and listened as he heard the noise of familiar footsteps from the hallway.
‘Lettie’s home,’ he said.
‘Right, we’ll leave you to her,’ said his father curtly, and headed for his study.
Danvers looked at his mother, who shrugged helplessly. ‘I’m sorry, darling,’ she apologized. ‘You know what he’s like. He doesn’t like confrontations.’
‘He didn’t seem to object to them when they were with me,’ commented Danvers with a hint of bitterness.
‘That was different, darling. He can do man talk. Lettie’s a different kettle of fish for him, especially now she’s started mixing with this arty crowd.’
‘What arty crowd?’ demanded Lettie, coming into the room. Then she saw Danvers and rushed over to him, throwing her arms around him and giving him a big kiss. ‘Bobby! What brings you here?’
‘I came to see you,’ said Danvers, gently disentangling himself from his sister’s grasp.
‘What about?’
‘An American called Carl Adams. I was talking to mother on the telephone and she mentioned that you’d met him.’
‘Carl!’ smiled Lettie. ‘Yes, indeed!’ She gave a mischievous smile. ‘Why, what’s he been up to? Driving a car on the wrong side of the street? It seems the Americans drive on the other side of the road.’
Danvers regarded his smiling sister with a concerned look. ‘You haven’t seen today’s newspapers?’ he asked.
‘No,’ said Lettie airily. ‘There’s never anything in them but politics.’ Then she stopped and looked at her brother, suddenly worried. ‘Why? What’s happened? Has something happened?’
‘I’m afraid that Mr Adams has been killed,’ said Danvers.
Lettie’s hand flew to her mouth and her face went pale. She swallowed hard, then managed to stammer out, ‘Wh–what about Edgar?’
‘Edgar?’ asked Danvers. ‘If you’re talking about Edgar Cavendish, nothing’s happened to him. Why? Do you think it might?’
‘If Carl was killed, he and Edgar were often together, so I just thought …’ She tailed off. All the happy gaiety was gone from her now. She crumpled on to a settee, pulling a handkerchief from her sleeve and wiping her eyes. ‘What … what happened?’ she asked, her voice hoarse.
‘I’ll leave you two together,’ said their mother gently. She went to Lettie and put a hand on her shoulder. ‘I shall be in my room if you want to talk, Letitia. After Robert’s gone.’ With that, she withdrew.
Lettie finished dabbing at her eyes and looked piteously at her brother, her eyes brimming with tears.
‘Why?’ she demanded. ‘Was it an accident?’
‘No,’ said Danvers. ‘He was murdered.’
Lettie shuddered. ‘Who did it?’ she demanded.
‘We don’t know,’ said Danvers. ‘That’s what we’re trying to find out. So, for a start, we’re trying to find out as much about him as we can.’
‘How?’ insisted Lettie. ‘How was he murdered? Where?’
As gently as he could, Danvers told her of the events that had taken place at Lord Fairfax’s apartment and the discovery of the bodies. He told her they’d both been poisoned, but omitted the part about the weed killer.
‘We don’t know who the real target was; Carl Adams or Lord Fairfax.’
‘Perhaps it was neither of them. Perhaps they caught someone burgling the flat and they were killed to silence them.’
‘Possible, but it doesn’t look as if anything was taken.’
‘Then it must have been Lord Fairfax! Carl hasn’t been here long enough to make any enemies. And he was the sweetest person! No one would want to hurt him!’ She began to knead her handkerchief between her hands. ‘Does Edgar know?’
‘I expect so,’ said Danvers.
‘Poor Edgar!’ She got up. ‘I have to go to him. Make sure he’s coping!’
‘Of course,’ nodded Danvers. ‘But before you do … please, Lettie, I need to know everything you can tell me about Mr Adams.’
‘Hardly anything!’ protested Lettie. ‘I only met him a couple of times because he was with Edgar.’
‘So you and this Edgar Cavendish have become … close?’ asked Danvers tentatively.
Lettie shot him an angry look. ‘What have Mummy and Daddy been saying?’ she demanded.
‘Very little,’ said Danvers. ‘I asked about Carl Adams and they said he was a friend of this Mr Cavendish, but apart from that—’
‘Daddy’s horrible about him!’ burst out Lettie angrily.
‘About Carl Adams?’
‘No! About Edgar! It’s because Edgar’s everything that Daddy isn’t. Charming, handsome, young, dynamic.’
‘And what about Carl Adams?’
‘As I said, I hardly knew him. He was just in the background. He was a friend of Edgar’s. A business associate.’
‘What sort of business?’
‘Moving pictures.’
‘Oh? That sounds interesting.’
‘Not to Daddy. To hear Daddy talk, you’d think poor Edgar was promoting Sodom and Gomorrah.’
‘Mother mentioned that you met Mr Adams at some exhibition last week.’
‘Well, I think “met” might be an overstatement. We only talked briefly. He seemed to spend most of the evening talking to a young actor who was there.’
