Shadows of the Dead

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘That’s right, Mum. Amelia’s ex-husband.’

  ‘And you’re investigating it?’

  ‘Someone has to. Sergeant Danvers and I caught the case. The thing is, I’m not meeting Agent Noble until eight o’clock, so I’ll drop you off at UCH for visiting on my way there. But you have to promise me you’ll catch a taxi home afterwards.’

  Sarah hesitated, then nodded. ‘If it makes you happy.’

  ‘It does. It’ll be cold and dark, and we don’t want you catching a cold and going down with something. You won’t be able to go and see Dad if that happens. Or look after Stephen.’

  ‘Yes, all right, you’ve made your point,’ she said crossly.

  ‘I’ll leave a note of the telephone number of the Claremont Hotel with the hospital. That’s where I’ll be. But I won’t be late back.’

  The Mitre Hall was a nondescript building in James Street, a little-used thoroughfare not far from Covent Garden. But tonight James Street was busy. Taxi cabs and private cars pulled up in the narrow road and disgorged men in smart suits and women in fur coats that covered fashionable and expensive dresses. This was certainly a gathering of the elite, decided Danvers as he made his way towards the entrance. He knew some of the faces from social gatherings he’d attended with his parents, and one or two of the men he recognized as people he had been at school with. Chuffy Worthington – or the Honourable Reginald Worthington, to give him his full name and title – had been in the same form as him at Harrow.

  Two large men, one tall and one short, both dressed in smart suits that barely fitted their muscular frames, were at the door, checking the invitations and membership cards of the guests as they entered the hall. Both had the battered faces that indicated they were boxers. As Danvers went to walk past them into the hall, the two men moved together to block his path.

  ‘Sorry, sir. This is a private event – members only,’ said the short one.

  ‘That’s all right, I’m here as a guest of Letitia Danvers. I’m her brother, Robert. She’s here with Mr Edgar Cavendish.’

  The two men exchanged glances of doubt and concern. Then the short one asked, ‘Do you have any proof of who you are, sir?’

  Suddenly, Danvers remembered what Stark had said about many police officers being members of the BUP. ‘I have my police warrant card,’ said Danvers. He reached into his pocket, took it out and showed it to the men. ‘There. Detective Sergeant Robert Danvers. And you can check with my sister. She’ll vouch for me.’

  The two men looked discomforted.

  ‘Is she expecting you this evening?’ asked the taller of the two.

  ‘Well, no,’ admitted Danvers. ‘But I heard she would be here, so I thought I’d surprise her. Look, can’t you go and find her and get her say-so?’

  The two men hesitated, then the shorter one said, ‘You wait here, Bert. I’ll go and see the boss.’

  The short man slipped into the hall, while Danvers stood on the steps with Bert, watching as other people arrived, showed their invitations or membership cards to Bert and were waved in.

  ‘Dibs!’

  Danvers turned and saw another classmate from school. Walter Bagshot had arrived at the door and was holding a printed invitation card.

  ‘Walter!’ Danvers greeted him.

  ‘So you’re here for this do as well, are you?’ smiled Bagshot.

  ‘Providing they let me in,’ said Danvers ruefully. ‘I’m here to see Lettie. She’s with the chap who’s giving the talk.’

  ‘Edgar Cavendish, the American,’ nodded Bagshot. He smiled. ‘The moving picture business, eh!’ And he gave Danvers a wink.

  Danvers frowned, puzzled. ‘Of course,’ he said. ‘Why?’

  The smile vanished from Bagshot’s face and he looked uncomfortable. ‘Nothing,’ he said. Then he gave Danvers another smile, a false one this time, and hurried inside the hall.

  Danvers was just about to call after Bagshot when he heard his sister’s voice. ‘Bobby!’

  Danvers saw that Lettie had appeared from the door of the hall, accompanied by the short muscular doorman and a moustached man in an expensively cut evening suit.

  ‘Hello, Lettie,’ Danvers greeted his sister cheerily. ‘Mother told me Mr Cavendish was giving a talk this evening, and you know how interested I am in moving pictures. So here I am.’

  The man in the smart suit standing next to Lettie stepped forward, a smile on his face, his hand outstretched. ‘Bobby! What a great pleasure it is to meet you! I’m Edgar Cavendish.’

