The Ebenezer Papers

by Dawn Harris

  'You were on your own?’

  'No. Al was driving.’

  ‘Who’s Al?’

  'My new chauffeur.’

  'Oh, I see. Well, where was he when.......’

  ‘Looking after my Rolls.’

  That made Johnny frown. 'He should have been looking after you.’

  'He wanted to. But it was far too risky.’

  ‘Too risky? Liddy, it’s his job to----’

  'Yes, but it would have caused trouble.’

  ‘Why?’

  'Because he’s a black American.’

  He stared at me and then began to laugh softly. 'Oh, Liddy. Whatever will you do next?’

  'Do you disapprove?’

  ‘Of course I don’t,’ he protested indignantly. ‘Is he a good driver?’

  'He is. And I like him. He’s on a month’s trial.’ I explained why Al had approached me, and repeated what he’d told me about his life, ending with the incident where the policeman handcuffed him. 'He doesn’t seem to worry about anything.’

  'If what you say about his previous employer is true, I’m not surprised. Nothing you do could shock him.’

  'Well, he was very unhappy about me going to that meeting without him.’

  ‘I like Al already,’ he grinned. ‘But what were you doing in the east end?’ When I told him about the land father had left me, the boys I’d met, and what I hoped to do with the field, his eyes softened in approval. 'Those kids need all the help they can get.’

  ‘So do the people at the meeting. Are they aware you’re in the secret service?’

  'They know I’m working for the government, so they’ve probably guessed. One or two would make good agents themselves, if only they weren’t communists.’

  Arthur interrupted us at that moment, asking me to dance, and I didn’t speak to Johnny again until I left, when he saw me to my car. He chatted to Al for a few minutes about America, no doubt sizing him up. Jean and Arthur, naturally the last to leave, came out just as Al was getting back into the car, and I saw her eyebrows shoot up. So I was not surprised when she called on me after breakfast the following morning. And Jean, not being one to beat about the bush, asked if the man she’d seen last night really was my new chauffeur.

  ‘He’s on a month’s trial,’ I said.

  ‘Liddy, are you sure you’re doing the right thing? What do you actually know about him?’

  'I know enough.’ And I told her how Al's previous employer had treated him. ‘He refused to give Al a reference.’

  She exploded, ‘You took him on without a reference? He probably made the whole thing up.’

  'If he did I'll find out soon enough, won’t I.’

  ‘Honestly, Liddy. You and your lame ducks.’ I laughed and she said a trifle huffily, 'With so many people out of work, you might have given the job to an Englishman.’

  'That’s true,’ I conceded. She was right about that, but I’d chosen Al, and she and everyone else would soon get used to him.

  Half an hour after Jean left, Al drove me to where George Crawleigh had lived in Compton Park Road. It was only a few minutes away from Peter’s house in Compton Park Row, and highly respectable, although the Edwardian houses there did not possess quite the same elegance as the Georgian buildings in the street where Peter had lived. Hoping to find someone who knew Mr. Crawleigh, I tried his neighbours first. There was no answer from the first two doors I knocked on, but the third was opened by a gentleman in his thirties who had his right arm in a sling. ‘I’m sorry to bother you,’ I said, ‘but I wondered if you knew George Crawleigh?’

  'George? Yes, I did. He was a good friend.’ A great sadness came over his face. ‘I say, you are aware that he had an accident......’

  ‘I am. In Sussex, I believe. I’m hoping you can tell me who he stayed with that night.’

  He eyed me with understandable suspicion. ‘Are you a reporter?’

  I shook my head. 'No. My name is Lydia York and.......’

  A voice from inside the house called out, ‘Who is it, Henry?’

  'It's a lady inquiring about George.’

  'Well, bring her in. I’ll get another cup.’

  'My wife and I are about to have morning coffee,’ he explained. 'If you would care to join us.’

  'Thank you. I’d like that.’

  He led me into a pleasant sitting room, introduced me to his attractive wife, who was setting out the coffee cups on a small table. Begging me to sit down she poured out the coffee. 'Poor George. Did you know him well?’

