Angels Dining at the Ritz

by John Gardner

  Really he was wide awake still. Usually he felt tired by this time, ready to drop off into the land of dreams: and what dreams. He started to giggle and had to clamp his mouth shut, put his hand over it, otherwise Mr Jim Bolitho the head night screw — nurse — would come down and there would be trouble.

  Golly thought he would have to do it all when Mr Bolt was on. Golly reckoned he had the measure of Mr Bolt.

  Chapter Seven

  ‘Weavie, this is Detective Chief Superintendent the Honourable Tommy Livermore. Sir, this is my friend Weavie, from school.’ He didn’t like her saying Honourable, but she had warned him.

  ‘Heard a lot about you, Weavie. Charmed.’ Tipped his hat with a big goofy grin, like Felix the Cat. Suzie wanted to kick him.

  Later he said, ‘You’re right, old dear. She is the most amazingly lovely girl. Adore the hair, glisters like the real thing.’

  “‘Men, when they lust, can many fancies feign.’” She quoted, thinking Sir Willoughby isn’t the only one who can do great poets. Mounty Mountford the moss-brained minge. Little girls are terrible: grinning in her mind, they remembered all the sexual bits like ‘making the beast with two backs’, and the part in Hamlet about lying between a maid’s legs, and country matters.

  But this was on the way to Long Taddmarten, in the afternoon, about half past two, quarter to three. Before that, in the morning, they had gone to the Sands-Ascoli chambers in Lincoln’s Inn, where Willoughby Sands sat behind a desk the size of a tennis court, covered with papers and legal briefs tied up with pink ribbon. The stooped and ageing Clerk of Chambers, Adrian Russell, showed them in, a thin husk of a man, very deferential but seedy — unkempt white hair and slight tremor in his hands. If it had been a film, toothless Moore Marriott might have played him in a grubby suit.

  Willoughby opened his arms in a gesture that said, ‘Welcome, what can I do for you?’ Aloud he said, ‘You have more questions? I came down here early —’

  ‘Good,’ from Tommy, serious.

  ‘…came down here early. I can give you half an hour.’

  ‘Sorry, old love,’ Tommy even more serious. ‘You have to give us as long as it takes. We’re the coppers, Will. You have some of the answers.’

  ‘We’ll see.’

  ‘First off,’ Tommy began nice and relaxed, ‘first off why did you never think to tell me that Jenny Ascoli was an American?’

  ‘Why not? Didn’t play a part in matters. She’s a British citizen…was a British citizen when she died. Spent twenty-one years in Virginia being an American, met Max, became British, gave birth, died British.’

  ‘Yes and living cheek by jowl with a damned great American Air Force base the past few months. Who knows what baggage she could have brought from the States? Just give me the story.’

  Willoughby Sands puffed out his cheeks in a strange blowing motion, filled his cheeks with air and blew it all out, rolling his lips. Twice. ‘Really I don’t see…’ he began, then saw the way Tommy was looking at him and changed his mind. ‘All right… June, nineteen hundred and twenty-eight. Max was invited to speak at a conference in New York. New York Bar Association. Gave two talks on the British Legal System. Crowd of lawyers there, tongues hanging out. Max had a whale of a time, went over and came back on the Mauritania, sister ship to Lusitania, the one the Germans sank — U-boat, 1915. First class of course, all the trimmings, all paid for. Max thought it was his birthday.’ A pause, as though he was about to deliver some great secret, then a frown, ‘I think it was Mauriania, but I could be wrong.’ Shook his head, frowned again.

  ‘On the first night of the return journey he was introduced to Miss Virginia Anstead and her lately widowed mother, Mrs Mabel Anstead. The recently departed husband and father was Senator James Anstead of the Democratic Party, lashings of cash, big spread in Virginia, tobacco; had become a senator almost by default.

  ‘Virginia Anstead was just twenty-one, ma and daughter making their first visit to Europe. Five-and-a-half-day trip to Southampton: Jenny and Max, bingo, hit the jackpot, three cherries in a row — which didn’t endear him to Mabel, who was a somewhat foolish woman, not a social asset. Want more?’

  ‘If there is more. I thought her name was Jenny?’

  ‘Virginia Jennifer Angela Anstead. Preferred Jennifer, Jenny. Told me once that all eligible girls in Virginia were called Virginia. There were jokes about it. Virgin for short but not for long, sort of thing.’

