by Mark Ellis
“I know, dear. What can I do?” A glimmer of a smile appeared on Sonia’s face and she allowed herself to be pecked on the cheek.
Merlin had seen Bridges and Goldberg off on their trip to Putney and had been on his way home when he bumped into the AC on the main staircase of Scotland Yard. Gatehouse usually spent his weekends out of London, but was in town to take his wife to a piano recital at the Wigmore Hall. He’d left the tickets at the Yard, hence his visit. Merlin, having naturally told the AC about the murder in Notting Hill, was asked to attend the AC in his office to provide more detail. Gatehouse asked a lot of questions and Merlin was there for some time. As he was finally leaving, the AC had given him the bad news that Tommy Cole’s return from Portsmouth was to be delayed for a fortnight or more. Cole was part of a team of officers investigating a naval espionage case and the local commanding officer refused to release him. Merlin had been pleased to learn that Cole was so prized in Portsmouth but this did little to dispel his frustration.
Sonia and Merlin found a taxi straightaway in Sloane Square but a burst water main on Oxford Street delayed their journey and they only made their seats with seconds to spare. Max Miller’s latest show was called Apple Sauce. Merlin managed a quick flick through the theatre programme before the lights went down. The cover pictured Miller, the best-known comedian of the day, sporting his trademark Cheeky Chappie outfit and accompanied by a high-kicking chorus line. ‘A laughter Blitz showered with stars’ was promised. Other acts included Jack Stanford, the Dolinoffs, the Raya Sisters and Florence Desmond.
Sonia, tense with excitement, gripped Merlin’s hand as the curtain rose. First up were the 24 Saucelets, a group of scantily-clad dancing girls. Then, to rapturous applause, Miller appeared with his stooges in a knockabout sketch about a television set. Tears of laughter rolled down Sonia’s cheeks. The acts came and went. Vera Lynn appeared just before the interval and the pretty young singer immediately had the audience in the palm of her hand.
Merlin bought ice-creams during the interval and Sonia giggled as a large chunk of his ended in his lap. There was time to check the restaurant advertisements in the programme. The formal Hungaria restaurant in Lower Regent Street was promoted as ‘The safe restaurant. Bomb proof – splinter proof – blast proof – gas proof and boredom proof. We care for your safety as well as your pleasure’. Or there was Oddenino’s: ‘Dancing in the restaurant from 8pm below 10 reinforced concrete floors to Tommy Rogan’s Orchestra. Ample shelter accommodation’. Merlin’s eyes finally fell on the Parisian skyline motif of the Montparnasse in Piccadilly Circus, which offered a cabaret as well as dancing and fine food. It had been a favourite haunt of his and Alice’s. They had danced there in 1938. Their last dance. Somehow he felt Alice would approve of his stepping out again there with Sonia.
Merlin turned to admire Sonia’s face, which was alive with anticipation. The house lights dimmed. The orchestra struck up. Work, as always, posed its many problems but in his personal life, he realised, Merlin was as happy as he had been for a long time.
CHAPTER 4
Sunday 8 June
Northamptonshire
As soon as Philip Arbuthnot woke, he knew he couldn’t delay telling his aunt any longer. He got up and immediately sent two telegrams, one containing news of his father’s death and a second warning of his impending arrival at around noon. For a moment, he thought of taking Janey or Suzanne with him but quickly discarded the idea. The open-top Morgan sports car was brought around from the garage by a porter and Arbuthnot was on the road by nine-thirty.
The journey usually took him two and a half hours. The rain held off and the sun managed a few brief appearances. The traffic was light and he made good time, pulling into the sweeping driveway of Sackville Hall just before noon. There was no-one about as he parked the car near the front door of the small, perfectly proportioned Queen Anne building that had been in his mother’s family for more than 200 years. He was just about to lift the ancient bronze knocker when the door was opened abruptly to reveal Lucinda Cavendish, née Arbuthnot, his father’s beloved only sister. “I thought I heard your noisy car. Come in, Philip. I got your telegrams. How are you coping, my dear boy?”
