Mrs Burton dried her eyes. Martha couldn’t bring herself to look at either of them.
“You was with him a lot, sir?”
“Yes,” Max said, his voice hoarse.
Mrs Burton sniffed and said, “One day, he’d been at the allotment. He loved it there, I don’t know why. Sometimes, in the summer, he spent hours of an evening just working on the allotment. One day he went there, and he didn’t come back. So I went to find him. It was June and it’d been raining for bloomin’ weeks, and his salads weren’t doing too good. When I got there, he was sitting on the little seat he had, and he was staring at the dirt, just staring at it. And I never saw anything as frightening in me life. I mean, it wasn’t him, least, not as I knows him. It was like he was a ghost, didn’t even know I was there. He just stared and stared at the dirt, as if he could see ’em, the men who got buried.”
After Mrs Burton had spoken these words, there seemed nothing left to say. Some moments crawled past as the silence grew deeper, and Max rose slowly, and Martha took his cue, standing also. Mrs Burton was still seated, staring at the floor, a vacant, distant expression in her eyes. “He never really came back, did he?” she said to nobody. “Not properly.”
“None of us did,” Max said.
He bent over, reached out his hand and took Mrs Burton’s, slipping her some folded paper.
When she unfolded it, she was holding a twenty-pound note. She shook her head, held it out. “I don’t want no charity, thank you.”
“It isn’t charity. I owed him this. Last time I saw him, he lent me twenty pounds. I never got the chance to pay him back, though I always meant to.”
Mrs Burton stared at the banknote. “I don’t believe you, sir. Dan would never have had twenty quid to give to no one.”
“Then, if you won’t accept it for yourself, take it for your sons.”
Max and Martha walked out of the house, leaving Mrs Burton with a little money and a lifetime of grief.
Chapter Thirty-One
They were eating – or, more precisely, not eating – dinner in the hotel restaurant. Max picked at his roast beef and vegetables while Martha poked her plaice.
There was a background hum of clinking cutlery on china and quiet talk. The windows pattered with the sound of rain and rattled with the strong gusts of wind.
Max was wearing a grey herringbone suit and a simple silk paisley tie. He’d slipped the jacket over the back of the chair and had undone his top button, loosening the tie so that it didn’t really serve any purpose at all, except to indicate to people that he didn’t care much for the etiquette of fine dining, which he didn’t.
Martha was wearing a pale blue dress, simple and stylish and effortlessly elegant, as were all the clothes she wore.
Each thought their own thoughts, recalling the grief and anger in that small house, analysing the words used, the emotions felt. There was a difference in their musings, though. Whereas Max couldn’t shift from his mind the image of Dan Burton staring into the mud, as Max had often found himself doing, Martha was thinking more of her husband.
Presently, abandoning the semblance of eating dinner, she dropped the knife and fork and pushed the plate away. She gazed at Max, who gazed at his food, or, rather, at a space approximately where his food was.
“That was the first time I ever heard you speak at length about your childhood,” Martha said finally.
Max looked up at her. “I know,” he said.
“Why is that, Max?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t know why I’ve never said much before. I know why I did today.”
“Why?”
He rested his knife and fork on the plate. “I think because I knew her, Lilly. Or, rather, I knew her life. I saw my mother in her eyes, in the lines on her face, years before they should’ve been there, and in her calloused hands. I know what it’s like. Even the house was the same. We had a two-up two-down in Bethnal Green, those wrought iron railings in the front, the red tile polish on the front step, the scullery at the back leading to the small yard where the privy was. And that parlour. It was almost exactly as I remember my parents’ one – the kind of room that the working class thought made them look middle class. When they’d finally managed to live in a house, away from their parents, they seized the opportunity to dedicate one of those rooms as a shrine to their good taste and middle-class behaviour. It was there that they drank from teacups and viewed their Constable prints and received special guests.”
“You sound bitter.”
“Do I? Maybe I am.”
“Tell me about it.”
Max took up his knife and fork again, and continued eating, though with little enthusiasm. “There isn’t much to tell. My dad was a railway man. He died in an accident. Someone hadn’t fastened the rolling stock, and he was crushed by a coal wagon. But you knew that. Afterwards, my mum tried but she couldn’t cope. She spent all her money on gin. I don’t know what happened to her.”
“And that’s when you were adopted.”
“Yes. I was adopted. They were nice, taught me how to speak properly, how to behave in company, that sort of thing. But they were quite old and died too.”
“I’m sorry.”
Max shrugged. “It was a long time ago. I don’t remember it that much.”
Martha pulled her plate closer and made another attempt to eat her fish. “What are we going to do now?” she said.
“I’ve been thinking,” Max said. “About what Lilly said – that Dan left on Thursday, and not Friday, when he arrived in London. And that he went from Peterborough, not Wisbech.”
Martha had finally conceded defeat to her fish. She pushed the plate away. “Yes?” she said.
“Well, suppose he had something to do before he went to London. Something in or near Peterborough. That would explain it.”
“Something to do,” Martha said, “or someone to meet.”