‘Oh? What was his name?’
‘Noël Coward. He’s appearing in a play in London at the moment. The Knight of the Burning Pestle. It’s on at the New Theatre. He plays Rafe.’
‘I don’t know it,’ admitted Danvers.
‘Rafe is the starring role, and Noël is so good in it. He’s tremendously witty. An awful gossip. He’s a writer as well. Daddy can’t stand him.’
‘I’m surprised they move in the same circles.’
‘They don’t,’ said Letitia. ‘Noël came to pick me up to escort me to a party once, and he and Daddy got talking. Or, rather, Noël did the talking while Daddy sort of glowered at him. You’d like Noël. You’d like Edgar, too. They’re such fun.’ She turned and looked at her brother. ‘Are you investigating Carl’s … m–murder?’
‘Yes,’ Danvers told her. ‘That is, along with Detective Chief Inspector Stark.’
‘I remember him,’ nodded Lettie. ‘He’s n
ice.’
‘Yes, he is,’ agreed Danvers. ‘Look, is there anyone you can suggest I talk to, to find out about Carl Adams?’
‘Edgar’s the best person,’ said Lettie. Then she thought it over and added, ‘And perhaps Noël might be able to help. At least he’d be able to tell you what he and Carl were talking about.’
SEVEN
Stark was still feeling the turmoil as he walked along the corridor towards his office. Was it really over between him and Amelia? Perhaps it had been too fast, anyway. They didn’t really know one another, and they were from different worlds, but he had felt alive when he had been with her in a way he hadn’t experienced for years. And he knew that she felt the same way. Damn whoever had written that letter!
He walked into his office and saw the note from Danvers on his desk.
Gone to my parents’ house at Hampstead. They may have some information. The telephone number there is Hampstead 863.
He took off his overcoat and hung it up.
Maybe she’d cool down after a while. But what then? The same problem still remained: what to do? Would she marry him? Definitely not at this moment, and from what she’d said earlier, it seemed unlikely in the future.
His telephone ringing jerked him out of his reverie. ‘DCI Stark,’ he said.
‘Main reception, sir,’ said the duty sergeant. ‘There’s an American gentleman to see you. Says it’s urgent. His name is Mr Edgar Cavendish.’
‘Thank you, Sergeant. Please have him brought up to my office.’
Edgar Cavendish, thought Stark. Maybe we’ll get some useful information about Carl Adams.
He settled himself down at his desk, making sure the chair opposite was clear of papers and ready for his guest, mentally running through the questions he needed to ask his visitor. He didn’t have long to wait. There was a tap at his door, then a uniformed constable was ushering in a tall, well-dressed man.
‘Mr Edgar Cavendish for you, sir,’ said the constable.
Stark got up and took the hand the man offered.
‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Chief Inspector, but I came as soon as I heard about poor Carl.’
‘I was intending to seek you out anyway, sir,’ said Stark. ‘It’s a dreadful business.’
Cavendish looked unhappy, but there was something studied about him, and Stark wondered if his unhappiness was genuine or a symptom of how he should appear. Because there was no doubt that Cavendish was very much concerned with appearances. His clothes were impeccable, from the cut of his dark suit to his expensive patent leather shoes. Light glinted off his gold tie pin, and a matching pair of gold cufflinks were delicately exposed on the broad cuffs of his immaculate white shirt. The man’s dark hair was slicked back, and Stark caught the scent of pomade. The illusion that Cavendish had modelled himself on a sophisticated motion picture matinee idol was completed by his pencil-thin moustache.
Stark gestured for Cavendish to take the chair opposite his.
‘What a terrible tragedy! And an awful way to die!’ sighed Cavendish.
‘Can you think of anyone who might have wanted to kill him?’
‘No! Absolutely not! Carl was a wonderful person, never hurt anyone. And he’s hardly had time to make any enemies – we’ve only been here in this country for two weeks. I can only assume he must have been in the wrong place at the wrong time, when this man he was with …’ Cavendish struggled to remember the name.
‘Lord Fairfax,’ Stark prompted.
‘Yes, that’s the name. When whoever did it murdered Lord Fairfax, and poor Carl was there at the same time and had to be silenced.’
‘Possibly,’ nodded Stark. ‘I believe you and Mr Adams were here on business.’
‘Yes, that’s right.’
‘What sort of business, if I may ask?’
‘Moving pictures,’ said Cavendish.
So I was right about the matinee idol look, thought Stark. ‘Oh?’ he said. ‘In what capacity?’
‘Nothing the public would know; I’m not in front of the camera, or even remotely near it. Co-production and distribution.’
‘Financing.’
‘That’s right,’ nodded Cavendish. ‘You can have the most talented actors and the most brilliant directors, but unless you can find the money to put film in the camera and build the sets, you’ve got nothing.’ His face softened and he smiled happily as he added, ‘I love what I do! Getting those ideas and images on the screen, and knowing that thousands – no, millions – of people will be watching it, it’s joyous!’