Lucinda Cavendish was a willowy woman with short, dark-brown, wavy hair, pale-blue eyes, a roman nose and a thin-lipped mouth. Her brother had often described her as a nicer-looking version of his friend, the novelist Virginia Woolf. Philip knew Woolf had been found drowned in a river in Sussex quite recently. He could never imagine his aunt coming to such an end. In terms of willpower and forcefulness of nature, she was the equal of her brother, Simon. Her motto was the same as the one he had heard attributed to Churchill: ‘KBO – keep buggering on!’ How Philip’s father had been friends with Woolf was a mystery to his son, for a less literary man would have been hard to find.
“Well, you know, Aunt. Bit of a shock, of course.”
“Not that much of a shock, was it, dear? We know things weren’t going well in Crete. It’s a blessing at least that he wasn’t taken prisoner as I am sure that would have driven him mad.” His aunt didn’t look as if she had shed any tears that morning, although she had been very close to her brother. They had not had easy childhoods and had grown up to be tough. Recent events had further hardened Lucinda to adversity – the deaths in quick succession of her husband and her son a few years previously had been terrible blows. Her mother’s stroke on the day war was declared was a further sad burden. And now, this, the loss of her brother.
“How is Grandma?”
“The same as usual. Doesn’t know who or where she is most of the time. I told her about Simon but she stared at me blankly. I look at her and think that somewhere inside that little head of hers a part of her brain must be working but…” His aunt shrugged and led him into the large drawing room at the rear of the house. “I’ll tell you one thing that is working though – her appetite! She’s hungry all the time and eats like a horse. Not a pretty sight, I can tell you. You’ll see for yourself at lunchtime.”
They sat down together on an amply cushioned and intricately patterned settee, which faced a brightly blooming walled garden. A fire was burning. A maid appeared and was instructed to open the French windows. “It’s too warm in here. Let us have a bit of air, Dawson. Sherry, Philip?” He nodded, another peremptory command was given and the maid scurried away.
“Is there a body?”
“I don’t know. I suppose so.”
“What I mean, Philip, is did the army manage to retrieve his body or is it behind enemy lines?”
“I don’t know. I got a second telegram from the War Office yesterday but it added little to the first. ‘We have received firm confirmation that your father, Captain Simon Arbuthnot, was killed in action in Crete in the last two days of the operation last month.’”
The sherries arrived on a silver tray. “Leave the decanter please, Dawson.” A pleasant breeze from outside was now freshening the room.
“I presume that means his death was witnessed by a fellow officer.”
“Or rank-and-file soldier.”
“It would be good to find out the identity of that officer or soldier.”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“Meanwhile, it seems that we won’t have a funeral to organise for now.”
Philip shrugged as he finished his sherry. His aunt reached over to top up his glass. “We still have various legalities to deal with – and the business, of course. You’ve informed Tomlinson?”
“I, er…”
“Oh, Philip, that was the first thing you should have done.”
“You know, it was the weekend. Thought it could wait until Monday.”
Lucinda looked at her nephew and sighed. If only it was her beloved son, Robbie, who was sitting in Philip’s place now. There was no doubt that Philip had a good brain but he was a dilettante. She doubted he had the judgment and drive to run his father’s business empire. Robbie certainly had but he was sleeping forever now in the plot beside his father’s in
the village churchyard. “You will call him before we go in to lunch.”
“What about Fleming?”
“Ask Tomlinson to tell that little weasel. He should know.” She detested Fleming but Lucinda understood that men of his ilk had their uses and she had long accepted his elevated position in the scheme of things.
“Very well, Aunt.”
“Oh my silly, darling brother.” Lucinda set down her sherry glass and picked up a framed photograph of Simon Arbuthnot from a table next to her. “Such a good-looking boy. He must have been in his mid-20s here. Perhaps a year or two before you were born. If I remember correctly, this was taken before he went off to watch the tennis championships at Wimbledon. Here he is, decked out in his summer finery – boater, blazer, flannels. Now who was it he saw in the men’s finals that year? He and I played a lot of tennis together, did you know that?”
