by Jim Eldridge
‘Of course,’ nodded Stark. ‘I ask again: was she a frequent visitor to this apartment?’
‘Yes, sir, she was,’ said Redford.
‘When was she last here?’
‘That would be yesterday, sir.’
‘When Mr Adams arrived?’
‘No, sir. She’d left by then.’
‘Why? Wasn’t she interested in meeting Mr Adams?’
‘She might have been, sir, but Lord Fairfax told her that Mr Adams seemed worried about something and needed to talk to him privately.’
‘Worried about what?’
‘He didn’t say, sir. He told her he’d make contact with her today.’
‘Apart from you and Lord Fairfax, who had keys to this apartment?’
‘No one, sir. Lord Fairfax was very particular about that.’
‘What about enemies?’
‘Enemies, sir?’
‘People who wished harm to Lord Fairfax. Winston Churchill told me that he’d received death threats over Gallipoli.’
‘That was true shortly after the end of the war, but there have been none that I’ve been aware of these last eighteen months. There was a lot of anger and resentment immediately after the war. I believe much of it has dissipated. It is also my belief that Lord Fairfax has been unfairly blamed for what happened at Gallipoli; because he is an honourable gentleman, however, he has never gone public in his defence and laid the blame where it really lay.’
‘And where did it lay, in your opinion?’
‘That’s not for me to say, sir,’ replied Redford, declaring the matter closed with his firm tone.
‘What form did these death threats take?’
‘Anonymous letters, mostly.’
‘Mostly?’
‘Some were signed.’
‘Have you got any of these letters?’
Redford shook his head. ‘No, sir. Lord Fairfax tore them up.’
‘All of them?’
‘Yes, sir. All of them.’
‘How many letters were there?’
‘Quite a few just after the war. Possibly a hundred. But, as time passed, there were fewer letters. As I say, sir, I haven’t been aware of any these last eighteen months.’
‘Very well,’ said Stark. ‘I think that’s all for the moment, but I may wish to talk to you again. Where can I get hold of you?’
‘I have been advised by Mr Wright that I may stay here until Lord Fairfax’s affairs are sorted out.’
‘Thank you,’ said Stark. ‘One last thing: the telephone numbers and addresses of Mr Wright and Lady Ambleton.’
‘Certainly, sir.’ Redford wrote the details on a piece of paper and passed it to Stark.
‘Thank you,’ said Stark. He gestured towards the telephone. ‘May I use the telephone?’
‘Certainly, sir.’
Stark dialled the operator and asked to be connected to Lady Ambleton’s number. There were the usual clicks, then a female voice said, ‘Lady Ambleton’s residence.’
‘This is Detective Chief Inspector Stark. Is Lady Ambleton available?’
‘One moment, sir,’ said the woman.
Stark heard the clatter as the phone was laid down, and footsteps on a hard floor, then voices in the distance, before the receiver was picked up again.
‘Lady Ambleton.’ The voice was hard, forceful.
‘My name is Detective Chief Inspector Stark—’
He was cut off by Lady Ambleton snapping brusquely, ‘I know who you are.’
‘I wonder if I might call on you?’ asked Stark.
‘When?’
‘Now, if that’s convenient.’
‘Very well. I assume you have the address.’
‘I do,’ said Stark.
‘I shall be expecting you.’
With that, the receiver was replaced and the call ended.
TEN
Lady Ambleton’s residence was a large, impressive house in one of Regent’s Park’s more expensive terraces, a curving arc of fifteen three-storey houses adorned with white Romanesque columns in front of the dark oak front doors. Stark ordered his driver to pull up outside number eleven, then strode to the house and mounted the steps to the door. He pulled on the ornate black handle of the doorbell set into the wall beside the door and heard it ringing inside. The door was opened by a middle-aged, nervous-looking woman wearing a floral apron.
‘Yes?’ she asked, the tone of her voice apprehensive.
Either she’s nervous by nature or Lady Ambleton is a fearsome task master, thought Stark. Or possibly a combination of both. Having recently spoken to the Lady herself, he decided it was the latter.
