The Ebenezer Papers

by Dawn Harris

  ‘A signed confession?’ I suggested, matching his mocking mood.

  He gave a snort. 'As good as. An envelope containing five hundred quid, the gun that killed Peter Crawley, and Harold Taverner’s telephone number scrawled on a piece of paper, all left in an unlocked drawer.’

  I stared at him open-mouthed. 'You're joking.’

  'I wish I was.’

  'So, the enormous efforts the police made to find Charlie Jones – including the public appeal – that all failed. And now he’s dead, his address and evidence linking Mr. Taverner to the murder drops in your lap just like that. All neatly tied up.’

  ‘Precisely.’ He didn’t mention Burns’ reaction, but that was quite unnecessary. Burns would see it as a Godsend. Monica’s father had admitted using Jones to collect debts, and to threatening Peter. The evidence in Jones’s room was just what Burns needed to arrest Mr. Taverner, and declare the case solved. No questions asked.

  I thought for a moment. ‘Are Mr. Taverner’s fingerprints on the envelope or money?’

  He smiled in satisfaction, as if I’d passed some kind of test, and shook his head. ‘Just Charlie’s. Now, Burns is after promotion, so he wants this case in court as soon as possible, before the public forgets Peter Crawley. He sees it as a clear-cut open and shut case, and if Mr. Taverner is found guilty, execution can follow within a month. So there is no time to be lost.’

  ‘I suppose,’ I said, working things out in my mind, ‘the Greenes must have planted the evidence. They’re experts at covering their tracks.’

  'So it would appear.’ He didn’t actually say he thought Mr. Taverner was innocent, but his reaction to the evidence planted in Charlie Jones’s flat suggested it was so, and immensely relieved, I asked what he meant to do now.

  ‘Leave it with me, Mrs. York.’ As I stood up he said casually, ‘Oh, before you go, would you do me a favour?’

  ‘Of course.’

  He indicated a small package on his bedside cabinet. 'My neighbour brought in my post earlier, but I can’t open it with only one hand. If you’d be so kind----’ I picked it up, opened it and handed it to him, after taking careful note of his home address, suspecting that he probably wasn’t allowed to tell me, and this was the only way I would find out. He thanked me gravely, but his eyes were dancing. 'Well, goodbye Mrs. York and if you remember anything else do let me know.’

  I smiled down at him. 'Yes, I will.’ I thought I had told him everything, except Jean’s name. Yet there was something else. Something I didn’t consider important, or relevant. But I was mistaken. Badly mistaken.

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  Monica finally saw her father on Friday and she called in afterwards to tell me he was exhausted by all the questioning. ‘Burns keeps on at him day and night. But he’s fighting back, Liddy. He told Burns he was buggered if he was going to confess to something he hadn’t done.’

  I laughed in relief. ‘Good for him.’ It couldn’t be easy, but Mr. Taverner had not built up his business empire by giving in to people.

  'He called Burns a trumped-up little squirt.’

  I spluttered, 'I’m surprised he was that polite.’

  'The trouble is, Burns really does think daddy is guilty. He’s not looking for anyone else so how will he ever find the real culprit?’ And her voice broke on a sob.

  This was so true, and I longed to tell her what I’d discovered, but I couldn’t. At least, not yet, in case it gave her hopes that turned out to be false. Besides, if Burns found out Inspector Nabber was still working on the case there would be ructions, so I said, ‘Evidence comes in all the time, and he must examine it.’

  It sounded lame even to my own ears, but she said, ‘I hope you’re right.’

  I hoped I was too. ‘I’m going down to Sussex for the weekend,’ I went on, and suggested she came too.

  ‘Thanks, Liddy, but I want to stay near daddy. And Johnny's got tickets to see Jimmy Durante at the Palladium.’ She hesitated, and then blurted out, ‘Ought I to go, do you think? I mean, it seems wrong to be out enjoying myself when daddy’s in prison.’

  ‘Of course you must go. You need to keep cheerful for your father’s sake.’

  ‘That’s what Johnny says and I do like Jimmy Durante. He really makes me laugh.’

  'How is Johnny?’ I asked, unable to help myself. ‘I haven’t seen him since the fashion show.’