  I took the coffee cup she held out to me and said, ‘I never had the pleasure of meeting him, but I...........’

  'You didn’t know him?’ she echoed, somewhat startled. 'Then why..........’

  I explained briefly about Peter’s murder, the similarity of his and George’s surnames and addresses, and that I believed they had both been murdered by the same man. 'The police........’

  Henry broke in, 'But the coroner said George’s death was an accident. That he fell asleep when driving.’

  His wife put her hand on his good arm. 'The coroner wasn’t there at the time, Henry. If he’d known George, he wouldn’t have said that.’ And she turned to me. 'You see, Mrs. York, that weekend George was staying with the Martins in Sussex. George, Henry, and Alfred Martin all worked for the same firm of solicitors, until Alfred moved to Sussex. His great aunt left him a large sum of money, which enabled him to give up work. The five of us were great friends, and usually we went down with George. He always drove – he loved cars - and we invariably came home late on Sunday night. But we didn’t join George that particular weekend because we were going on holiday. You can imagine how we feel.’

  I sympathised with genuine concern, for they were clearly dreadfully upset, and I went on to say, 'The coroner said George had taken several drinks that evening.’

  'George invariably did, but always over five or six hours, and he was never affected by it. He was a good driver, Mrs York, and I simply don’t believe he fell asleep at the wheel. George liked to enjoy himself, but he wasn’t foolish. The other reason I don’t believe what the coroner said, is that George never went to bed before one. He said he didn’t seem to need much sleep.’

  ‘Martha’s right, ‘Henry said. 'George was a live wire in the evenings, but not so bright in the ----.’

  His wife broke in a trifle impatiently, ‘Henry, the point is, Mrs. York thinks George was murdered. But who would have done such a thing? Everyone liked George. He was such a nice man.’

  I asked Henry, ‘Were there any problems at work? Or difficult clients?’

  He thought for a moment then shook his head firmly. ‘He never mentioned any problems, and he wasn’t a man who kept things to himself.’ He was equally certain there had been no problems with money or women. 'He led a comparatively simple life. He played golf and cricket, enjoyed visiting his friends, and spent his holidays in France.’

  ‘Where else?’ I muttered under my breath, thinking of Inspector Nabber and the Greenes.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’ he said.

  ‘I’d like Mr. and Mrs. Martin’s address,’ I said, as if repeating my words. 'And their telephone number too, if possible.’

  'Yes, of course,’ Henry said.

  As Martha wrote down the information for me I asked if the police had questioned them about George. 'Someone did call,’ she said, handing me the details I wanted. 'Only he came before George died.’

  'Before?’ I repeated, puzzled.

  She nodded. ‘It was a constable wanting to know George's whereabouts. But he didn’t explain why. He said it was a confidential matter.’

  'Did you give him the Martins’ address and telephone number?’

  ‘Of course,’ Martha said. 'After he’d gone we telephoned the Martins, but they were out. And we went on holiday early the following morning.’

  'France?’ I inquired with a resigned sigh.

  Henry answered, ‘Heavens, no. Can’t stand all that garlic. We prefer Swit
zerland. That’s where I broke my arm. We didn’t hear about George's accident until we got back.’

  'The funny thing is,’ Martha remarked, ‘the police never did contact the Martins.’

  Draining my coffee cup I put it on the table. 'This policeman. What time did he call?’

  ‘About four,’ she said. ‘We had just started tea.’

  'Can you describe him?’

  ‘Well, he was rather ugly really.’ She thought for a moment. 'I would say he was in his late twenties or early thirties and quite slim. He had black hair with a middle parting, a thin black moustache and was around Henry’s height.’

  ‘I’m five foot eight,’ Henry said.

  So it wasn’t either of the Greenes. ‘Did you notice the number on his uniform?’

  'He wasn’t in uniform,’ Henry said.

  'How did you know he was a policeman?’

  Henry answered. 'Well -- he told us he was.’

  I didn’t say a word, but the look on my face must have shown Martha what I was thinking. She went rather pale and blurted out in distress, 'But he wasn’t, was he?’

  'I think it’s unlikely. What accent did he have?’

  ‘Ordinary,’ said Henry.

