Icelight

by Aly Monroe

  Cotton hoped Perlman would think this too passionate and too personal, but that it would persuade the lawyer that he was not going to be biddable.

  Perlman grunted. ‘I should make a telephone call,’ he said.

  Perlman went to the telephone in the hall. Cotton went through to Dickie Dawkins and Miss Marx. They had been talking about a film called Hue and Cry and were now on to the extraordinary number of expectant women about.

  ‘What do you want?’ said Perlman when he came back.

  ‘In return for letting Boyle and Sinclair go? What are you offering?’

  ‘I have consulted with my client and have additional powers.’

  Cotton thought Perlman had had time to call one person. He thought that would have been Starmer-Smith.

  ‘To settle this? Good. What would be the chances of having Radcliffe transferred from his present duties?’

  Alfred Perlman did not have the kind of face that showed surprise but there was a small twitch.

  ‘I don’t know that I can do that.’

  ‘An alternative would be that Sergeant Dawkins is promoted to Inspector. Immediately. One or the other – or our conversation can’t make progress.’

  Alfred Perlman considered. ‘Miss Marx,’ he called.

  Miss Marx came through.

  ‘Item 1,’ said Perlman. ‘Mr Dawkins is promoted.’

  ‘By nine thirty this evening.’

  ‘Nine thirty-six,’ said Perlman.

  ‘Item 2,’ said Cotton, ‘involves another client of yours. He will find that Sir Cyril Healey-Johnson is worth investigating.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘Because that is the level he should be at and stay at,’ said Cotton firmly. ‘This way he’ll get a story rather than being the story. Something to do with kerbs, I understand.’

  ‘Difficult to prove.’

  ‘The kerfuffle would be enough.’

  Alfred Perlman ate another madeleine. ‘Very well.’

  ‘Item 3 is a meeting for me with Robert Starmer-Smith.’

  Alfred Perlman sighed quite loudly. ‘Is there an Item 4?’

  ‘Of course there is. Your client or clients will send one hundred pounds in cash to a Mr Paul Mair.’

  ‘Who’s he?’

  ‘He lives in Totteridge. I’ll give you the address.’

  ‘I don’t know who this person is.’

  ‘He supplied the cyanide to a scientist called A. A. Watson. Watson, as you know, used it to commit suicide. Mair wants to leave the country and this money will enable him to do so. Item 5 is that Boyle and Sinclair are bound over and sent back to Glasgow. They can make that Edinburgh, if they want. I don’t mind. But it is essential they leave the London area and take up other employment. I can’t, of course, ask your clients to give a general assurance that they will eschew the employment of a person or persons with a criminal past in the pursuit of their aims but – and let me put this very clearly – they have to relinquish Boyle and Sinclair. I’d also suggest they reconsider their methods and tactics.’

  ‘Do you understand all that you are asking?’

  ‘A promotion, a tip-off, a chat, a hundred pounds and a one-way ticket for a couple of criminals. That’s barely anything, Mr Perlman.’

  ‘And yourself?’

  ‘I imagine I’ll be reassigned in due course. Or I can resign. Unless, of course, I’m told Operation Sea-Snake is ongoing and Mr Ayrtoun has handed it over to another intelligence officer.’

  ‘Can we shake hands on that?’ said Perlman.

  ‘Yes.’ Cotton stood up and got a look of surprise out of Alfred Perlman.

  ‘Do you want the physical gesture?’ said Perlman. He sounded almost aghast.

  ‘Would you prefer I shook hands with Miss Marx?’

  Perlman looked confused. Cotton smiled.

  ‘No, no,’ he said. ‘Your word is sufficient.’

  ‘I don’t have to tell you,’ said Alfred Perlman, ‘that henceforward you will not speak of this matter to anyone under any circumstances.’

  ‘I will only take such precautions as I think necessary.’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘In the event of my sudden death by razor or similar.’

  Alfred Perlman tutted at the thought of such a thing.

  ‘Crichton wouldn’t be able to publish, you know.’

  ‘I have no intention of informing Miles Crichton of what’s happened at any time.’

  Perlman nodded. ‘Miss Marx,’ he said. ‘The money.’

  Miss Marx demonstrated that Alfred Perlman thought ahead. From an envelope she counted out one hundred pounds. From what Cotton could see that left another one hundred and fifty. He did not know whether or not that was the only envelope.