Max’s fork stopped on the way to his mouth. He lowered it and looked at Martha thoughtfully. “Yes. Someone to meet. Yes, of course. That would make sense.”
He thought about this for a moment. “Hmm,” he said. “I wonder.”
“Well?” Martha said impatiently. “What do you wonder?”
“If Burton took the train from Peterborough, it might be the case that he met someone here, on Thursday. Then, Friday, he goes straight to London.”
Martha rolled her eyes and sighed dramatically. “For God’s sake, Max. Tell me what you’re thinking.”
Max smiled at his wife and said, “If you had taken the train from Wisbech on Thursday morning, and arrived here, at Peterborough, and you were planning to meet someone before taking the train to London the next day, where would you arrange to meet them?”
“I… uh…”
“What about in a large hotel near to the railway station?”
“You mean here?”
“It’s likely, I’d say.”
“No. Lilly said they were hard up. He couldn’t afford to stay here.”
“He could, if Rice had arranged it. And I think that’s what he did. After all, he went over to Burton’s house on the Wednesday.”
Martha stood up abruptly. “Well, what are we waiting for?”
“I haven’t finished my dinner.”
Martha made that noise again, the one that was partly a growl of frustration, partly a scream and partly a sigh of despair. It sounded something like this: “Grrraaaaaghhh.”
With that, she marched out.
Several people were staring at Max and, of those, the women were looking at him with particular disdain. Martha’s cry of disapprobation was a familiar call of distress, immediately signalling that the male had done something especially annoying. Or, at least, that was how it seemed to Max.
He dropped his knife and fork, wiped his mouth on the napkin and followed his wife.
The receptionist – who was now a middle-aged lady in a flowery dress – was apparently perfectly willing and able to give out any information about her guests, past, present and future. She left the desk to go and collect the register from a back office.
“I think we need to go and see Major Rice’s wife,” Max said. “We should ask the receptionist if she has Rice’s home address.”
“Are you sure that’s a good idea? After all, she probably knows by now that Scotland Yard questioned you, and that you’re probably the man who murdered her husband.”
Just then, the receptionist returned. She said, “Hello, Mr Tomlinson.”
Max and Martha turned to see a small elderly man with a moustache and a rather frightened expression. He tipped his hat at Max and Martha, apologised for interrupting, received his key from the receptionist and said, “I didn’t hear anything. Not at all. I don’t know anything about anyone getting murdered.”
With that, he turned and left for the bar.
“I wonder what’s wrong with old Mr Tomlinson,” the receptionist said. “He looked very pale. He has heart problems, you see.”
She looked back through the register and said, “Ah, yes. I thought I remembered him. Major Rice arrived here on Wednesday afternoon.”
Max smiled at Martha. “I wonder if we could have his home address?”
“Oh. I don’t believe he left it.”
“Was he alone?” Martha said.
“Yes, no,” said the receptionist. “I mean, he arrived by himself, and booked a couple of rooms under his name.”
“That’ll be one for him and one for Burton,” Max said to Martha.
“No,” the receptionist said. “I mean, he’d already booked his room on Wednesday. He’d telephoned, you see.”
“I don’t understand,” Max said. “He booked one on Wednesday and another when he arrived?”
“No. He booked two more when he arrived.”
“Two? Are you sure?”
“Oh, yes. One, as you said, for a Mr Daniel Burton, and one for a Mr John Crawford.”
Chapter Thirty-Two
“Crawford,” Max said. “John Crawford.”
They were sitting at a table in the small, cosy bar of the hotel. Martha had a Martini before her, Max had a beer. They were both smoking and they were both looking confused.
Around them, the air was thick with smoke and chatter, a convivial atmosphere having developed as the patrons had decided to supplement their dinners with considerable alcohol and cigarettes, pipes and cigars.
“And you’re sure you’ve never known anyone called Crawford?” Martha said.
“Very sure. When Inspector Longford told me that the dead man in London was called Crawford, I was bewildered. And after I realised it was Burton, I forgot the name Crawford. Forgot, actually, that Burton had had the man’s identification on him.”
“It’s a stumper.”
“Yes.”
“Well, look, let’s assume that Rice and Burton knew Crawford, and that they all met here. After all, they had rooms booked, didn’t they?”
“Yes? Go on.”
“Um…”
Max rolled his eyes. “The great sleuth.”
“I’m struggling to keep things in order,” Martha said. “It’s like a murder mystery and we’ve only read half of it.”
Max sipped some of his beer and crushed his cigarette, immediately lighting another. He said, “We need to be logical.”
“You be logical. I’ll be confused.”
“It’s well known that women’s minds are not as competently logical as men’s. You think emotionally, not rationally.”
“Agatha Christie is a woman. And Dorothy L. Sayers. Besides, it’s equally well known that a man’s mind is incapable of performing multiple tasks simultaneously.”
“Nonsense. I’ve been ignoring you and your mother simultaneously for years.”
“Well, that’s true. Now, how are we going to sort out these murders?”
Martha then happened to glance at the next table, and she saw old Mr Tomlinson, the man they’d met at reception an hour earlier. For some reason, he was staring at her and Max with a look of terror on his worn face.