  'Do you mean he spoke as we do? Or like a working man. A cockney, perhaps.’

  'Oh no, not a cockney.’ Martha was quite adamant. 'He wasn’t working class. More middle class. And everything he said was to the point, as if he didn’t have much time.’

  ‘Did he give you his name?’ I asked as calmly as I could.

  They looked at each other and Martha said, 'No, he didn’t.’ She clutched Henry’s good arm in some agitation. 'If we hadn’t explained where George was, he might still be alive.’

  Quickly I assured her, 'He’d have got the information from someone else.’

  ‘Mrs York is right,’ Henry said.

  'Yes,’ Martha said, ‘but why did he want to kill George?’

  I didn’t know why, although I was certain he had done so. The man who’d shot Peter had spoken briefly and to the point, and had not been working class.

  On the way home, thinking about everything I’d learnt, I was convinced Inspector Nabber would listen to me now. But today was only Wednesday and he wouldn’t be back at work until Monday week. If I could identify this man before then----- But how? I had no idea where to look. Yet, there had to be a way of finding him. There simply had to be. I considered the dangers and decided I was quite safe. After all he couldn’t possibly be aware I was looking for him.

  It was then I had a bit of luck. I was idly glancing at the passing traffic when I saw a blue Lagonda being driven at speed in the opposite direction. I immediately turned round and looked out the back window, hoping to see the number plate, but the car was too far away. The charlady had told me that Edward Greene owned a blue Lagonda and she’d even given me the registration number.

  I told myself it wouldn’t be Ginger; there would be many blue Lagondas in London, but this was the first one I’d seen since speaking to the charlady, and I yelled at Al to turn the car round and follow him. He did so at once without asking questions. The Lagonda was only just in sight, and I urged, 'Keep on his tail.’

  Ignoring the speed limit, Al did as I asked, skilfully weaving in and out of the traffic, totally ignoring the car horns of angry motorists, until there was just a lorry between us and the Lagonda. ‘Is this okay, Mrs. York? Or shall I overtake the lorry?’

  ‘Best stay where we are, Al.’ It could be a long drive to his new home, and although I didn’t really expect it to be Ginger, if it was, I didn’t want him to realise he was being followed. I asked Al if he could see the colour of the driver’s hair, but the lorry obscured his view. Nevertheless, I urged, ‘Don’t lose him, Al.’

  Just before we came up to a busy crossroads, the lorry turned left, and at last I saw the Lagonda driver’s hair. It was ginger, and the registration number was the one the charlady had given me. I couldn’t believe my luck. At last something was actually going right.

  My heart began to pound with excitement. If I could follow Ginger, and learn where he and his father were living, then I might be able to find out who murdered Peter. If I did, it would all be due to that observant charlady, and I’d just decided she deserved another ten pounds when the policeman on point duty ruined everything.

  He let the Lagonda through, then held up his hand to stop us, while a long, slow funeral cortege passed. By the time we moved on the Lagonda had disappeared. We tried the side streets but there was no sign of it.

  I got Al to drive back the way we’d come, in case there were any sweet shops along that road where Ginger might have bought a jar of his father’s sugared almonds. Such a shopkeeper might have their address or telephone number. But there were very few shops of any kind on that road, and none at all that sold sweets.

  The only thing I’d learnt was that the Greenes hadn’t gone to France. Which suggested they did have something to hide. Something big too. Something so big, that George Crawleigh had been eliminated to prevent him giving the evidence that might prove Ginger had tried to steal his wallet. But why did Ginger have to be kept out of prison? And what was so important that he had to be set free at once?

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  I was distraught that Ginger had got away, when I’d come so close to discovering where the Greenes lived now, but at least I knew they hadn’t gone to France. When I got home I telephoned the Martins, the couple George Crawleigh stayed with just before his “accident,” hoping they might give me some useful information. Mrs. Martin answered and I arranged to visit them on Friday morning, the first day her husband could manage.

