No Human Enemy (Suzie Mountford Mysteries)

by John Gardner

  The transcript continued:

  DI MOUNTFORD: Look, Eric…

  TOVEY: No need for you to be familiar, miss. No need at all. I am Mr Tovey.

  So, the transcript continued for several more pages of cut and thrust of questions and parry by Tovey who, to use Suzie’s description, ‘hurled the words back at her like throwing bricks’.

  ‘Or, perhaps, darts?’ Tommy Livermore queried.

  She told Tommy that she should have hit him with her version of the truth straightaway. Hit Tovey, that was.

  ‘And what is your version?’ Tommy asked, and she looked at him as though he was half daft.

  ‘Two families…’ she started and Tommy muttered, ‘Both alike in dignity.’

  ‘Families lived cheek by jowl: one a servant, the other the master…’

  ‘I hardly think Eric Tovey thought of himself as a servant. Gardeners don’t. The garden is always their garden; the flowers are their flowers; the veg is their veg.’

  ‘OK, Tommy, but they still lived cheek by jowl and the kids all grew up together. Then both the wives flipped. One ups and leaves home, the other takes to the bottle. I haven’t worked out the dates yet but I reckon the reason was the same.’

  ‘And the reason was…?’

  Kath went wrong, Tovey had said. Then Lees-Duncan had commented on his wife – Poor Isabel.

  ‘Dulcie wasn’t Eric’s daughter. She was John Lees-Duncan’s daughter.’

  ‘Prove it.’

  In her head she heard Tovey again – (John Lees-Duncan) knew her as well as I did. Maybe better’n I did.

  Then Willow – Daddy rode over Mummy like a bloody traction engine rolling out the tarmac.

  ‘Lees-Duncan’s almost admitted to it,’ she told Tommy. ‘No, I can’t really prove it, but I know a man who’ll give evidence.’ She thought of the butler, Sturgis, and prayed that he would give up some of the family secrets.

  ‘You may know it to be true,’ Tommy had said. ‘You may know it, but if you can’t prove it…’

  ‘Tommy, the meanest intelligence could…’ She stopped. The meanest intelligence. Lawks, one of her dreaded stepfather’s favourite expressions. She was ashamed of herself for using it.

  ‘I think you’re right, heart. There’s little doubt. But we’re going to have to get something solid. One of ’em’s got to admit it out loud and in front of witnesses.’

  This was after Tommy had finally curry-combed all the paperwork and returned to the flat in Upper St Martin’s Lane.

  ‘I’m cock-a-hoop,’ he said, coming into the sitting room. James Mountford looked up from reading the official-looking letter that had just been delivered to him by dispatch rider.

  ‘It’s good to be back,’ Tommy rubbed his hands together briskly, dropping a file of papers onto one of the side tables, the photographs of Michael and Gerald Lees-Duncan spilling out from the papers. ‘So how’re you, young James? How’s the foot?’

  ‘Lot better, Tommy.’ He came over and peered at the photographs. ‘Pair of right Harrovian thugs you’ve got there, all right.’

  ‘Not sure about the Harrovian bit but they’re certainly a pair of thugs. That one’s no longer with us, by the way,’ touching the picture of Michael Lees-Duncan.

  ‘Sorry to hear it.’

  ‘I’m not. Bloody murderer. One of the reasons that I’m cock-a-hoop. Solved my murder up in Sheffield.’

  ‘Well, I won’t be around for long.’ James eased himself into a chair. ‘Got my marching orders.’

  ‘Oh. Good. Suzie around?’

  ‘Not back yet, Tommy. Want to hear about my posting?’

  ‘Let me guess: they’re sending you to Brazil, where the nuts come from.’

  ‘I’m to be OC the Royal Marines Detachment at George Street. How about that?’ George Street was shorthand for the Cabinet War Rooms, the underground bunkers, fashioned from the chambers below the Public Works Building on the edge of St James’s Park and Horse Guards Parade. Only relatively few people were aware of this sophisticated shelter, but Tommy was obviously one of them.

  ‘You’ll have to be smart on that one. You’ll be up to your arse in generals and cabinet ministers, not to mention the prime minister.’

  ‘Absolutely. I’ll have my fingers on the pulse of history.’

  ‘Well, you watch it, laddo. Fingers near the pulse of history sometimes get burnt. And you have to be ready with the odd bon mot.’

