The More Deceived

by David Roberts

‘Why Mr Churchill, my lord?’

  ‘Quite simply, he is seen as the only prominent politician willing to stand up to the government and speak out about our drift to disaster. Mr Churchill told me he receives information not only from officials in the Foreign Office but from senior people in other government departments and from the armed forces themselves. If a tyre develops a puncture, one can repair it with a sticking plaster. But, if it develops several holes, there is nothing to be done but throw it away. Besides, I find myself in the invidious position of sympathizing with those people who are sharing secrets with Mr Churchill. I fancy even Sir Robert believes we are not doing enough to prepare ourselves for the coming war.’

  ‘You believe war to be inevitable, my lord?’

  ‘I do, Fenton. Everything I have seen in the last two years makes me as certain of it as that the sun will rise in the morning. The only question is when. Will it come this year . . . next year or in three or four years?’

  ‘Presumably, my lord, the longer it can be postponed the longer we have to prepare?’

  ‘Yes, Fenton, but equally it gives the Germans longer to build up their air force and army. I am convinced that, unlike last time, the war in the air is going to be vital. If we lose control of the sky, the Royal Navy will not be able to defend our shores. You have seen what has been happening in Manchuria and what the Italians did in Abyssinia?’

  ‘Yes, my lord, the bombing of women and children . . .’

  ‘Bombs cannot be rained down upon us with any accuracy, thank goodness, but low level bombing by determined pilots could destroy battleships. It’s a terrible thought but the Royal Navy might be disabled in just a few days if the skies above the English Channel belong to the enemy.’

  Not feeling like finishing his kipper, Edward threw down his knife and fork. The telephone rang and Fenton went to answer it.

  ‘It is Major Ferguson on the line for you, my lord,’ he said when he returned.

  Edward got up, feeling rather sick. He had a feeling that Ferguson would not be telephoning at half-past eight in the morning without it being bad news. He was right.

  ‘Ferguson? What’s the news?’

  ‘Not good, I’m afraid. They have found Westmacott.’

  ‘Dead?’

  ‘A bobby found him at first light. He was hanging from a rope below Chelsea Bridge.’

  ‘How do you mean – below the bridge?’

  ‘He was hanging from one of the bridge’s girders.’

  ‘Good God! How frightful. That poor woman . . . and little Alice. It doesn’t bear thinking about. Was it suicide?’

  ‘It is conceivable but unlikely. His briefcase is missing – well he might have chucked that in the river before he did what he did but . . .’

  ‘But what?’

  ‘His hat was on his head and his umbrella was hanging from his coat pocket. Someone – the murderer, I suppose – was making a fool of him even as he died. His neck wasn’t broken.’

  ‘His neck wasn’t broken? Oh, I see. How horrible! He was throttled?’

  ‘Yes,’ Ferguson said grimly. ‘It must have taken him some time to die.’

  Edward thought of the man twisting and turning in the wind, desperate for air, choking to death. Each moment must have seemed an age of torment. He shuddered and tried to put the image out of his mind.

  ‘It’s a terrible way to die, Ferguson. You’re right. It can’t be suicide.’ Now the shock was passing he was beginning to think clearly. ‘Assuming Westmacott was murdered, the odds are it was the work of political gangsters – Nazis would be my guess. It would be just their idea of a joke. A little dog belonging to Miss Browne was killed in a particularly nasty way and left in her bed – to scare her, you understand. This killing seems to have the same nasty taste to it. If Westmacott hadn’t been who he was, one might have thought it was some sort of underworld gang killing, though, thank God, they are rare enough, at least in England. Or is London becoming Chicago?’

  Ferguson agreed. ‘But if it was a political killing, they would probably have employed gangsters to do their dirty work. The Germans – if say, the killers are Nazis – would not want there to be any visible connection with the German Embassy. The political situation is too tense at the moment. The police have put out the word. Most “decent” villains would have nothing to do with such a killing and will be as shocked as we are. We may get a tip-off.’

  ‘Has his wife been told?’