  Until then I had plenty to keep me busy. That afternoon, as I’d told Jean at the weekend, I’d promised to play tennis, a game I enjoyed. Sylvia, a friend who liked to promote international relations, had organised a sociable match between her friends and some younger foreign embassy officials. Johnny, who was invited too, picked me up straight after an early lunch and as we drove out of London, I talked about my east end sports field project, telling him I’d decided to name it after my father.

  ‘The Edward Addingham Sports Association,’ he mused. ‘That’s a great idea. He would have loved that. When do you expect it to be finished?’

  ‘The field shouldn’t take too long to sort out. But I want to convert a disused factory into a pavilion, which might take some time.’

  ‘Well, when it’s all finished, ask the Duke of York to open it. He loves projects that help young people, especially when it involves sport.’ Not long after the war the Duke had founded camps for boys; those from working class backgrounds mixing with public school boys on equal terms.

  ‘That had crossed my mind,’ I admitted.

  Glancing at me, he grinned. ‘I should have guessed. You never miss a trick. Have you met the Duke?’

  ‘A couple of times.’

  ‘And?’

  ‘I like him. His wife is lovely too.’ And I sighed. ‘I wish the King would find someone like her instead of Mrs. Simpson.’ I’d met Mrs Simpson several times at private dinners and house parties, and it was obvious the King was besotted with her. The newspapers had maintained a discreet silence so far, which kept it from the general public, but now he was King that was unlikely to go on for much longer. As Johnny brought his car to a stop at a level crossing, where a railwayman was pulling the gates across the road, I said, 'I heard she means to divorce her husband.’

  He turned his head sharply. ‘Who told you that?’

  ‘Jean. She hears all the gossip. But the King can’t mean to marry her, surely? The country wouldn’t stand for it.’ Neither of us spoke while a long and noisy goods train clattered through, and when the man opened the gates again, I went on, 'It’s a pity the Duke of York isn’t the eldest son.’

  ‘You’re not the first to say that. But the Duke wouldn’t agree with you. The very thought horrifies him. Making speeches is a nightmare with that stammer.’

  ‘Poor man,’ I s
ympathised. But I didn’t pursue it because Edward was King, and the Duke was, at present, his heir. And that’s how it would stay, until the King married and had a family. Which, surely, in the course of time, he would do.

  Sylvia’s house was some twenty miles out of London, situated in such a quiet, secluded area it felt as if we were right out in the country. Sylvia and her husband were keen tennis players, and had two grass courts in the grounds of their lovely Georgian house. Matches were to be one set of mixed doubles, partners to be decided by drawing names out of a hat. There were about twenty players, and I wasn’t drawn in the first eight, and nor was Johnny. We were sitting talking when we heard raised voices coming from the court nearest to us, where Sylvia was formally introducing players to each other.

  A short, rotund, blond-haired, pugnacious looking man, whose accent told us he was from the German embassy, bellowed at Sylvia, ‘Find me another partner. You cannot expect me to play with a Jewess.’

  His intended partner, Sally Goldberg, a pretty girl of nineteen, was in tears. Sylvia just stood there open-mouthed, too flustered to speak. As we all stared at them, Johnny got up without a word, and walked unhurriedly over to the court. Ignoring the German, whose name we later learned was Muller, he went straight up to Sally and said, ‘Miss Goldberg, I would consider it an honour if you would allow me to be your partner.’

  ‘You can’t do that,’ Muller burst out, stamping his foot. ‘This is my match.’

  Johnny turned and looked at him as if he’d just crawled out from under a stone. ‘Not any longer.’

  Muller stormed off the court, still insisting another partner be found for him. Sylvia, anxious to keep the peace, came up to me, ‘Liddy, would you........’

  ‘No.’

  ‘Just this once.’

  ‘No. I don’t play with scum.’

  ‘Liddy, for goodness sake keep your voice down. He’ll hear you.’

  ‘Good.’

  No-one else would partner him and in the end Sylvia had to do so herself. She was a very good player and, as we soon saw, Herr Muller was not. Which she wouldn’t have minded if he hadn’t rudely blamed his frequent mistakes on his racquet, the balls, the height of the net, his opponents and Sylvia herself. Thankfully, the other diplomats were pleasant people and I enjoyed my own games immensely.