  She looked up at me for a moment before saying casually, 'He's pretty busy with work.’ If he was busy I guessed he hadn’t yet nailed the spy in the secret service. She started to talk about Jean then, who was going down to her country house tomorrow to prepare for a very special celebration.

  Monica sighed. ‘I’m really going to miss her.’ Jean and Arthur had a beautiful house deep in the Hampshire countryside, surrounded by lovely parklands. Kelfield Hall had been in Arthur’s family since it was built in 1636, and they were giving a big weekend house party to mark the three hundredth anniversary.

  The guests included the King and Mrs. Simpson, and a great many members of the aristocracy. Monica was invited, but unsurprisingly couldn’t face a whole weekend of revelry with people being kind about Peter, and not knowing what to say about her father being accused of his murder. But I was going, as was Johnny. Great treats were in store, with a large yacht chartered to take everyone on an expedition round the Isle of Wight, if the weather was suitable. There was to be a magnificent dinner, fancy dress ball, and a treasure hunt. And I was really looking forward to it. But this big event meant Jean wouldn’t be leaving letters in Hyde Park while she was away. And unless she did, how were we ever to follow Ginger and find out where the Greenes lived?

  After Monica left I went to see Inspector Nabber, who answered the door and said, with a grin, ‘I thought you might call.’ He introduced me to his wife; a small, dark-haired woman with intelligent hazel eyes. They lived in a pleasant tree-lined street, in a semi-detached house with bay windows, a small front garden and a much bigger one at the back, which had apple trees and well-maintained flower beds. I was pressed to take tea and a piece of a delicious home-made Victoria sponge, whereupon Mrs. Nabber left us to talk. I learned then that the Inspector had asked Bob Stokes, his retired policeman friend, to go to Hyde Park last Tuesday in the hope of catching Ginger with his blackmail victim. ‘You met Bob at the hospital,’ he reminded me.

  ‘Yes, I remember. He used to be your boss.’

  The Inspector grinned. ‘That’s right. He taught me a lot. Unfortunately he didn’t see Ginger in Hyde Park. Nothing happened at all.’

  I felt guilty for not telling him the woman was really Jean. Her commitment to the fashion show prevented her being in Hyde Park last Tuesday, a fact that had convinced me the payments weren’t weekly. Still, I expressed the kind of disappointment he expected and he went on, ‘As we’ve no idea when the next payment is due and we haven’t got time to hang about, Bob is willing to follow up the sweet shop lead. Luckily he has a car, an old one, but it gets him around.’ He added that the search would, of course, be unofficial, and Bob didn’t want payment, but would appreciate it if we’d cover the cost of his petrol. He mentioned a very reasonable figure and I immediately wrote out a cheque, doubling the amount.

  He thanked me, and gave me his home telephone number in case I needed to contact him quickly, and went on, ‘I tried to get Burns to do something about Edward Greene and his son, but he refused. Unfortunately he must have complained that I was interfering, because I’ve been warned to keep out of the case.’

  ‘I thought the police prided themselves on catching the right man.’

  ‘We do. I didn’t say I was going to keep out of it, did I,’ he said in his delightful mellifluous tones, his voice rising at the end of the sentence. His Welsh accent was not particularly pronounced, except when he became emotional. 'Mind you, I’ll have to be careful.’

  ‘Are you sure about this, Inspector? I don’t want you getting yourself into trouble.’

  ‘Trouble or not, Mrs. York, I can’t
sit back and watch an innocent man hang. I need to be able to sleep at night. Besides, if we catch the real killer my interfering will be forgotten. I think we’re after a big fish here, and I mean to get him.’

  'I wish all policemen were like you, Inspector.’

  He covered up his slight embarrassment by offering me another slice of cake, and I needed no persuading. ‘This is really lovely.’

  ‘Yes, my wife’s a grand cook,’ he agreed proudly. ‘While we’re dishing out compliments, may I say that the evidence you have gathered is a credit to you. My Sergeant couldn’t have done better. You ought to be a copper.’

  Thanking him I couldn’t resist asking mischievously, 'Exactly how many women detective constables are there in the police force?’

  ‘Not one,’ he admitted with a wry smile. ‘Still, maybe one day.’ He drank the remains of his tea. 'Now once I can walk properly on this dratted ankle, I’d like to see the yacht at Hamble.’ And he promised to telephone me when he felt up to it. ‘There might be some clue in the cabin as to the Greenes’ whereabouts.’