“Yes, Aunt.”
“I was quite good at the game, if I say so myself. Now who won it that year? He asked me to go with him but I had another engagement with Alfred.” Alfred was Alfred Cavendish, her late husband, who had been an eminent barrister at the time of his sudden death in 1938. “Was it that Yank, Tilden – Bill Tilden – and an Australian, Patterson? Or was there a South African involved? The year after the war, I think it was ’19 or ’20. He had a lovely time with his friend Franzi. Some people were a little scandalised, of course.”
“Scandalised?”
“Franzi was German. People felt it was a little off to be socialising with Germans so soon after the war.”
“I think I heard my father and Fleming talking about Franzi once. Wasn’t he…?”
Lucinda put the photograph back in its place and rose abruptly. “Enough of the past. We’ve enough to worry about with the present. Do you know we only just avoided having a platoon or a brigade, or whatever the appropriate military word is, of soldiers billeted on us? I had to…” A loud gong sounded from the hallway. “There’s the luncheon bell. Go and make those phone calls while I find out where Mother is. It’s roast pork, your favourite!”
CHAPTER 5
Monday 9 June
London
“Morning, everyone.” Merlin surveyed the team that had gathered in his office at nine o’clock. Bridges looked worn out. Another baby-disturbed night, Merlin surmised. In contrast, Goldberg seemed to be bursting with vitality and raring to go while Robinson was also a picture of health, her cheeks pink, her eyes sparkling and her short strawberry-blonde hair glossy and immaculate. Merlin wondered for a second what would happen when Cole returned. Obviously the constable’s new barrister friend, Rutherford, was a much better fit for her socially but Merlin felt a little for Cole. Office romances were never a good idea, especially in the police force, but the two youngsters had made an intriguing couple. Merlin tidied the papers on his desk and cleared his throat.
“To business, then. Two different cases, connected through Mr White. Five people involved. None yet identified. Let’s go down the list:
“One – an unidentified woman, killed in a botched abortion, estimated age early 20s. Short, black hair, pretty face, slim, medium height. No person vaguely fitting her description yet reported missing in Greater London. WPC Robinson to contact forces outside London to see if there’s a match. No moles, scars or other distinguishing physical features and no items of interest on the body or in her clothing so far as I am yet aware. Double-check on that with the medics please, Constable.
“Two – ‘Mr White’. A short, fat, bearded, wig-wearing, Gitanes-smoking gentleman, reported to be French by one witness, shot in the head three times. Among his possessions a bag full of medical instruments. The appearance of the man closely matches the hotel clerks’ description of our young lady’s first visitor and this, when taken with the medical suitcase, is pretty incontrovertible evidence that this man is our abortionist. Such French authorities as exist in London have not yet been able to respond to Robinson’s requests for assistance in identifying the man. We have work to do there. Sergeant Bridges and Detective Goldberg visited the Putney medical agency’s office on Saturday but it was closed. Enquiries of neighbours revealed that the agency proprietor is thought to be French or Belgian. A repeat visit to the office will be made today. We also have that telephone number on Ritz notepaper to check.”
“Not forgetting the cinema and railway tickets, sir.”
“Not forgetting those items, Sergeant, no. Nor the old photograph.
“Three – the man who accompanied the young lady to the hotel, not clearly seen by the hotel receptionist but described not very helpfully as being of average height and wearing a trilby and a mac with the collar up. Last seen leaving the hotel soon after the arrival of the second male visitor.
“Four, the second male visitor, this one tall and dark-haired, wearing a grey duffel coat. Again mostly invisible to the clerks, apart from Noakes thinking he might have been a foreigner and that there was something else odd about him, which he can’t remember.”
“And number five, sir?”
“Number five, Sergeant, is the murderer of Mr White, who was professional enough to ensure he was unseen and unheard and left little evidence except for the bullet casing we found. When forensics get back to us later we should at least know what gun he used.”
Goldberg raised a hand. “I have a question, Chief Inspector.”