  ‘Mr Cavendish,’ smiled Danvers, shaking Cavendish’s hand.

  The smile of welcome on Cavendish’s face vanished to be replaced by a regretful, apologetic one. ‘I’m just so sorry that you won’t be able to come in and hear me.’ He gestured ruefully at the doors of the Mitre Hall. ‘I’m afraid it’s not my decision, but this meeting is for members only. I don’t know why – I guess that’s just the way it is. The management committee, or whatever they are, insist.’

  ‘But surely they’d make an exception in Bobby’s case!’ pleaded Lettie. ‘After all, he’s my brother. And he’s come all this way. And you are the special guest speaker.’

  ‘I’m the invited speaker, Lettie, and it would be rude of me to make demands.’ He lowered his voice and added, ‘It would also be very bad business. These people represent a lot of money, and it would be a really bad idea to upset them. We’re hoping for some good investments.’

  ‘That’s all right,’ nodded Danvers. ‘I quite understand. I should have checked first.’ He held out his hand to Cavendish. ‘I wish you all the best with your talk.’ Then he added brightly, ‘Perhaps we could meet up afterwards and you can tell me how it went.’

  ‘What a lovely idea!’ squeaked Lettie. She turned to Cavendish. ‘Oh, Edgar, do say yes!’

  Cavendish smiled at her. ‘Of course,’ he said. He looked at his watch. ‘Give me a couple of hours for the talk and the schmoozing afterwards. Shall we say ten o’clock, at the Savoy?’

  ‘That will be excellent!’ nodded Danvers. ‘I look forward to seeing you both there.’

  As Danvers walked away from the hall, he was aware of the two unsmiling doormen watching him closely.

  The restaurant of the Claremont Hotel was busy – mostly businessmen engaged in earnest conversations over their meals, but with one or two couples out for dinner. It was a comfortable room. Stark never felt happy if he was forced to dine at the more luxurious hotels such as the Savoy, where he felt the staff looked down their noses at him. It may have been a result of his acknowledged lower-class inverted snobbery, as Amelia had once pointed out, but the fact that the Savoy’s menus were all in French seemed to him unnecessarily pretentious. The Claremont offered good food and friendly service in well-appointed surroundings. He was glad the American Embassy had chosen to lodge Agent Noble here rather than somewhere more grandiose.

  At the thought of Amelia, Stark felt that same twinge of sadness he’d felt so often since their last meeting. Was it really over between them? It wasn’t for him, but a real relationship meant two people. Was she really saying goodbye to him?

  He also felt guilty that he hadn’t gone to the hospital to see his father again. He told himself that he did it to give his mother time alone with Henry, but he knew that was a lie. What was there to say? Especially in a public place where every word of every conversation was listened to.

  ‘You look thoughtful, Chief Inspector.’ Noble’s voice cut into his thoughts.

  Stark gave the American a smile of apology. ‘Sorry,’ he said. ‘There’s a lot in my head at the moment.’ He picked up the menu. ‘Food will help. And what do you fancy drinking? Beer? Whisky? I don’t know if they have any bourbon here.’

  ‘Not for me,’ said Noble. ‘I don’t. I used to, but when Prohibition came in last year, I thought it would be hypocritical of me, as a government agent, to break the law.’

  ‘I though the laws only applied to alcohol in public places,’ said Stark. ‘Isn’t it legal t
o drink at home?’

  ‘Depends where you live,’ said Noble. ‘In some states the law is applied very vigorously. Wine used for religious ceremonies may be exempt, but everything else is illegal.’ He shrugged. ‘I move around the country a lot, so I decided it was easier just to give it up. I was drinking too much, anyhow. But don’t let me stop you.’

  Stark shook his head with a smile. ‘No, it would do me good to have an evening’s abstinence. A lemonade will do me fine.’

  Noble laughed. ‘If people could see us!’ he chuckled. ‘Law enforcement people are supposed to have a reputation as hard drinkers.’

  The waiter came and they ordered their meals, and two glasses of lemonade – to some eyebrow raising from the waiter – then Stark said, ‘It might be useful for me to know what cover you’re using while you’re here in England. If I have to introduce you to people.’