  ‘I’m not accepting any money from you,’ Cotton said. He gave Miss Marx a piece of paper with Paul Mair’s address on it. He also gave her the note with Derek Jennings’s information on Sir Hear-Hear’s next conga party on it.

  ‘This is for your distinguished client. The provider of this information has also offered to take photographs if supplied with a suitable camera. I’d prefer a note from you on your stationery about any meeting with Mr Robert Starmer-Smith.’

  Perlman glanced at Miss Marx. She put the hundred pounds in a fresh envelope along with Paul Mair’s address. She put the note about the conga party in another. She began clearing and packing Alfred Perlman’s breakfast things.

  ‘When will you remove the possibility of charges against Mr Sinclair and Mr Boyle?’

  ‘When I know there is someone into whose custody I can deliver them.’

  Mr Alfred Perlman may have smiled.

  ‘Would Radcliffe do?’ he said.

  ‘I might even go to Croydon for that.’

  ‘When would that be?’

  ‘Two o’clock this afternoon. Although of course I’m not sure Mr Dawkins would go. I imagine he’d be waiting to hear about his promotion.’

  ‘Three o’clock,’ said Perlman.

  ‘All right,’ said Cotton. ‘I’ll arrange for that.’

  Cotton was not sure if Perlman was thinking or simply waiting for Miss Marx to finish repacking the hamper. She rinsed the plate, the knife and the Russian tea glass. Alfred Perlman handed her his napkin and did up his coat.

  ‘Miss Marx?’

  Miss Marx looked at him. She moved forward and used the napkin to wipe at one side of his mouth. She stood back and checked his appearance.

  ‘Perfect,’ she said, folded the napkin and put it in the hamper. She checked that she had packed everything. She nodded.

  ‘Three o’clock,’ said Perlman again. He got up and moved towards the front door. Miss Marx was quick enough to gather up the briefcase, hamper and rug and get to the door before he did. She opened it for him. Alfred Perlman did not say goodbye.

  The telephone rang again.

  ‘I got your note,’ said George Dyce. ‘I’m always on for a show. Just one thing. What exactly is blacklight theatre?’

  Cotton explained.

  ‘So it’s sort of disembodied lights moving in the dark?’

  ‘Sort of. She’ll be able to show you.’

  George Dyce laughed. ‘I hope she will. I say, would you yourself be on for a spot of supper next Saturday?’

  ‘That bit about a mild mishap was a little on the underplayed side,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Did you cut yourself on paper or something?’

  ‘No, George, it was more icy roads and surprisingly sharp metal.’

  George Dyce laughed again. ‘Well, if you have any more young women around, do send them along.’

  ‘What are you doing just now, George?’

  ‘I’m drinking, old man.’

  Cotton called the contact number Anna Melville had left. Gus Mallory answered.

  ‘She says you’re pimping her, artistically, that is.’

  ‘Is she there?’

  ‘One moment . . . No. She definitely says she’s not in.’ He giggled. ‘Sorry. She doesn’t
want to talk to you. A bit emotionally bruised, you see?’

  ‘Right. She’s hurt but prepared to use the contact?’

  Gus Mallory laughed. ‘I see your mincing is not quite like mine,’ he said.

  ‘Just tell her George Dyce will see her, will you, Gus?’

  ‘Yes. I will. I say, old fruit, you wouldn’t want to help me out too, would you?’

  ‘No,’ said Cotton. ‘I wouldn’t.’

  Gus sniggered. ‘So the curtain closes on your brief theatrical foray.’

  ‘Goodbye, Gus.’ Cotton put the telephone down.

  ‘What’s happened to your records?’ called Dawkins.

  ‘What do you mean?’

  Cotton limped through. Dawkins pointed. Cotton looked. Nineteen of his twenty records had been broken. Judging by the heel mark on the cover of the one on the outside, by foot. Cotton flicked. She had broken the records by stamping on five at a time. For some reason, one had not broken. It was an Art Tatum version of Tea for Two.

  Cotton nodded. ‘How do you feel?’

  Dawkins rubbed his eyes. ‘A bit raw.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Cotton. ‘That’s about it. Some of these records are going to be difficult to replace.’ He winced. ‘What do you say to Pont Street? Julia Gardener?’