  ‘Such as?’

  ‘You know the kind of thing – “the lights are going out across Europe, we shall not see them lit again in our lifetime.” Good stuff like that.’

  ‘I think I’ll leave that to Winston,’ James said, sounding most serious, and at that moment Suzie walked in.

  ‘Ah-ha, the good old English Tom is back home at last.’

  ‘Just dropped in for a saucer of milk and the odd fish bone.’

  ‘Super to see you, Tommy.’

  James hardly acknowledged his sister, still staring down at the photos. ‘You say this one’s dead?’

  ‘Shut up.’ Tommy sounded like a bad ventriloquist.

  ‘Well. How?’

  ‘Tell you later, old boy. Got adult things to do now.’

  She walked across the room to him, conscious that she was being provocative in the way she moved, and he took her into his arms, one thigh between hers as he hugged and kissed her, whispering in her ear. ‘I have a nice present for you, Suzie darling. When you’ve got a minute.’

  She looked over at her brother. ‘We have a lot of business to discuss. See you later, brother dear.’

  ‘He said he was cock-a-hoop.’

  ‘Did he now.’ She led Tommy away, his face wreathed in smiles, as they say.

  ‘Cock-a-hoop.’ She gave him an arch look.

  ‘Plenty of one and not much of the other,’

  ‘Oh, Tommy!’

  Later, in their bedroom she raised herself on one elbow, looked down at him and said she’d done as he had asked.

  ‘I know, heart, and you’re magnificent.’

  ‘No, Tom, I’m talking work. I did as you asked: about the Haynes family. Mr and Mrs and little Doris who became Doris Butler. The late Doris Butler, née Haynes.’

  ‘Solved the murder.’ Tommy grinned and looked self-satisfied.

  ‘So you said. You want to hear what I discovered? It’s interesting, I promise.’

  ‘Go ahead. But nothing would surprise me about Doris Butler now.’

  ‘She was German.’

  ‘I wondered.’ He sat bolt upright as though a trap had been sprung behind him. ‘She was. Really?’

  ‘So were her mum and dad. Came over from Frankfurt in 1932. Changed their name from Hahn. Carl and Lottie Hahn. He was a qualified chemist and of course it was long before Hitler came to power. Lottie Hahn was originally Charlotte Fisher.’

  ‘Related to Jeremy, I suppose.’

  ‘Tommy, shut up and listen. This could be important.’

  ‘Oh, it is, old darling. It’s very important.’

  ‘So important I think your friend Berry should know about it. His investigation originally, wasn’t it?’

  Tommy nodded but didn’t say anything. ‘Berry should be out doing traffic duty in the Kalahari.’

  ‘He sounds hopeless.’

  ‘Outside the Yacht Club. No, the Kalahari hasn’t got a Yacht Club, has it? I’m thinking of the Gobi.’

  ‘In a minute you’re going to tell me that you’re personally going to make sure Berry never handles a case again.’

  ‘You’re right. I’m going to see to it personally.’

  ‘But they were German – at least he was, so I suppose Doris was … technically.’

  ‘A German murdered by a pro-German. Well, pro-Nazi. I have a theory about what they were up to.’

  James was just greeting his Maren friend when Suzie and Tommy finally emerged, dressed and more or less in their right minds.

  ‘Shan’t be late. Emily’s got to get back by midnight or she’ll not
get use of the jeep again for some time.’

  ‘This a regular thing with the Wren?’ Tommy asked.

  Suzie said it seemed to be and he grunted. They went out to eat – the Savoy, Tommy’s treat, but were back in bed again by midnight.

  Just as Suzie was sliding into sleep, Tommy stirred. ‘You talked to the parents of the other dead novice, heart? What was her name? Parson father? Harding, was it? Sister Bridget Mary?’

  ‘There hasn’t been time, Tom. I’ve been up to my ears with the bloody Lees-Duncans.’

  ‘Do it tomorrow then. And what about the third one? The one in hospital. Sister Monica?’

  ‘Tomorrow, Tommy.’

  Bugger, she thought, then of course couldn’t get to sleep: tossing and turning all night with Tommy snoring like a doodlebug all the time.

  CHAPTER TWENTY

  Suzie dozed off at around five and woke with a start at seven feeling depressed and anxious, knowing immediately that she would have to go to the convent today.