  ‘Not yet. In fact, I was going to ask you if you would tell her? You are the official she knows,’ Ferguson heard Edward’s groan, ‘but, of course, you don’t have to. Chief Inspector Pride will if you won’t. It has to be done immediately though, before it gets in the papers.’

  Edward groaned again. ‘Pride? Is he in charge of the investigation?’

  ‘Yes. Of course, you know him, don’t you? Crossed swords with him, too, I recall. Well, he’s a good man and you’re going to have to get on with him.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘You’re going to be our representative on the investigation. The political element. It’s not just a straightforward murder case.’

  ‘You’re taking it for granted that I’ll agree? I’m not a proper policeman, you know,’ Edward said sarcastically. ‘I’m a rank amateur.’ Ferguson made no comment. ‘Have you told Pride you want me to work with him?’

  ‘Yes. He seemed quite . . . quite taken aback.’

  ‘I bet he was!’ Edward said with feeling. Pride was not one of Edward’s admirers and, though their paths had crossed on more than one occasion in the last year or two, there was no love lost between them. Edward’s immediate impulse was to refuse to have anything to do with the investigation but then he thought of Alice’s face. The Westmacott mother and daughter could not be left to the tender mercies of Chief Inspector Pride. It also gave him an excuse for bowing out of Sir Robert Vansittart’s inquiry.

  ‘I’ll go to Scotland Yard straight away,’ he said.

  ‘Good man!’

  ‘Will you be kind enough to tell Vansittart that I am otherwise engaged? I won’t now be able to pursue my inquiry into how Mr Churchill gets his information.’

  ‘Yes. Does this change of mind have anything to do with your trip to Chartwell?’

  ‘Are you having me followed?’

  ‘No, but people tell me things,’ Ferguson said enigmatically. ‘Anyway, I mustn’t hold you up. You have a lot to do. You wanted a proper job, didn’t you? Well, look on this as a test. Goodbye.’

  7

  It demanded courage to present himself at Scotland Yard and ask for Chief Inspector Pride but, as it turned out, the meeting was not as uncomfortable as Edward had feared. He was shown straight into Pride’s large but unprepossessing office. Pride might enjoy his authority but he did not deign to display it an obvious way. His desk was bare but for two telephones and two wooden trays labelled respectively ‘in’ and ‘out’. The other furnishings were similarly utilitarian – some chairs, a coat stand and, on the wall, a map of London divided into postal districts and another of England, alongside two framed certificates. On an otherwise empty mantelpiece a heavy clock with a loud minatory tick presided over a blocked-in fireplace. There were no pictures and the window, which was filthy, had no view.

  Pride shook his hand and bade him sit down. The Chief Inspector favoured him with one of those smiles that curdled cream but his greeting was pleasant enough and, to Edward’s relief, he made no comment on his inflamed eye. They chatted for a moment or two and Pride even brought himself to ask after the Duke, Edward’s brother, whom he had met at Mersham Castle.

  There was a hiatus which Edward broke.

  ‘I don’t wish to interfere in your case, Chief Inspector, but Major Ferguson believes this murder has a political dimension and he has asked me to . . . to help in this area.’

  Edward had rehearsed this little speech and was pleased with it but he hoped Pride was not going to come back with questions concerning his official position which, despite his lette
r of authority, he still considered to be dubious. Edward would also have been stumped if Pride had inquired why Ferguson, or anyone else, thought he was qualified to advise on the politics of the case, or was a Communist girlfriend qualification enough? Pride knew that Edward had no training in police work, that his relationship with Special Branch was tenuous but, for whatever reason, the Chief Inspector chose not to humiliate him with any awkward questions. Instead, he calmly went over the circumstances in which the body was discovered.

  ‘It was at a quarter to five this morning that a police constable on his beat noticed something hanging from Chelsea Bridge. He thought at first it was a dummy – a Charlie Chaplin figure dressed in a pinstripe business suit and overcoat with a bowler hat on his head and his umbrella on his arm, or that was what it looked like. In fact, on closer inspection, it turned out the umbrella was hanging from his coat pocket. When he got nearer, he got rather a shock. He saw that it was a body – not a straw guy or something of that nature. It couldn’t be got at from the bridge so the River Police were called.’