  Confident that Edward Greene, an expert at covering his tracks, would never make such a mistake, I retorted, 'I'll bet you five pounds there isn’t.’

  ‘Five bob and you’re on. I’m only a poor copper, you know.’

  I laughed and accepted, certain I’d win, yet hoping I’d lose. And I told him, 'The cabin was locked.’

  He half smiled. ‘Leave that to me.’

  ‘Inspector,’ I declared, pretending to be shocked, 'surely you don’t mean to break in?’

  ’No-one will ever know, I assure you.’

  Al drove us to Sussex on Saturday, and I took Connie too. It was sunny and warm, the tide was on its way out, although the sand was still covered, but I couldn’t resist Tim’s pleas to rush straight down onto the beach, where he happily threw stones into the water. His aim wasn’t too good, but fortunately we had the place to ourselves.

  After lunch, the exertions of the morning sent Tim asleep, and I left him with Connie while I went back to the beach to sunbathe. It was still deserted, but about half an hour later, I heard someone shouting.

  A swimmer, some fifty yards out, was in trouble. I saw him disappear under a wave, and then he came up spluttering, shouting desperately for help. Being unable to swim myself, I yelled, ‘I’ll get help.’ I dashed up the wooden breakwater, meaning to fetch Al, who was a strong swimmer. I’d just reached the substantial hedge that ran along the top of the beach, when I heard the sound of a motor boat. Looking through a small gap in the hedge, I was greatly relieved to see the swimmer being hauled on board. He pointed in my direction, and stood talking to his rescuer without showing any signs of the distress to be expected from a man who, a minute or two ago, had appeared to be drowning. Puzzled, I watched the boat disappear into the distance.

  I walked along a few breakwaters looking for where the swimmer had left his clothes but saw nothing, and I assumed they must be much further along the coast. Returning to the house, I told Al and Connie what had happened. Al said, ‘Sounds real odd to me, Mrs. York.’ It did to me too, but I didn’t dwell on it.

  When Tim woke up he wanted to go back to the beach, and as we turned to go, Connie asked, ‘Would you like us to come with you? In case anything else happens.’

  I laughed. ‘Not unless you want to find yourself building a huge sandcastle with Tim.’

  ‘That’s a great idea,’ Al grinned, and grabbing Connie’s hand, he pulled her out of the chair. Tim loved the extra help and once the castle and moat were built, he amused himself by collecting water in his bucket and pouring it over Al’s bare feet, chuckling infectiously when Al danced around as if the water was freezing. The sea air and all the running about sent Tim to sleep early that evening, and while Al and Connie went for a walk, I sat on the balcony watching the waves running gently onto the sand, thinking about the Greenes.

  I still believed their swift departure from that luxury apartment, the hidden yacht, and the general covering up of their tracks, was to ensure they wouldn’t be easy to find if Jean went to the police. The yacht would enable them to escape with the money already acquired, which made perfect sense, yet I couldn’t rid myself of the feeling that something didn’t quite add up. Which was partly why I’d come down to Sussex, to have a good think about it all.

  It puzzled me that Jean, far from being worried or even pre-occupied, didn’t seem to have a care in the world, although she had always been good at hiding her feelings. Acquiring the money to pay the Greenes wasn’t a problem for her. Arthur was positively rolling in it and he was happy for her to look after their day-to-day finances, insisting she was much more competent than him. I’d often heard him say proudly, ‘Devilish clever woman, my wife.’

  As for having an affair, how she’d found time when she was helping Monica I couldn’t imagine. Until recently though, her only work had been those Tuesday afternoon stints at the PDSA. Evenings were mostly taken up with Arthur, at dinner parties, playing bridge, or at the theatre, opera, ballet, or cinema. The other odd thing was, she didn’t have that glow about her, which I’d noticed in other people who I knew were having affairs. Being blackmailed could account for that I reasoned; it was bound to put a dampener on things. Even so, the whole thing niggled away at the back of my mind. It was like a jigsaw in which the pieces wouldn’t quite fit together.