  Urgently.

  Worse, the nuns seemed to be blessed with second sight. As she was organising transport – Tommy had to be at the Yard all day, ‘Dealing with bloody Berry,’ he said ominously – when Billy Mulligan came on the line. ‘Message for you, ma’am.’ The ‘ma’am’ sounded heavily laced with friendly insolence: Billy always thought of Suzie as a kind of superannuated schoolgirl – at least that’s what Suzie thought.

  ‘It’s them nuns…’ Billy said.

  ‘Yeees?’

  ‘Nun called Monica. Was in hospital after that doodlebug at the convinct. Wants a word.’

  ‘She’s out of hospital then?’ She was sure he was taking the mickey.

  ‘So it would seem, ma’am.’

  ‘Tell them I’ll be in today. The chief’s okayed Brian to drive me and I’d like to take Shirley.’

  Billy said Brian and Shirley would pick her up in half an hour. Tommy was making his own way in, but his parting shot was that she’d better remember the other parson – ‘The one out near Bedford Park. Nun’s father. Sister Bridget Mary’s Pa.’ Tommy never missed a trick.

  Memory like a Hefalump, Suzie thought.

  ‘Leave the talking to me, Shirl,’ she told Shirley Cox as they arrived in Silverhurst Road. ‘Take notes. Check and double-check. OK?’

  Mother Rachel and Sister Eunice were waiting for her. Suzie had telephoned before leaving home and the gatekeeper led them straight to Mother Rachel’s office: the big room with the tall windows looking down on the cypress-flanked path to the chapel.

  The scent of the place came up and whacked her in the face: the mixture of polish, incense and an almost tangible calm, taking her straight back to her schooldays at St Helen’s among the sweet rise and fall of plainsong and the quiet-spoken nuns who taught her. Quiet-spoken, that was, until tempers became frayed. The English teacher, Sister Mary Joseph, whose tones rose to a screech and who was not averse to rapping you across the knuckles with a springy twelve-inch ruler. Indeed there were passages from Shakespeare that always brought back a sharp agony to Suzie’s fingers. They said you couldn’t remember pain, but she’d like to differ.

  Both of the nuns were standing by Mother Rachel’s desk, all traces of bonhomie gone, replaced by sober, almost gloomy, expressions. Sister Eunice was red around the eyes, as though she had been weeping.

  Mother Rachel took a step forward and placed Suzie’s hands between her palms. ‘We’re so glad it’s you, my dear,’ she smiled, but without any twinkle. ‘We were concerned that it might be your colleague, Mr Livermore. He seemed a rather stern person and we were worried for poor Sister Monica.’

  Stern? she thought: must remember to tell Tommy what an effect he’s had on the nuns.

  Mother Rachel gestured towards a chair, and Suzie seated herself. Shirley Cox had moved a wooden stand chair into a corner and now sat there, quietly, as though not wishing to be noticed, notebook on her thigh, pencil poised.

  ‘And it’s really all my fault,’ wailed the Novice Mistress, her voice catching in a little sob.

  ‘Don’t be foolish, Eunice. It’s as much my error as yours.’

  ‘What error?’ Suzie asked.

  ‘The day of the doodlebug,’ Mother Rachel began. ‘That Sunday morning, early. We were both spending the weekend at our Farnborough house, the house of the Holy Family. You may recall…’

  ‘I recall it very well.’ In her head she had a picture of Mother Rachel’s anger on discovering nobody had warned her about the V-1 and the deaths here at the Mother House.

  There are forty-five sisters in the convent and nobody had the wit to telephone our house in Farnborough, our house of the Holy Family, to inform us of this tragedy.

  ‘Early that morning we watched the postulants being driven away from the Holy Family. Starting on their journey to this convent, to prepare for taking their final vows. Three of them. A precious trio.’ The Mother Superior’s voice rose as she rapped out the names, ‘Sister Bridget Mary, Sister Theresa and Sister Monica. All three were novices actually. We watched them board the little bus that had come over from here, driven by Mr Taylor. We watched them.’ She was screeching now. ‘One two, three,’ a long pause, ‘four.’

  Irreverently Suzie thought of the popular song: We three, we’re all alone … My echo, my shadow and me.