  Edward felt sick to the stomach. He could so vividly imagine the scene. The pathetic scarecrow figure twisting from a rope over the muddy water.

  ‘The constable saw no sign of any boat?’ he asked. ‘I gather from Ferguson it is more likely that Westmacott’s body was attached to the bridge from below rather than from the bridge itself?’

  ‘We think so. Even at five o’clock there were people on the bridge. Someone scrambling about would have been noticed. In any case, you would have to have had the climbing ability of an orang-utang to hang yourself from that girder. Not possible, I would say.’

  ‘The constable saw nothing suspicious on the river?’

  ‘No, but that’s not surprising. Unless he had happened to witness the body being hoisted into place – which he didn’t – I doubt he would have been able to see anything suspicious from the shore. A boat’s just a boat, isn’t it? Still, the River Police have already begun a search of boats in the area. My belief is that the constable spotted the body within a few minutes of it being strung up. If it had been there even half an hour, someone would have seen it and called the police.’

  ‘Yes. It was getting light by five.’

  ‘We can rule out robbery as a motive for the killing. The murderer or murderers made no effort to prevent us identifiying Westmacott. In fact, they wanted to advertise who it was. His wallet, keys and other personal belongings were still in his pockets.’

  Edward grunted in disgust. ‘It’s horrible enough that Westmacott was killed but to hang him like that . . . I wonder if it was meant to ape a judicial hanging. No sign of his briefcase?’

  ‘Not a trace. That’s the only thing missing. Can you tell me anything about what might have been in it? Ferguson was no help, blast him.’

  ‘As far as we know, Westmacott was not politically active but we think he had access to secret papers – secrets that worried him. The files in his briefcase are thought to concern businessmen – arms dealers. It’s possible he stumbled on something which made him dangerous to those gentlemen.’

  ‘Or he was trying to sell secrets to a foreign power?’ Pride suggested, stroking his chin.

  ‘It’s possible but, on the face of it, the secrets he had access to weren’t valuable enough to interest a foreign power. What I would like to suggest, Chief Inspector, is that I attempt to interview the arms dealers whose names we know were in the missing files. I say “attempt” because most of these men are not based in London and move around the world the whole time. I can also make some inquiries among my friends in the Communist Party. It is possible they may have heard something.’

  For a moment, Edward thought Pride was going to say something disparaging but, if he had been, he managed to suppress it.

  ‘That would be helpful, Lord Edward. I confess I am rather out of my depth when it comes to politics. To my mind, they are all as bad as each other – Fascists and Communists. They’re all troublemakers. Now, ordinary crime I can cope with but this . . . it makes me sick.’

  ‘I don’t disagree with you, Chief Inspector, but that is the world we live in, I’m afraid. I will get out of your way then. I am sure you have much to do.’

  ‘I do indeed, Lord Edward. I am also investigating a series of jewel robberies in the Hatton Garden area so I have my hands full. London’s almost overrun with petty criminals. We can only investigate the major crimes.’

  ‘You’re understaffed?’

  ‘I should say so! The Met has only 1,400 detectives out of a force of 20,000. We are well under strength. The Home Secretary just won’t find the money.’

  ‘That bad, eh? I don’t envy you, Chief Inspector. By the way, may I speak to the constable who discovered the body?’

  ‘Constable Robbins? Yes, of course, but I don’t think he’ll have anything to add to what I have told you.’

  ‘No, but . . .’

  ‘He comes off duty at ten. Shall I ask him to come round to you at your rooms or would you prefer to see him here?’

  ‘Could you ask him to come to Albany about two? No, better make it tomorrow. I may have to spend some time with the Westmacotts.’

  ‘The Major said, since you have met Mrs Westmacott, you will tell her . . . about her husband.’

  ‘If I must.’

  ‘I’ll send a police constable with you in case you need help. She is bound to be . . . very much upset. And there’s a daughter too, isn’t there?’

  ‘Yes, a little girl aged about ten. Alice.’

  ‘That’s bad. They must be told at once before they hear it from a reporter. I’ve got a car outside. Tell Mrs Westmacott I will come and see her tomorrow.’