  I had a lovely weekend with Tim, and he enjoyed playing on the beach so much that I decided to stay in Sussex for a while. The sunny weather looked set to continue, and there was nothing I could do to help the investigation at present. I rang the Inspector to tell him what I was doing, promising to return the instant there was any news, but he had nothing new to tell me. Jean was staying at her country house until the big celebration, getting everything ready, so she wouldn’t be leaving any letters in Hyde Park for the time being.

  It gave me the opportunity too to make notes of everything that had happened, to make sure I hadn’t missed anything vital. I also wrote down what I knew about the Greenes, and prayed that Bob Stokes would find the shop Ginger was using now. I couldn’t see any other way of tracking them down, and the image of Mr. Taverner pacing up and down his cell, being endlessly questioned by Burns until he couldn’t think straight, and then being hanged for a crime he did not commit, preyed on my mind day and night.

  Uncle Freddie came down to see me, bringing Colonel Barrington, and they played with Tim on the beach, behaving like a couple of overgrown schoolboys. Connie and Al’s courtship continued to grow, and it became increasingly obvious that they were now deeply in love. I smiled on them with benevolence, delighted to see them both so happy. I was very fond of Connie and I’d liked Al from the beginning. If they wanted to marry I wished them well. Unfortunately that made me think of Johnny and Monica. Well, I told myself firmly, if they did marry I would have to come to terms with it.

  My parents had shown me what true love really was; always putting the happiness of the other first. If Johnny loved Monica and wanted to marry her, I had to be happy for him, but it wasn’t going to be easy. I decided that if I couldn’t bear to see them together, I’d go right out of their lives and start afresh somewhere else. If necessary, once Mr. Taverner’s trial was over and Inspector Nabber had solved the case, as I was sure he would, I would sell my houses in London and Sussex and move back to Devon, where Tim could grow up, as I had, in clean fresh air, surrounded by green fields and sandy beaches. He would love it.

  I had so much to be grateful for – I had been dreadfully unhappy when I was married to Archie, and his accident had given me back my freedom. I had no money worries and could live a comfortable life. And, best of all, I had Tim. I was very lucky, and I could, and must, be content with that.

  While I was in Sussex I kept in touch with Monica and Jean by telephone, but Johnny didn’t ring me once. The extended break did me good, and when I arrived back in London one sunny evening I felt much more relaxed. I put Tim to bed, read him a story, and watched his eyelids
flickering and finally closing, his teddy bear clutched tightly in his arms. Filled with love for my son I kissed him goodnight, quietly shut his door, and went to telephone Inspector Nabber to tell him I was back.

  ‘I’m glad you rang,’ he said, in his deep mellow tones. ‘I’ve just been talking to Bob Stokes. He’s found the sweet shop and....’

  'Found it?’ I exclaimed joyfully. ‘That’s wonderful.’

  'Well, yes and no. Ginger ordered three large jars of sugared almonds a few days ago, under the name of Brown. And collected them today. Two hours before Bob called in there.’

  I groaned out loud. ‘Had Ginger been there before?’

  ‘No. Nor did he order any more, or talk to the shopkeeper. But we still have the yacht to check out. I can get about now, within reason. I’d like to go tomorrow, if that is convenient.’

  I arranged to pick him up at ten. But it seemed to me that every time we found some new evidence, it led to yet another dead end. I had been so sure that finding the right sweet shop would lead us to where the Greenes were now. As it would have done if Bob had visited that shop a few hours earlier. But that was life. All we had left now was the yacht. If they were using it to escape, maybe a search would tell us something.

  The following morning began with low cloud and rain, soon developing into a gale with bitter cold winds for June. Everything, I thought, seemed to be against us. And if we didn’t find the answer soon Mr. Taverner would end up on the gallows.

  As instructed Al wore casual clothes for this trip, and at the Inspector’s request we went in the Austin. Searching the yacht might take hours and parking the Rolls in Hamble for that long could draw unwanted attention to us. Once we’d picked up the Inspector, Al drove us to Hamble via Alton and the empty roads of the Meon Valley. We had an early lunch at a good restaurant in Fareham, and reached Hamble soon after two. Very few people were about in this quiet village, and leaving Al with the car, the Inspector and I ambled along a grassy path to the creek where I’d seen the yacht. Progress was slow on account of his ankle, which still caused him to limp a little.