  Dawkins looked at his wristwatch. ‘No,’ he said. He blinked. ‘If we turn up at her door looking like this she’ll probably laugh. Have I got that right?’

  ‘Probably. I could write her a note and give her a rich man’s address.’

  ‘That would be a bit mean,’ said Dawkins. ‘Are you all right?’

  ‘Just a bit tired,’ said Cotton. He sighed. ‘What have we got to do?’

  ‘I’ve got to get back to the office.’

  ‘Right. Call me before three. I’ll phone Paul Mair.’

  It took some time to get through.

  ‘Mr Mair? This is Peter Cotton. You’re going to get one hundred pounds. Please take it and leave.’

  ‘I haven’t managed to sell the Lagonda, you know.’

  ‘Then you’re rich,’ said Cotton. ‘Do you understand what I’m saying?’

  There was a pause. ‘Yes,’ said Mair. ‘I’m getting some money and pissing off.’

  At two thirty Dawkins telephoned. ‘I’ve been promoted to Inspector,’ he said.

  ‘Congratulations. Will you phone Perlman or will I?’

  ‘You,’ said Dawkins. ‘I’ll phone Croydon police station.’

  ‘Well done,’ said Cotton.

  He called Alfred Perlman.

  ‘Inspector Dawkins is about to give permission for Sinclair and Boyle to be released without charge. Do you have someone to take command of them?’

  ‘I do,’ said Perlman. ‘He’s there already. Mr Starmer-Smith is sending you an invitation to have tea with his family next Sunday.’

  ‘Good. Is your distinguished client in Parliament pleased?’

  ‘I believe he is,’ said Perlman. ‘He thinks it would be a good start.’

  37

  ON SUNDAY, 9 March, Hans Bieber drove Cotton to Worplesdon, near Guildford in Surrey to have tea with Robert Starmer-Smith and his family.

  Beyond a drive flanked by Lombardy poplars, fronted by a formal rose garden, the very large house combined various styles popular around 1900 to 1910. These included Surrey hanging tiles, Tudor-style patterns in the exposed red brickwork, chimneys that were both enormously tall and quirkily placed – one was in an inner angle between a projecting black-and-white wing and the brick frontage – and stone coping round the mullioned windows and studded front door. The house sat in the middle of six acres, presently of new snow, old ice and mist and brittle-looking trees.

  As requested, Cotton arrived punctually, at 3.30 in the afternoon. Hans jumped from the car and opened Cotton’s door. Above the front door of the house was a carved stone scallop shell, something Cotton associated with the pilgrimage to Santiago de Compostela in Spain. He did not know what this one was for.

  An elderly uniformed maid opened the door and welcomed him with formal respect but without enthusiasm.

  ‘Colonel Cotton?’ she said. ‘I have been instructed to point out the stone around the door.’

  Cotton nodded. ‘I see it,’ he said. ‘Thank you.’

  It was Bargate stone, what Charterhouse School was built of. It is a hard-wearing sandstone usually described as butter-coloured, though the stuff round the door looked pale and had acquired faint grey lines where the frost was clinging to the saw marks.

  Cotton had no difficulty accepting that Starmer-Smith had seen his file, was a shrug’s worth less happy to be reminded of four years of Sundays at school, the entire day a gloomy tithe on the week, two services at church, the sound of clocks ticking in the imposed periods of silence.

  The maid showed him into a double-height, beamed reception hall, large enough to have a spectator gallery, and told him she would be back.

  On an oak refectory table a guttering candle the size of two logs of wood was the only artificial light. Cotton had seen candles as big in Mexican and Spanish churches, usually used to illuminate ornate altarpieces. This candle had a peculiar scent, like burnt lavender, and there was no altar. Against the far wall, an oak chest was topped by a huge brass flagon containing dried bulrushes. Above that were three diamond-paned windows too high to look out of and too overshadowed to let in much light. The baronial-style fireplace was not lit.

  A door groaned. A white-haired man dressed in a green tweed three-piece suit, not that different from Paul Mair’s, came into the hall.

  ‘Is that Colonel Cotton?’ he asked.