“Fire away, Detective.”
“I was just wondering why your department was involved in investigating a back-street abortion in the first place? I understand your involvement now the case seems to be linked with another murder. But back in New York, an abortion gone wrong wouldn’t normally command the attention of the homicide team.”
“That’s a fair question, Detective. Of course, we don’t call ourselves ‘the homicide team’ but we are required to investigate the most serious crimes committed in the metropolitan area. A botched abortion would not normally be so categorised. Recently, however, there has been an epidemic of unlawful abortions. The authorities blame the war. With the Blitz, London is obviously a dangerous place and death could be round the corner at any moment. By the same token, military men on leave in town may shortly be returning to the dangers of the battlefield. It is clear that social behaviour has become freer in these circumstances, with one of the consequences being a large rise in unwanted pregnancies. And so London has become something of a boomtown for abortionists. My superiors have resolved to make this problem a matter of high priority. Accordingly, for the present, we are to investigate any such incidents.”
“I understand, Frank. Sorry if the question was stupid.”
“Not at all, Bernie.” Merlin leaned back in his chair. “So, let’s run over the job allocations for today. Constable, you carry on searching for the identity of the abortion victim. Also, can you please look into the Ritz notepaper telephone number. Bridges, you go out to Putney again. The office must be open on a Monday. Before you go, call forensics to find out where we are on the bullets. I am going to visit the Free French army headquarters, as that seems the closest thing there is to a French embassy in London, and I’d be grateful if you would accompany me, Detective Goldberg.”
“A pleasure, Chief Inspector.”
“You have the address, Constable?”
“The first I got was One Dorset Square. There is also another in Carlton Gardens. I’m not sure why there are two.”
“We’ll go to Dorset Square. No doubt we’ll find out there.”
* * *
Edgar Powell fell back into his seat with a gasp of relief. This train journey was the last leg of a very tedious three-day trip from Cairo. On the first leg, a rattling old RAF cargo plane had carried him and his fellow passengers to Khartoum. Then another cargo plane had taken him to Lagos in Nigeria. From there, a civilian flying boat had flown him via Sierra Leone, Gambia and the Canary Islands to Lisbon, where he had waited several hours before getting on a BOAC flight back to Britain. Disembarking exhausted that Sunday morning at Southampton airport
, he was in desperate need of a bath and 12 hours’ sleep. A taxi had driven him to the railway station, where he had had to wait an hour for the next London train.
Luckily he’d been able to find a seat in an empty first-class compartment. As the train slowly chugged out of the station, he lifted his legs on to the seat across from him. He was thirsty and remembered that he had a bottle of beer from the plane in his kitbag. Then he realised he didn’t have a bottle-opener and the ticket inspector who appeared was not particularly helpful in getting one from the buffet. Powell was too tired to walk down the train, gave up on the beer and closed his eyes.
In Cairo, Powell had just had time to get a cable off to his wife to forewarn her of his arrival. According to the last letters that had got through to him, Celia was spending most of the time with her parents in the country so there was a good chance she had not been at the flat to receive it. They had last been together at Christmas before he shipped out to Greece. Unfortunately, they had parted on an argument. Her letters since had been friendly but distant. He wondered whether their reunion would be happy or uncomfortable. Powell chided himself for his anxieties. It would be happy, of course. He resolved to be optimistic. He was back home in England, he had in prospect a few days of leave with a beautiful woman – and he was alive! He would treat Celia to a nice dinner out if she were in town. Some good food, some good wine, perhaps some lovemaking. Then tomorrow, after a long lie-in, he would stroll over to Scotland Yard and consult his old friend Frank about that letter. The rhythmic motion of the train had its inevitable effect and he began to doze.
* * *
“I’m so dreadfully sorry, my boy.”
Philip Arbuthnot, toying with his blue silk tie and not looking particularly grief-stricken, sat across the desk from Tomlinson. He shrugged his shoulders. “Sorry I’m late again. Went up to Sackville Hall to see my aunt and grandmother.”