‘Detective Chief Inspector Stark to see Lady Ambleton,’ he said. ‘She is expecting me.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the woman. ‘Madam is in the drawing room. Please follow me.’
She took Stark’s hat from him and hung it on the coat stand, but made no offer to take his overcoat. She’s not expecting me to stay for long, decided Stark.
He followed the housekeeper along a passageway oppressively painted a dark blue, taking in the very high ceilings decorated with frescos. Whoever had designed these houses had carried the ornate Italianate Renaissance look through every aspect.
The housekeeper arrived at a door and tapped timidly at it before opening it. ‘Detective Chief Inspector Stark, ma’am,’ she announced.
The housekeeper stood aside to let Stark pass into the drawing room, before withdrawing with a little bob of a curtsey and pulling the door shut behind her.
Lady Ambleton stood before the marble fireplace, which was again decorated with Roman figurines. She was an imposing and attractive figure, and she knew it. Tall and thin, in her late thirties, elegantly dressed and adorned with glittering jewellery, even for this visit by someone as lowly as a detective chief inspector. She regarded him coldly, a haughty, imperious expression on her face.
‘Thank you for letting me call on you, Lady Ambleton,’ said Stark.
‘To be frank, I’m surprised at your being involved in this case, Inspector. I thought there was some kind of rule that the police didn’t investigate cases where they were emotionally involved. Conflict of interest, or something like that.’ She still hadn’t moved, or offered for him to sit.
‘I believe you’re under a misapprehension, Lady Ambleton. Two murders have been committed, and my only involvement in this case is professional.’
‘Really? I’d heard that you and Johnny’s ex, Amelia, were a romantic item. Surely that puts you a little close?’
This is not a woman who appears to be grieving deeply, realized Stark. Her manner was light, almost flippant.
‘I do know Lady Amelia, but I’m afraid gossip and rumour seem to have escalated our acquaintance into something else,’ said Stark blandly. ‘In a way, it is the same thing that brings me here. It has been suggested to me that you and Lord Fairfax were close friends.’
The ghost of a sardonic smile hovered around Lady Ambleton’s mouth. ‘How tactful you are, Inspector,’ she said. ‘Yes, we were. As I’m sure you know, life in society can be difficult for a woman when she is alone. I have been a widow ever since my late husband was killed at Gallipoli.’
‘I understand you were informed of Lord Fairfax’s death this morning.’
‘Yes.’
‘Can you think of anyone who might wish him harm?’
She shook her head. ‘No, Inspector. I’ve been thinking about that ever since I heard the news. Johnny was a happy-go-lucky person. Harmless, really. I can’t think of anyone who might hold a grudge against him.’
‘I believe he told you he was due to receive a visit yesterday evening from the other man who died – Mr Carl Adams.’
‘Yes, he did.’
‘Did he mention the purpose of Mr Adams’ visit?’
‘No. He just said that they would be talking privately. So I said I would leave them to it.’
‘How did Lord Fairfax seem to view Mr Adams’ visit? Happy? Apprehensive? Concerned?’
‘Hard to tell. Johnny wasn’t one for displaying his feelings. The old soldier, I suppose. Why?’
‘I’m just trying to build up a picture of their meeting.’
She snorted derisively. ‘I think that picture is pretty gruesome, don’t you, Inspector?’
And so their dialogue went on for another ten minutes, with Stark gently probing, and Lady Ambleton stonewalling or giving one-word answers. Finally, aware that he would get no useful information from her, he nodded politely and said, ‘Thank you for your time, Lady Ambleton. And my condolences to you at this difficult time.’
‘Johnson will show you out,’ she said. She rang a bell, and the housekeeper appeared. ‘The chief inspector is leaving,’ Lady Ambleton said curtly.
‘Yes, ma’am.’
As Stark followed the housekeeper out of the drawing room and across the hallway towards the front door, he spotted writing on a notepad by the telephone.
‘I’m sorry.’ He smiled apologetically at the housekeeper. ‘I believe I left my warrant card on the table in the drawing room.’
‘I’ll get it for you, sir,’ said Johnson, eager to prevent Stark from returning and upsetting her mistress.