  Then the full significance hit her: four of them, starting their final journey towards death. Suzie gulped.

  Sister Eunice said they both knew well enough that there were only three going to the Mother House. ‘Yet we stood by as four sisters boarded the bus. Stood there and waved to them.’

  ‘Didn’t question them. Didn’t see what was wrong. Four not three,’ the Mother Superior all but shouted. ‘And neither of us recognised the fourth. Sister Michael, so called. No wonder we didn’t recognise her. Neither of us was alert. It could have been Hitler getting into that vehicle.’

  ‘If we had questioned the fourth there and then this would never have happened.’

  ‘If we’d just realised there was a fourth.’

  ‘But we stood there,’ Mother Rachel’s lips were pursed. ‘We stood there. Like Patience on a monument.’

  Suzie felt a reminiscent springe in her right knuckles. She knew too well how it could be. One quick distraction, a moment slipping from concentration. But, she argued with herself, playing devil’s advocate, these were disciplined women, holy women, used to meditation and prayer both of which demanded extreme attentiveness. Would their minds so easily slide from the fact of the situation? She decided they would. It could happen to anyone.

  ‘And Sister Monica?’ she asked, returning to the task at hand.

  ‘Well, you know she was terribly injured.’

  She nodded. To be truthful she only remembered that Sister Monica had been unconscious and they had not been able to see her at the hospital.

  Sister Eunice said Monica had suffered broken ribs, a broken arm, head wounds and severe shock, and Mother Rachel continued. ‘She’s still not sure what she saw and heard. I think some of it seems like a dream to her. Indeed, some of her memories are so extraordinary, so unpleasant, contain such heavy mortal sins, that…’ She foundered for words, stuttering slowly to a stop. ‘To my old mind it’s almost unbelievable. I mean, I knew that Theresa had lived a full life. We had a long talk when she first arrived here. A lot of women are concerned about their past lives – if they’re fit to become members of the order, if they’ve lived in the world for a long time, partaken of the fruits of life. My personal view is that the more they’ve experienced the better religious they’ll make. But you must hear for yourself.’

  She seated herself behind her desk and pressed a bell-push near the telephone. A moment later there was a knock at the door and a nun, wearing a white veil, as opposed to the grey of the order’s habit, appeared, pushing a wheelchair in which Sister Monica sat – a small woman, slight, hunched, shrunken, and with a dreadfully pale face, except for her left cheek which was seared red raw, puckering the sk
in.

  Sister Eunice introduced the white-veiled nun as Sister Constance, adding that she was one of the four trained nursing nuns belonging to the order.

  ‘And this is Sister Monica,’ Mother Rachel said, and Monica flinched, looking as though she was trying to get her body through the back of the wheelchair.

  Suzie offered her hand and told her who she was, looking into the little nun’s pale grey, frightened eyes. The handshake had no grip to it and the nun’s palm was cold and damp.

  ‘I think we’d better leave you alone.’ Mother Rachel shepherded Eunice and the nursing nun to the door, turning back and stooping towards Sister Monica as she passed the chair.

  ‘Sister, there’s no need to be afraid of Miss Mountford. She understands. Just answer her questions as truthfully as you answered me.’

  Monica gave a small nod, barely perceptible; Mother Rachel sounding somewhat condescending.

  ‘There’s no need to be any way frightened, Sister Monica.’ Suzie told her as soon as the door closed behind Mother Rachel and the other two sisters.

  ‘I … I’m not frightened of you.’ The voice was, like the person, slight, piping, pitched high. ‘I’m just … well, I’m just frightened all the time. It was so horrible and, to be honest with you, I can’t sort out what I remember and what I dreamt. Some of it is so awful that I can hardly believe it’s true.’ She gave a nervous little glance behind her, as if checking that Mother Rachel had left the room, and Suzie saw that she was forcing her hands down into her lap as if trying to stop them shaking.

  ‘Tell you what,’ Suzie began, ‘let’s just take it one step at a time. You do know that you had a man with you, dressed as a nun?’

  ‘Oh, indeed, yes. Sister Michael.’

  ‘How did that happen? How on earth were you taken in? Or were you not taken in?’

  ‘Sister Michael just appeared, joined us at the door as we gathered to leave. Some of the sisters were outside close to the little bus Mr Taylor had driven from the Mother House.