  Noble shook his head. ‘No cover. Exactly what I am – a special agent working for the American government. Let’s face it, the people who killed Carl must have known who he was working for. If they’ve got the kind of contacts I think they have, they’ll know about me. So why pretend? It’s all legit: an American citizen has been killed on British soil. I’m working with the police on the case. Who knows, that might set a few rabbits running. Maybe flush out some of the bad guys.’

  ‘You don’t think they might treat you the same way they did Carl Adams. Kill you?’

  ‘They can try, but I’m trusting you to keep me alive.’ He looked quizzically at Stark. ‘Look, do you mind if we drop all this chief inspector and special agent stuff while we’re off duty? How about just Don and Paul? I’ve got used to calling people I work with by their first names. At least the ones I like – not the stuffy ones.’

  ‘I’m flattered,’ said Stark. ‘But you don’t really know me yet. I could be just the stuffy kind of person you talk about.’

  Noble shook his head. ‘Trust me, I know people. I get a hunch about them in the first few minutes. You and your sergeant – Sergeant Danvers – you’re both OK guys. Your boss, on the other hand, he’s an idiot.’

  We’re agreed on that, reflected Stark silently. ‘He has his uses,’ he said noncommittally.

  ‘Name one,’ challenged Noble.

  It was time to change the subject, decided Stark, before he said something that might come back later to haunt him. Instead, he said, ‘If you’ll excuse my asking a personal question, when you told us about the Ku Klux Klan earlier, you seemed particularly … vehement. Angry.’

  ‘You’re asking if I’ve got a personal axe to grind?’ asked Noble.

  ‘Yes,’ nodded Stark.

  ‘Is it that obvious?’ asked Noble.

  ‘I don’t know,’ shrugged Stark. ‘It was just a feeling I got.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ nodded Noble. ‘I come from a small town in Georgia called Harlem. I don’t know whether you know it?’

  ‘The only Harlem I know of is the one in New York City,’ replied Stark.

  ‘Same name, very different place.’

  ‘Georgia was one of the Confederate States during your civil war, wasn’t it?’ asked Stark.

  ‘It was,’ nodded Noble. ‘Good-old-boy segregationist country.’

  ‘And fertile ground for the Ku Klux Klan?’

  ‘It was. However, my daddy didn’t share the KKK’s views. Far from it. He was the most decent man I ever knew. He brought me and my brother and two sisters up to treat everyone as equal, regardless of their colour, race or religion. “Take the whole person as they are,” he used to say. God made us all equal in his eyes.’

  ‘I bet that made him unpopular in Georgia.’

  ‘No, sir – only with certain segments. Contrary to public opinion, not everyone in the South is racist. Unfortunately, admittedly, it’s a big percentage that are. But my daddy always said that one day things will change.’

  ‘And will they?’

  Noble frowned. ‘Who knows. After the Civil War, the blacks got given their freedom. But they didn’t get the same rights. In many states, they still can’t eat in the same restaurants as whites. They can’t ride the same buses. They can’t even use the same public bathrooms!’

  Just then, their meals arrived and he sat silent while the waiter placed their plates in front of them.

  After the waiter had left, he gave Stark an apologetic smile. ‘You have to excuse me, Paul. I get on my high horse when the KKK comes up.’

  ‘Because of something that happened. To your father?’

  Noble shook his head. ‘No, to a friend of mine. A black friend. Jeremiah. Like I say, my daddy encouraged us to mix with all types, see everyone as equal, and I was about six years old when I met him playing in the street, and me and Jerry hit it off right away. He was fun and funny. Not a vicious or malicious bone in his body. Which, I have to admit, wouldn’t have been the case if I’d had his skin, because he was abused by some just cos he was black. When I asked him about it, about how resentful he had to feel, he just shrugged and said that was the way it was, and he was used to it. But one day, he told me, he’d get away to the north, where his colour wouldn’t be a problem, and he could do what he wanted to do, which was to be a doctor and heal people.’

  Suddenly, he fell silent and his face darkened as he stared down at his plate. Stark didn’t interrupt him, just watched, letting the American be lost in some dark thoughts. Then Noble said, ‘I’ll cut the long story short. There was a woman in the town who was noted for having a bad reputation. Men. Lots of men. One day her husband came home and found her in bed with a black kid. The black kid ran. The woman said he’d come in the house and raped her. And she named Jerry. Of course, it wasn’t him – she did it to protect the boy she was having the affair with. But that didn’t count, especially with the local KKK. As far as they were concerned, a black boy had raped a white woman, and that black boy was Jerry.