  ‘And that was it? American heiress meets eligible bachelor on board liner?’

  ‘Sailed off into the sunset, yes. Marriage made in heaven, I thought. Jenny was the right thing for him — once she got Ma out of the way.’

  ‘Which she did?’

  ‘In no time flat, don’t ask me how but Ma left straight after the wedding, St Margaret’s Westminster of course. Came back once, ’34 I think, to see her newly born grandson, young Paul. That was it. Hasn’t returned since.’

  ‘And Jenny was happy?’

  ‘As a sandgirl. Loved it, couldn’t get enough — of being a legal wife that is. Brilliant, great organizer, splendid hostess, the whole magic thing. Looked like a permanent honeymoon from where I was sitting. To make their happiness complete the boy came along, Paul, he would be what? Now? When he died? Eight? Around there. Lively, intelligent. Max said he’d teach him to enjoy the good things in life. Jenny clucked around, mothered him.’

  ‘Jenny ever go back?’

  ‘The States? No. Happy being a wife, mother, homemaker all that kind of thing. House in London and the so-called cottage in Norfolk. Max took on a new lease of life. This business is a real tragedy. Dreadful. Disaster.’

  ‘How did she take to the daughter, Thetis?’ Willoughby’s eyebrows shot upwards, surprised. ‘Not supposed to show amazement. Obviously the family’s told you. You’re honoured.’

  ‘No, Will, I’m a policeman. They felt I should know.’

  ‘And I’m used to keeping family skeletons in the cupboard,’ which Suzie thought strange, barrister thinking the family would keep quiet. Obviously Max had never made a secret of being the child’s father.

  As if voicing her thoughts, Tommy said, ‘But it wasn’t a family skeleton, was it? I get the impression that Max was proud to be her father. Didn’t mind who knew.’

  Willoughby burbled, ‘Well, I don’t…I don’t think… What really…?’

  ‘Has she been told?’

  ‘About her father’s death? Yes. A close friend of the family told her mother, who broke it to the girl.’

  ‘And I’m going to have to see her, Will.’

  ‘You are? Yes, of course you are.’

  ‘Where do I find her?’

  ‘With her mother in King’s Lynn. With Paula Palmer.’ He recited an address and Suzie wrote it down in her pocket book.

  ‘Which gets us to Paula Palmer and the accusation against her: the story Betteridge told during his trial.’ Thought for a moment, then seemed to change tack, swerved to the chase. ‘Max had an intense and passionate affair with Paula? They were even on the brink of marriage?’ Raised questioning eyebrows.

  ‘True. I know where you’re taking this, Tommy. Why don’t you sit down?’ Since they had arrived in Willoughby Sands’s office, Tommy had remained standing in front of the desk as though taking the high moral ground to conduct his interrogation. Now he slowly folded himself into one of the easy chairs. There were three of them and a small settee, the room was so big.

  ‘Max had this potent affair, marriage in the wings, almost had the banns read, bought the ring.’ Tommy sat back, contented, hands lying lightly across his stomach, like a man waiting to listen to the King on the wireless after a good Christmas lunch.

  ‘Yes,’ Willoughby brisk, no nonsense.

  ‘And suddenly, when everyone’s expecting to go to St Margaret’s Westminster for the society wedding of the year, they have to put a notice in The Times: marriage between Max Ascoli and pretty Paula Palmer of King’s Lynn will not take place. People go into hiding. Oh, t
he shame of it all. As an Ascoli said to me, “She told Max about the child the day he drove up to break it to her that they were finished.” Will, old love, I need the whole story because the Ascoli in question went on to say, “Max called it off when he found there actually was an Edgar Turnivall.’” Again, Tommy presented the picture of a satisfied, contented and superior man. Suzie knew this to be part of the Livermore effect, his personal interrogation technique. Get the subject to dislike you, heart. Difficult in your case but with me it’s easy, I can turn on a sixpence, become a know-all, clever bugger in a second. Grin, touches his cheek, eyes never leaving Willoughby Sands, Tommy Livermore on the Job, digging away. ‘Edgar Turnivall, Paula’s supposed lover, the one the Betteridges were going to peach to her husband, the mogul Barnard.’