  Starmer-Smith extended his hand, shook Cotton’s but then, rare in England, put his other hand over the clasp and smiled. Starmer-Smith exuded a powerful if distracted delight. Cotton did not think the delight was directed at him, more that he was included in it. He smiled back while noticing that Starmer-Smith looked decidedly elderly for a man of fifty, had dry, fine-lined skin and eyes that had lost most of their colour and expression.

  ‘Do come and meet my family.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  Cotton followed him into a small panelled anteroom, then into a large but low-ceilinged room, the floor of which was covered with overlapping rugs. On either side of a well-piled wood fire were two settees on which Mrs Starmer-Smith and her daughters sat. The settees, he thought, were named after Knole in Kent, having high sides attached to a high back by rope ties. These ropes were thicker than a hangman’s, ended in tassels and were scarlet.

  The female Starmer-Smiths were also dressed in tweed, Mrs Starmer-Smith in brown and white check, her daughters in identical suits and blouses but of differently coloured barleycorn tweed and embroidery. Mrs Starmer-Smith was rather regally short-sighted. Daughters Lily and Iris reminded Cotton of the royal princesses. They looked healthy, innocent and ruthless.

  ‘Colonel Cotton is a war hero,’ said Starmer-Smith.

  Cotton was pleased when one of the girls spoke up. ‘Ooh. Are they still having to operate, are they?’

  Cotton laughed. ‘No,’ he said, ‘this is only a couple of broken fingers. Much more recent.’

  Cotton had thought of wearing his patched-up ‘attacked’ suit but had decided against it. He thought he had been right.

  Behind him, two maids, the one he had already seen and another much younger, began bringing through tea things. There was a lot on the trays; clotted cream, various preserves including damson jam, greengage jam, crumpets and a home-baked cake.

  ‘You sit down here, Colonel,’ said Mrs Starmer-Smith patting the place beside her. ‘Girls, you toast the crumpets.’

  Starmer-Smith himself poked at the wood fire and gave each girl a toasting fork.

  ‘To survive,’ said Mrs Starmer-Smith, ‘we’ve really had a go at the copse. We did have a small stand of willow but that’s long gone.’

  ‘You’re doing very well,’ said Cotton.

  ‘Oh!’ said Mrs Starmer-Smith. ‘Of course! How do you poor people
manage in town?’

  ‘Well, I just stumble from the Connaught to a fish paste sandwich,’ said Cotton.

  There was a pause before she laughed. ‘You’re making a joke,’ she said. She did not sound disapproving.

  Cotton duly ate a toasted crumpet. And then a slice of what turned out to be carrot cake. The sweetener used was honey. The combination quickly palled.

  ‘I really don’t know what we are going to do if this awful weather continues much longer,’ said Mrs Starmer-Smith. ‘The tea is from Ceylon, you know. My sister is married to a missionary there.’

  Cotton drank his tea without milk or sugar. It not only cut the sweetness of the cake, it was the best tea he had tasted for a long time.

  Starmer-Smith, with evident enjoyment, had started doing a crossword puzzle. His daughters groaned when he started reading out clues, but evidently this was part of a ritual. Cotton was given a clue – the answer was Cerberus – and later he was shown the family collection of old English games, including a miniature set of skittles, bagatelle and a board for shove-ha’penny.

  ‘Are you married, Colonel?’ said Mrs Starmer-Smith.

  ‘No, I’m not,’ said Cotton.

  ‘You shouldn’t leave it too long,’ she advised. ‘Demanding jobs are better met with a stable home life.’

  ‘I’m sure you’re right,’ he said.

  There was a pause for Cotton to take in once again the joys of family.

  Starmer-Smith nodded. ‘I regret the Colonel and I have a little business now. But I’ll be ready for Evensong, of course.’

  Starmer-Smith led the way to his study. It was a large room and he had arranged it somewhere between a library and an ops room. There were three desks, one a metal thing with a green telephone, and two partner’s desks. The walls were lined with bookshelves. Cotton saw Starmer-Smith’s tastes ran from Dorothy L. Sayers and G. K. Chesterton to St Thomas Aquinas and St Augustine.

  Starmer-Smith showed Cotton to a chair, sat down himself behind one of the partner’s desks and lit a cigarette. He used an ivory holder. Somebody, his sister probably, had once explained to Cotton that cigarette holders were classed like ladies’ gloves. He thought this one, about six inches long, was dinner length, considerably shorter than opera or theatre, a little longer than cocktail.