  ‘So, they took him and stripped him and hung him from a tree and castrated him. He was thirteen, the same age as me.’ He looked at Stark and forced a smile. ‘That was it for me. As soon as I could, I left Georgia, and I’ve been hunting the Ku Klux Klan ever since.’

  Danvers sat in the bar of the Savoy, sipping at a whisky. He looked at his watch. Nine thirty. Half an hour before Lettie and Cavendish joined him.

  He was still puzzled by the wink that Walter Bagshot had given him as he’d said, ‘The moving picture business, eh!’ So the meeting wasn’t about the moving picture business. Or it purported to be, but there was something else going on.

  Reaching a decision, he finished his drink and headed out of the Savoy and into the Strand. He already knew some of the people he’d seen going into the hall, but he needed to find out who else was involved. James Street was only a five-minute walk away. He’d wait outside the Mitre Hall and make note of as many people he recognized as he could as the audience left. He was sure that Lettie and Cavendish would be among the last to leave, and as they came out he’d simply walk up to them, smile and say he’d decided to wait for them outside the hall, and then accompany them back to the Savoy.

  Danvers made his way to James Street and took up a position in a doorway a short distance from the Mitre Hall, on the other side of the street, from where he had a good view of the entrance. The two muscular men were still on duty on the door.

  Danvers took his notebook from his pocket. Although it was dark in the doorway, there was enough light filtering through from a nearby street lamp for him to be able to see to write. He began with names of those he’d recognized from his earlier visit: Walter Bagshot, Reginald Worthington, Lord and Lady Monkton …

  Suddenly, he was aware of a movement just beside him. He began to turn, but before he could, he found himself grabbed and hauled out from the doorway, powerful arms wrapped around him in a strong grip.

  ‘We don’t like spies,’ growled a voice in his ear.

  A tall, powerfully built man appeared in front of him, and Danvers saw the glint of metal on his fingers: a knuckle-d
uster. Danvers tried to break free, but the arms holding him, clamping his arms to his sides, were too strong.

  The punch hard into his stomach from the metal-covered fist drove all the air out of his body, and he felt vomit rising in his throat as he doubled over.

  The grip on him from behind was released and he crumpled to the pavement, his face smashing into the kerb.

  He saw the glint of metal on the toecaps of one of the men, saw that foot lifted and pulled back, and then, before he could dodge out of the way, it smashed into his face and an excruciating pain exploded inside his head and he was falling, falling, falling …

  EIGHTEEN

  ‘How was your dinner?’

  Stark sipped at his cup of cocoa, then said, ‘All right. Not as good as pie and mash. Was Stephen all right?’

  Sarah nodded. ‘He wants to go and see his grandad at the hospital. I said I’d take him for tomorrow evening’s visiting.’

  Stark looked doubtful. ‘You don’t think it might frighten him?’ he asked. ‘He’s only eight. Dad didn’t look too good when I last saw him.’

  ‘I was working when I was Stephen’s age,’ said Sarah. ‘So was your dad.’

  ‘Yes, but they were different times.’

  ‘People are still the same. And there’s always been a strong bond between him and his grandad. It’s right that we don’t keep Stephen out of the picture; otherwise, he’ll only imagine things even worse.’

  ‘Yes, you’re right,’ sighed Stark. ‘We’ll all go together.’

  ‘Will you be home tomorrow night? What about this American?’

  ‘I’ll be home,’ Stark assured her.

  The shrill ringing of the telephone made them both jump. Stark looked at the clock. Eleven at night. It could only be bad news.

  Sarah watched him anxiously as he ran to the phone. He picked up the receiver and heard the familiar voice of Sergeant Hathaway, one of the desk sergeants at Scotland Yard say, ‘I’m sorry to trouble you, Chief Inspector, but there’s been an incident involving DS Danvers.’

  Immediately, Stark felt a sickness in the pit of his stomach. ‘What sort of incident?’ he asked, forcing himself to stay calm.