  ‘And if that was true, our Paula would have a great motive because she hadn’t yet drained off enough money from hubby. Makes Paula sound a real cow.’ Tommy straight-faced and unpleasant, spitting it out.

  ‘Doesn’t it? Yes. A dark lady. Absolutely true. All of it. She got a fair old whack of cash from hubby by the by. Worked out very well. Came out of the blue because Barnard had another lady, came in one day and asked Paula for a divorce — just before Betteridge went to trial. Did the decent thing and allowed her to sue, got himself caught with the lady, a Miss Wright — ironic moniker, eh?’ Willoughby grinned at Tommy. ‘Interesting though, she’s a most undemanding lady in some areas.’ Cheshire Cat, Suzie thought. Then, almost a whisper, ‘I told you about Phil Poole, didn’t I?’

  ‘Enquiry Agent extraordinary, yes.’

  ‘As a precaution Max sent Phil off on a search. Told him to turn over every stone and find Edgar Turnivall — this was before the case had even come to trial, when he caught the first whiff of Betteridge’s defence.’

  Willoughby Sands gave a weak smile.

  ‘Give me the full SP, Will.’

  ‘Phil Poole starts scratching around. Really thorough, goes through hotel records, does the voters list locally and, later, in other cities, ever widening circles. Comes up with his hands empty. There is nobody called Edgar Turnivall. Nobody. What’s more he can’t get anybody to say they’ve seen Paula with a man they don’t recognize, not her husband. He comes away with seven Davids, five Alexanders, three Alans, sixteen Dorises, three Ethels and a Patrick — that’s only the young ones. Goes through the parents and the grandparents who’re still alive and takes a look at them. Many are at the other end of the country. Not one, on that first pass, had any connection with Paula and there were no Edgars. Plenty of Turnivalls, no Edgars, nary a one. Phil was a great professional sleuth, did it in his sleep.’

  Willoughby said there wasn’t a stain on Paula Palmer’s character when she left the court. ‘In the clear. And you know however hard people try to hide in an adulterous affair, a private dick always catches them out. Nobody came up with anything: not a whisper, not a hint, not even a, “Well, that woman’s no better than she ought to be. I know because three years ago I saw her crossing the street with another man.” He curry-combed the country, looked at an incredible number of people. Scoured the land, looking for a non-existent man.’

  Tommy shifted in his seat, ‘And in the end, months later, he found somebody.’

  ‘That’s another story, Tommy.’

  ‘It’s an awful lot of work for one man to take on.’

  Willoughby looked up under his eyelids, as if sneaking a peep at some cheat-sheet in an exam. ‘Phil Poole wasn’t just one man, Tommy. Had a regiment of contacts, people out in the world, beavering away, digging down the mines where a million diamonds shine and all that. There they were in council offices up and down the land, in the streets, in shops, newspaper offices, even in police stations.’

  ‘Really?’ Tommy said without enthusiasm. He liked to think that police officers were not there to help passing enquiry agents, private dicks, people whom he regarded as civilians. ‘On the beaches and landing grounds as well, were they?’ Parodying Churchill’s famous speech.

  ‘Phil was a bit like Sherlock Holmes, with his Baker Street Irregulars, Tommy. We paid him well and he paid for assistance. If he hadn’t got friends in police stations — even at the Yard — Phil wouldn’t have got to the truth. If it was the truth.’

  ‘Tell me about it. Will.’ Tommy smiling now.

  Naturally, Max had spent a great deal of his time in East Anglia, doing this that and the other. ‘Mainly the other, and particularly after the trial when the love affair was too hot not to cool down, if I may borrow the song. It was just one of those things, Tom, and on one of those days a police sergeant gave him a tinkle on the blower. Said, “Phil, we’ve got something in the CID storeroom here at King’s Lynn that’ll put hair on your chest. Give you a bit of a start. Put starch in your pencil, so to speak.’”

  Willoughby said that after the murder, and Betteridge’s first statement, the local CID had taken a lot of stuff from Paula’s house — ‘River Walk’, ‘though it was a fair way from the river — River Great Ouse. Overlooked it, panoramic view.’

  Most of the stuff was returned after the trial. Most of it, but not quite all. Willoughby said, ‘You know how it happens, Tommy.’ They hadn’t got round to dealing with some of the things. One in particular: a little box of letters taken from the studio. Letters to Paula from all kinds and conditions of men and women. And to be fair, Paula probably didn’t even remember that one note was there.