As the housekeeper went back into the drawing room, Stark removed the top two pages from the notepad and slipped them into his pocket.
Mrs Johnson returned, a worried look on her face. ‘I couldn’t find it, sir,’ she said.
Stark frowned and dug into his overcoat pocket, then produced his warrant card with a rueful smile. ‘My apologies,’ he said. ‘I was looking in the wrong pocket. Do forgive me.’
Once outside, he got into his waiting car.
‘There’s a telephone box two streets away,’ he told his driver. ‘Make for it.’
As the car moved off, he took the piece of paper he’d taken out of his pocket and studied the writing. He was sure it was the same as in the anonymous letter, but he’d be able to confirm that once he compared the two. He smiled at how accurate Sir Bernard Wallis’s description had been of the letter writer. An educated woman from a good family background. Independent-minded. Attractive and she knows it. Used to being in control. Mid to late thirties. Everything fitted. There was one other aspect to her: her late husband had been killed at Gallipoli. Was there something in Churchill’s theory of revenge after all?
The driver pulled up outside the telephone box. Stark went in, put coins into the slot, dialled the operator and asked to be connected to Amelia’s number. He pressed the button when she answered, hearing the coins fall.
‘It’s Paul,’ he said. ‘May I come and see you?’
‘Why?’ she demanded coldly.
‘I’ve received some information I’d like to check with you.’
‘About Johnny’s murder?’
‘Yes.’ There was a long pause at the other end of the line, prompting Stark to offer, ‘I can send Sergeant Danvers along if you’d prefer.’
The silence continued for a moment longer, then Amelia said, ‘No. You come. When?’
‘I’ll be there shortly.’
ELEVEN
Danvers had taken the precaution of phoning ahead to his parents’ house to make sure his father was at home. His mother had not sounded pleased when he’d spoken to her on the telephone, and the warning look on the face of Bridges, his father’s valet who opened the front door to him, suggested that he would not be receiving a warm welcome.
‘Madam is displeased, Master Robert,’ murmured Bridges as he took Danvers’ hat and coat.
‘Thank you for the warning, Bridges,’ Danvers muttered back. He’d always been fond of Bridges, who’d been like a friendly surrogate uncle to him when he’d been growing up, tempering with sympathy his father’s often austere and disapproving attitude towards him.
‘Is that Robert?’ called his mother from inside the house.
Before Bridges or Danvers could reply, she’d appeared in the hallway.
‘Good afternoon, mother,’ Danvers smiled at her.
‘You didn’t talk to Lettie,’ said his mother accusingly.
‘I did,’ protested Danvers, adding awkwardly, ‘but not, I have to admit, about Edgar Cavendish. I had to prioritize, mother, and this is a murder we’re investigating.’
‘Yes, I know, but we’re very worried. Especially your father.’
‘All right, I’ll talk to her after I’ve spoken to Father.’
‘She’s out,’ said his mother. ‘She’s gone somewhere with that man Cavendish.’
‘Where?’
‘Some social engagement. He’s using her and the people she knows to gain entry to the best houses.’
‘The man’s a charlatan,’ added Colonel Danvers, joining them. He, like his wife, looked accusingly at his son. ‘You said you’d have a word with her.’
‘And I will, I promise. But right now this murder has to be my priority.’
‘More than your sister’s good name?’ demanded his father.
‘I’m sure that people are talking about her and him,’ added his mother, upset.
‘Lettie’s not that stupid,’ said Danvers.
‘Yes, she is,’ snapped his father. ‘That man has turned her head with his talk of moving pictures. And that dreadful-smelling hair cream!’
‘I will talk to her,’ Danvers repeated.
‘When?’ demanded his father.
‘Tomorrow,’ Danvers assured him. ‘I’ll telephone her tomorrow and arrange to call on her. But right now, I need your help, Father.’
‘Mine?’ asked Colonel Danvers. ‘What about?’
‘The murder of Lord Fairfax and Carl Adams.’
Colonel Danvers shook his head. ‘I’m not sure how I can help. I never even met this chap, Adams.’