‘What pictures have you been involved with?’
At this, Cavendish’s face lit up with a wide and proud smile. ‘Why, only the biggest picture that’s ever been made. The Birth of a Nation. You must have seen it!’
‘I’m afraid not,’ said Stark. ‘I’ve heard about it, obviously, but when it came out I was … busy.’
‘Ah yes. The war,’ nodded Cavendish. ‘I mentioned to someone I was coming to see you, and they told me you’d been in the trenches. And decorated, I hear. A genuine war hero.’
‘I survived,’ said Stark. ‘That was enough.’ God knows, thousands didn’t, he reflected. ‘Out of curiosity, who told you about me?’
Cavendish frowned, thinking, then he gave a rueful shrug. ‘I’m sorry, I can’t remember. It was just a conversation I was having with a few people, and someone commented about you – about being awarded a medal in France. Is it important?’
‘No,’ said Stark.
‘I tried to enlist once America entered the war, but our government decided I was needed at home, making propaganda pictures,’ said Cavendish, his tone rueful, apologetic.
‘We all do our bit in different ways,’ said Stark. ‘What about Mr Adams?’
‘Oh yes, he served,’ said Cavendish. ‘He was with the AEF – the American Expeditionary Force – at the Battle of Belleau Wood, although he never talked about it much.’
No, thought Stark. People who fought in the war rarely liked to talk about their experiences, except to those who were there and suffered the same. ‘Do you know why he was meeting Lord Fairfax?’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘He just said he had a social engagement that evening. Meeting up with an old comrade.’
Which meant that Adams and Lord Fairfax must have met at some time during the war.
‘I’d be most grateful if you could let me have a list of the people Mr Adams met during the time he’s been here in England.’
‘There have been so many,’ said Cavendish, racking his memory. ‘There have been a lot of social engagements. We’re trying to do deals, you see. That means meeting the people who have the money – or know the people who have the money – to put the deals together. England is a new territory for us. I don’t know if you’re aware of it, Chief Inspector, but the film industry is mostly based in America, France and Germany. England has a strong theatrical tradition, but it hasn’t yet made that big move into making pictures. Yes, there are the English greats like Charlie Chaplin, but, let’s face it, they had to go to America to get on the screen.’
‘So most of your meetings have been with moving pictures people?’
Cavendish gave a light laugh. ‘Not really, mainly because – as I said – there aren’t that many people here making pictures. We’ve met the actor Leslie Howard to talk about his film production company, Minerva Films. And we went out to a studio in a place called Islington to talk to the people there who are making pictures.’ He grinned. ‘We met with a really cute young guy there called Alfred Hitchcock. He writes the screen titles, but I know he wants to do more. I get the impression he wants to direct. Trust me, he’s one to watch for the future!’ His tone became serious again as he said, ‘No, most of our meetings have been with the people who’ve got access to the money to set up new enterprises. Industrialists. The aristocracy. Society people. Politicians.’
The worst kind of people for any policeman to want to question, reflected Stark bitterly. All of them with ‘contacts’ in th
e hierarchy at Scotland Yard, or with very influential friends in high places who would step in to protect them if the questions became too uncomfortable.
The two men talked for a while longer, Stark making notes of the names of influential people Cavendish and Adams had met, while at the same time thinking, This is just a brick wall. None of these people will answer any questions honestly, and there is no way we can force them to. Finally, he said, ‘Well, Mr Cavendish, I think you’ve told us all you can for the moment. We’ll obviously look into all these people …’
Cavendish shook his head. ‘I’m sure this isn’t connected with Carl in any way. None of these people would have anything to gain by killing Carl. I’m sure the real target was Lord Fairfax, and Carl just happened to be caught in the crossfire. Wrong place, wrong time.’
‘You may well be right, sir. But I do thank you for coming in and giving us this information. The more we can eliminate from our enquiries, the sooner we’ll get to the truth of the matter.’
Stark got to his feet and held out his hand. Cavendish shook it with a firm grasp.
‘I sure hope so, Chief Inspector. I hope you get the bastards who did this.’
EIGHT
Stark sat looking at the notes he’d made following Cavendish’s visit. What had he learned from him about Carl Adams? Adams had seen action in France during the war. Effectively, that was it. The rest had been about the film industry. Somehow, he couldn’t see a connection between Lord Fairfax and the film business. Cavendish had used the phrase ‘meeting up with an old comrade’. Amelia had told him that Fairfax did his best to get to the Front when he could. So the connection had to have been the war.
He picked up the telephone and asked the operator to connect him with the War Office in Whitehall.
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Stark from Scotland Yard,’ he introduced himself. ‘I’m investigating the murder of Lord Fairfax, who, I understand, had an administrative role at the War Office during the Great War. I’m trying to discover if Lord Fairfax’s duties included trips to France, especially during the summer of 1918.’