  Edward nodded. ‘By the way, have you informed Westmacott’s boss, Desmond Lyall, about finding the body?’

  ‘Yes. Ferguson informed Sir Robert Vansittart and he has told Lyall. I am interviewing him this afternoon with Sir Robert. What do you think of him? You know him, don’t you?’

  ‘Sir Robert?’

  ‘No, my lord, Lyall,’ Pride said, with just a touch of the asperity Edward associated with him.

  ‘Sorry! Lyall. Yes, I have met him. I don’t know what to make of him. I don’t trust him and he’s certainly not telling all he knows but I don’t see him as a murderer. He’s a bit of a cold fish. The only person he seems to care about is his son, currently with the International Brigade in Spain.’

  Pride grimaced. He did not approve of young Englishmen who ran off to fight in a war which was nothing to do with them.

  ‘His wife died of cancer six months ago. He’s a lonely man,’ Edward said as he rose to go. Pride rose too and put out his hand.

  ‘It’s good to have your help, sir. I know in the past you may have thought I was not . . . that I did not appreciate . . .’

  ‘Say no more, Pride. I have always thought you to be a most capable and efficient officer. How would you like me to report to you?’

  ‘Here is my direct number. I give it only to a few senior officers so I don’t get swamped, as it were. ’

  ‘Thank you. By the way, talking of Communists – you remember the Cable Street riots?’

  ‘I do indeed.’ Pride spoke with feeling. Edward was referring to the worst street fighting London had endured for many a year. In October 1936 Mosley, the leader of the British Union of Fascists, had tried to march through the East End of London. The parties on the left – the Communists in particular – were determined to stop him. They had built barricades across Cable Street and, when the police tried to dismantle them, all hell broke loose.

  ‘That chap, Jack Spot . . .’

  ‘He led the rioters . . . almost killed one of my officers.’

  ‘That’s the one. Didn’t I read in the newspapers that he had been sent down for GBH?’

  ‘Yes, he went to the Scrubs for six months and richly deserved it. He’s out now and I hear he’s mixing with some right villains.’

  ‘I thought as much. Would it be possible to pass
the word for him to get in touch with me?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘I thought I might employ him to find out who was behind this business. We need someone who knows who’s doing what in London’s gangland. Don’t get me wrong, Chief Inspector, I am sure your men will dig up something but, as you say, you are short-handed and this might be a short cut.’

  ‘I can’t be seen to be employing villains,’ Pride protested.

  ‘No, of course not, but I can. My status is nebulous to say the least. You can’t be responsible for anything I get up to.’

  Pride actually smiled. ‘Very good! I’ll pass the word. Can I hint that money might change hands?’

  ‘Indeed you can, Chief Inspector!’

  The police car set off towards Park Royal at high speed with its bell ringing. Edward had to ask the driver to slow down and turn off the bell. Apart from the fact that he was not in the least eager to reach the Westmacotts’ house, he did not want to scare Mrs Westmacott by arriving noisily and at speed. Bad news could never be too slow in coming.

  The moment Mrs Westmacott opened the door and saw Edward with the uniformed constable, she let out a cry and clutched at her throat.

  ‘He’s dead, isn’t he? My Charlie’s dead.’

  Alice came running to her mother and clutched her, looking at Edward with accusing eyes. ‘Where’s my daddy?’ she demanded. ‘You said you would find him.’

  ‘I am so sorry, Mrs Westmacott. I’m afraid your husband is dead. I wish it were not so but . . . may I come in?’

  He followed the weeping woman and the little girl into their living-room, leaving the constable outside.

  When they were sitting, he told them about Westmacott’s death and how his body had been found. It was one of the worst things he had ever had to do and he wished he could be a million miles away. Briefly, in the car, he had considered telling the mother but not the daughter. However, on reflection, he thought that Alice was in many ways more grown-up than her mother. In any case, he did not want Mrs Westmacott to have to tell the child. She would find it a terrible burden. He knew it would be some time before she could take in the details of exactly how her husband had been killed – at least he hoped so – and he did not want her telling Alice some garbled story or, worse, have Alice read about it in the next day’s papers.