“I beg your pardon,” he said. He stood unsteadily, took his coat from the back of his chair and backed away a few steps before turning and walking quickly.
Martha and Max watched him go. Then Martha turned to her husband and said, “I’m still confused.”
“I’ve just remembered something,” Max said. “When Inspector Longford told me Rice was missing, he said that Rice’s wife had given the police in Lincoln a detailed description.”
“We should be able to find his wife, then.”
“So Rice came down from Lincoln on Wednesday and booked into a hotel in Peterborough. This hotel. And then he booked two other rooms, for the following day – one for Burton and one for someone called Crawford. Next, on Wednesday evening, he goes off to see Burton. We don’t know what they talked about, but Rice returned here later Wednesday evening. On Thursday morning, Burton leaves his home in Wisbech. It would seem that Burton came here on Thursday and then, on Friday, he and Rice left for London, arriving at King’s Cross, where Burton buys a late edition of the Standard. Then they book into a hotel not far from where we live.”
“That makes sense, but it doesn’t tell us much.”
“No, it doesn’t. I think we have to make some assumptions. First, Burton urgently sought me out, and was killed. Rice may have been killed after that or while Burton was on his way to meet me, but not before.”
“Why not?”
“Because if Burton had known of Rice’s death, I think he’d have called the police. So, it’s logical, I think, to assume he didn’t know of Rice’s death. And, most probably, Rice didn’t know of Burton’s.”
“Right. I understand that. Except…”
“Except what?”
“Well, what if Burton killed Rice?”
Max downed some more of his pint and lit another cigarette from the dog-end of the one he was smoking, which he dropped into the ashtray. “I suppose that’s possible, but I don’t think so. No, they must’ve trusted each other enough to do whatever it was they were doing.”
He took a drag of his cigarette and blew the smoke out slowly, watching it dissipate, as if his thoughts were dissipating too. “Second, Burton hadn’t been expecting Rice to call on him, so the affair – whatever it is – was unknown to Burton until then, but not to Rice. Which leads on to point three: Rice must’ve been acting urgently, and thus on information he himself had only just learned and which he told to Burton that night.”
“Why?”
“Because of what Lilly said about the night Rice arrived. Burton hadn’t been expecting him, didn’t introduce him. And Rice apologised for interrupting their evening.”
“‘I’m sorry to inconvenience you, Mrs Burton.’ That’s what he said.”
“Exactly. So it wasn’t a pre-planned meeting. So, Rice’s actions were urgent. Next: after Rice went to see Burton on Wednesday, he must’ve told him to meet him here, at this hotel, the next day. Why else would Rice have booked the room for him?”
Martha then became excited, tapping Max on the arm. “And what about those men who were trying to break into our flat? They’re involved in it. They must be.”
“True. And one had a flick knife. He might’ve killed Burton. And Rice. But, then, why were they at our place? What were they after?”
Martha shrugged. She was becoming confused again. “Tell me about Rice,” she said. “You’ve told me about Burton, but I don’t know much about Rice.”
“Well, he was a company CO, but not my company, so I didn’t know him too well, but I knew him enough. He was an old regular – meaning he’d been a professional soldier before the war started. I think he’d fought the
Boers as a young subaltern, and the Mahdi’s dervishes.”
“The what?”
“Sudan. A man they called the Mahdi established a caliphate and kicked the British out – you’ve heard of Gordon and Khartoum. Well, Kitchener led a force to retake Sudan in ’98. Tough campaign.”
“What sort of man was Rice?”
“He was one of those even-tempered men,” Max said, before adding, a little acidly, “the kind that England breeds to lead the rest of us.”
“Max.”
“Sorry. Well, let’s see. Like I said, I didn’t know him that well, but he always seemed calm under pressure, experienced, I suppose. He won the Military Cross, but I forget when. He was dull, really. A company man, so to speak.”
“Logical? A good administrator?”
“Exactly.”
“And he was friends with Captain Palgrave.”
“Yes. They’d known each other for years, were regulars together. Palgrave was younger, so he might not have been as experienced.”
“Is that why Palgrave wasn’t as calm as Rice? Is that why he panicked in the shell hole?”
Max thought about that. “We all have our breaking point. That was Palgrave’s. The gas, I suppose. It could’ve been Burton or me just as much as Captain Palgrave.”
He stood up, drank the rest of his beer and said, “I’m going to get a whisky. Would you like another Martini?”
“Yes. A large one. Actually, make it two large ones.”
“I’ll buy a bottle of gin and put an olive in it.”
While he was gone, Martha tried to follow some of Max’s reasoning regarding Burton and Rice. Instead, she found her mind wandering back to their meeting with Lilly Burton.
Max returned and put their drinks down – a large whisky for himself, and two large Martinis for Martha. “Since we’re making assumptions,” she said, “and since I’m clearly not up to logical ones, I’ll make an emotional one: whatever Burton and Rice were doing, it must’ve been terribly important. But I don’t think Burton realised it would be, or, perhaps, he didn’t expect to be as involved as he became.”
“Why would you think that?”
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 14