‘But you knew Lord Fairfax.’
‘Of course. Our paths sometimes crossed at The Rag. The Army and Navy Club. I’d be in there, chatting to old comrades, and he’d pop in for a hand of cards. Always sociable. A good chap and a fine soldier.’ He looked at his wife, then back at his son. ‘Look, if this is going to be one of those talks, then let’s go to the library. Can’t be having this kind of discussion here.’
As Danvers followed his father into the library, his mother called after him, ‘What about Lettie?’
‘I will talk to her,’ Danvers assured her. ‘I promise! I’ll get in touch with her tomorrow!’
He was grateful when the door of the library closed and he was alone with his father, even though he knew he was only putting off the moment. And when that moment came, he just knew that Lettie would fly at him, accusing and defensive. It would not be a pleasant experience.
‘So, what do you want to know about Johnny Fairfax?’ asked his father, settling himself down in his favourite leather armchair, which creaked as it bore his weight. Danvers’ mother always looked in disapproval at that particular piece of furniture, at the worn and scuffed leather, urging her husband to throw it out and replace it with a newer piece, something more in keeping with the smartness of the rest of the furniture in the room.
‘Nonsense!’ was the colonel’s standard retort. ‘It’s comfortable. It’s grown to my shape.’
Danvers sat down on a settee. ‘What do you know about Lord Fairfax’s activities during the war?’ he asked.
‘The war? Poor chap spent most of it desk-bound. Not his fault. I know he wanted to be at the Front, but the powers-that-be had decided they needed him back in London.’
‘I understand he did manage to get into the action now and then.’
‘Only when he could persuade those Whitehall wallahs it was important to the war effort. But they didn’t let him go often.’
‘Do you know if he was in France during the summer of 1918?’
‘Why do you ask?’
‘We’re trying to find out when he met this Carl Adams, and we’re pretty sure it can only have been during the war.’
‘Was this chap Adams in the action, then?’
‘Yes. He was with the AEF at Belleau
Wood.’
‘Then that’s possible,’ mused his father. ‘I know Johnny was at Aisne. May and June 1918. That action was close to where the AEF and the French forces were at Belleau Wood. Different outcome, of course. The damned Germans smashed the British forces at Aisne. Scattered them. Lucky the AEF were there. The AEF and the French stopped the German advance. I believe there were remnants of the British forces fighting with them. I’m pretty sure Johnny Fairfax was with them at that time. Afterwards, he was recalled to the War Office. Sat out the rest of the war behind a desk.’
Then he looked at his son with great solemnity and asked, ‘Seriously, Robert, when are you going to have a word with Lettie?’
Stark sat perched on the edge of a chair in the drawing room, Amelia reclining on a settee. God, I want her, he thought as he looked at her.
How swiftly things change. Just a few short hours ago we were in this house together, in bed, lovers filled with one another, passion and compassion, two complete beings, and now we sit as separate as strangers.
Mrs Walker had made a discreet disappearance once she’d shown Stark into the drawing room. They hadn’t kissed; they hadn’t even touched hands. Amelia had dropped on to the settee, her look at him suspicious and resentful in equal measures.
Stark had sat down on the chair. He felt awkward. Had he really needed to come here? He could have asked his questions over the phone, except for the fact that he would be aware of a telephone operator possibly eavesdropping. And he wanted to see Amelia again in the hope that she would be less aggressive than the last time.
‘You said it was about Johnny’s murder,’ she prompted.
‘Yes. Do you know Lady Ambleton?’
‘Ha! Johnny’s mistress! That fascist bitch!’ snorted Amelia.
So she has kept up with her former husband’s relationships, realized Stark. ‘Fascist?’ he echoed.
‘She’s part of that bunch of right-wing misfits, the British Union of Patriots.’
Stark shook his head. ‘Sorry, that means nothing to me. I do my best to avoid politics.’
‘Nonsense! You’re one of the most politically aware people I know. You were very aware of the British Communist Party when we met!’
‘Most people are aware of the communists, especially after what happened in Russia,’ countered Stark.