  ‘It was quite short but it made old Phil’s heart turn over. “Darling,” it said, dated 28th September 1924 — the Betteridge trial just finishing up in Norwich and Paula Palmer’s name dragged through the mud, then pulled out and dried off by the prosecution — by Max — and the affair was getting stronger every day.’

  The letter said (good, strong hand, no extra flourishes):

  I think we should leave things just as they are for the time being. No telephones and only the occasional letter or card. Destroy this as with the others then keep to the agreed dates, Tuesdays and Thursdays, when this has all blown over. It’s been a long time, but now it’s coming to an end. Keep up the fiction of E.T. I love you for ever and long for the waiting to end.

  Ever yours, Frank.

  ‘Obvious who E.T. was: Edgar Turnivall.’

  ‘A nom de lit,’ Tommy chuckled.

  ‘And you know what was stupid? They all make silly mistakes. It was on printed notepaper, a smart address in Bury Street, spit and a stride from St James’s Palace. Oh, what a tangled web we weave, eh?’

  Tommy had perked up. ‘And?’ he asked.

  ‘And Phil went along and set up shop, initially on Tuesdays and Thursdays but he saw the fellow within a couple of weeks. Smart but a shade dodgy, that’s how he described him. Tall, slim, well dressed, didn’t seem to have a place of work; carried himself well. Phil said he thought chummy was a professional drone. Turned out he was a professional soldier. Guards officer. Francis St John Elph — the Wiltshire Elphs, who were all feeling the pinch, descended from Jean Francis d’Elphe, came over with Duke William, 1066 and all that. Give her her due, Paula didn’t go near… Not till later.’

  ‘Well, she had Max sewn up by then…’

  ‘True, but I couldn’t work out if she’d given Captain St John Elph the heave-ho. I mean it was pretty clear they’d been carrying on a while…or… Anyway, I told Phil Poole to stay schtum for the time being. Till we saw which side the loaf was buttered, eh?’

  ‘Let me guess,’ Tommy smiling now, cheerful as a bug in a rug. ‘You all waited for three or four months?’

  ‘Seemed to be the prudent way.’

  ‘And did she come?’

  ‘March 1925. Met in public and it seemed they were giving their letters and keepsakes back. Met at the Charing Cross Hotel. He was exceptionally emotional. Phil thought this could be au revoir and not goodbye. Happily wrong.’

  ‘He’d told her to destroy the one letter you had?’ Destroy this as with the others.

  ‘Ever known a woman who destroys the
stuff? Not likely, they all hang on to the epistles against a rainy day, Tommy.’

  ‘And you eventually told Max?’

  ‘Knocked him stupid. He was like a crazy man, thought he might do himself a mischief to be honest. Then he calmed down, went cool as the proverbial cucumber. Then he went ice cold. You know that wonderful biblical expression, “And the iron entered into his soul.” That was Max. I think he had loved her beyond belief. I also think he went a little mad.’

  ‘Dashed up there and she told him about the child. He responded by saying it was all over. What did you think, Will?’

  ‘It was odd. Reversal of fortune.’

  ‘When was the last time you saw them together?’

  ‘About two weeks before — maybe three weeks, have to look at my diary for ’25.’

  ‘And how were they? How were they together?’

  ‘It’s a long time ago, but my memory of it was that they were immersed in each other. Laughed, joked, locked eyes, total happiness.’

  ‘Must’ve been difficult for you, knowing what you did — or at least suspecting it.’

  ‘It was all difficult.’

  ‘Then, couple of weeks on you know for certain that there’d been someone else, St John Elph; and you tell Max.’

  ‘Phil told him, showed him the evidence.’

  ‘And he was stunned?’

  ‘Poleaxed.’

  ‘Then he calmly goes to King’s Lynn and tells her it’s all off. What did he say to you? How did he explain it?’

  ‘He said there was no other way. There was a possibility that Betteridge’s story was true. However slight that possibility, he couldn’t risk marrying her. Talked about cutting out infection. Hard, but necessary. Brave devil, Max. Changed man as well. Until he met Jenny. One of the difficult things to remember is how young Max was. In his early twenties yet moving his career uphill fast.’

  There was a long silence, over a minute, and Suzie found she was almost holding her breath.