“When you told Lilly that the man who came to visit them that night was Major Rice, she was upset.”
“Her husband was dead. Of course she was upset.”
“No. That’s grief. This was something else. She was upset that her husband hadn’t introduced Rice to her. She’d heard of him, after all. And he’d been an important figure in her husband’s life. And, from the way she spoke of him, I think theirs was an open and honest marriage. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have been upset by the omission. She would’ve been used to it.”
Max thought about that. Then, nodding slowly, he said, “Okay. But that doesn’t tell us anything. He clearly had other things on his mind.”
There’s something else – and this is where my poor logic takes over – it was the way that Lilly told us of Burton’s leaving. He kissed her in the morning, as he always did. And he told her he’d be back first thing. However urgent the affair, I don’t think he’d have left her worrying about him for a couple of days. Not informing his boss is one thing, but not telling Lilly? I don’t think he’d have done that. Ergo, he expected to be back quickly. Ergo, he probably didn’t expect to go to London. Ergo, something happened between his leaving his home and his arriving in London – something that he, and probably Rice, hadn’t foreseen. And that, my darling logical husband, might explain why he was desperately trying to find you on Friday night.”
Max thought about this for a long time. He’d forgotten his cigarette, which was smouldering away in the ashtray. Finally, he remembered his cigarette and mashed it out. Then he remembered his whisky and drank it. Then he remembered his wife, and said, “I wonder.”
“What?” Martha said, sipping the first of her Martinis.
In reply, Max stood abruptly and said, “Come with me.”
He walked out of the bar. Martha made that peculiar growling noise again and abandoned her Martinis.
By the time she caught up with him, Max was at the receptionist’s desk, speaking to the lady in the flowery dress. Martha heard her say, “Hello, sir. Is there anything—”
Max said, “You said that Rice booked a room for someone called John Crawford. Can you tell us anything about him?”
“About Mr Crawford? No, sir. I can’t tell you anything. He didn’t arrive, you see.”
Max turned to Martha. “I think you’re right. I think something did go wrong – Crawford didn’t show. That’s why Burton didn’t go back home the next day. That’s why he went to London.”
“So, what do we do now?”
“We go and meet Mrs Rice. We go to Lincoln.”
Chapter Thirty-Three
Mrs Rice poured the tea from a Georgian silver teapot into the three bone-china Worcester teacups, all hand-painted with scenes of the Scottish Highlands, lots of Angus cattle and heather. The tea leaves mostly gathered in the metal strainer, with a few floating in the tea.
“I have a mote spoon,” Mrs Rice said. “But I don’t think we’ll worry about that. I don’t mind a few leaves if you two don’t.”
Neither Max nor Martha had any idea what she was talking about, and both chose to say nothing, just in case Mrs Rice should want to explain.
They’d checked into a hotel shortly after arriving, in the late morning of Tuesday. This hotel was close to the cathedral, for which Max had a particular affection. He spent some time on the train journey explaining to Martha the importance of Lincoln Cathedral, and telling her that it housed one of the few original copies of the Magna Carta.
“You have heard of the Magna Carta,” he said, following an extended silence.
“Of course I have. Something to do with revolting peasants.”
“Hmm.”
After booking into the hotel, they freshened up and set out again.
Martha had changed her shoes and was now wearing a pair of lace-up flat-soled brogues. She’d had enough of walking in heels, which were especially unforgiving on the Lincoln cobbles.
They viewed the cathedral from a short distance and walked to the address Max had attained from the directory enquiry bureau. There was only one Major Frederick Rice listed in all of Lincolnshire, and he’d been located close to the cathedral, in a Georgian house near a place called the Eastgate, which, as Max explained at length, was an old Roman ruin.
“Before we meet Mrs Rice,” Max had said, “we have to remember that she wouldn’t know her husband’s dead.”
“Oh, God,” Martha said. “You’re right. I hadn’t thought about that.”
“She’s reported him missing, but only we know he’s dead. So, don’t let it slip out, otherwise she’ll wonder how we know what the police don’t.”
Mrs Rice sat and offered Max and Martha some small, delicate cucumber and smoked salmon sandwiches. Max took one to be polite.
Mrs Rice was a short, buxom woman somewhere at the beginning of her sixties, elegant in appearance and manner. She was wearing a plain grey dress with a white collar and a jet brooch, carved into the shape of a tied ribbon bow.
At first, she hadn’t seemed to know what to make of Max and Martha turning up on her doorstep, asking whether they could speak to her. “I’ve already spoken to the police.”
“We’re not with the police,” Max said. “I knew your husband. I served with him. My name’s Max Dalton.”
There was a look of confusion on Mrs Rice’s face. She said, “I… uh… Dalton? I don’t understand.”
“We’re very sorry,” Martha said. “But it is important. We know your husband’s missing. We…”
“We need your help,” Max said.
Mrs Rice seemed stumped by the intercourse, and could only stammer for a moment, before finally saying, “Have you seen him?”
Max hesitated for a fraction of a second. “I’m afraid not,” he said. “But I… I’ve spoken to the police in London. We might be able to help.”
Still apparently baffled, Mrs Rice eventually invited Max and Martha in and then insisted on going off to make them some sandwiches and a cup of tea, which they were now pretending to enjoy.
The room was pleasant in a Victorian fashion – lots of overdone decorations, bright flowery wallpaper, paintings and prints of the Scottish Highlands, more purple heathlands and cattle and misty castles. It was cosy and stuffy and was making Max feel claustrophobic. It was… very pleasant.
Major Rice’s presence was there, too. A couple of bookshelves were full of neat leather-bound volumes, mostly of military history, all immaculate. On the wall was a framed collection of medals pinned against a white silk backing with Rice’s MC on the left. Next to that was a mounted silver-topped swagger stick.
“We know that your husband booked into a hotel in Peterborough on Wednesday,” Max said to Mrs Rice, “and that he booked a further two rooms – one for a man called Daniel Burton, who served in my platoon during the war, and one for a man called John Crawford, who failed to arrive. Is there anything you can tell us about that? About why your husband was in contact with Mr Burton? And who Crawford is?”
“I’m… uh… I don’t think I know anyone called Burton. Or Crawford. I don’t know what you want me to tell you.”
“Anything that can explain why your husband went to Peterborough.”
“I didn’t know that he did. All I know is that he left here on Wednesday and—”
“And?”
“And I haven’t seen him since.”
“So—”
“Can I get you some more tea?” Mrs Rice said.
She didn’t wait for an answer but stood and lifted the tea tray, cups and teapot included, and walked off with them.
It was at that point that Max and Martha both began to think something was wrong with her, and their exchanged glances conveyed as much. Mrs Rice wasn’t behaving as they thought she might. She seemed lost, bewildered, even. Surely she’d want any help possible to find her husband?
Max took the opportunity to wander around the room, glancing at the photographs and at the books on the shelves.
There were plenty of photographs dotted around, many of them depicting Rice in service. Some were formal portraits of him in dress uniform, but many were of him on active service, standing erect alongside comrades or before a foreign field. Max saw one with Rice and Palgrave together, both young subalterns, tanned, confident. They were standing next to a pale mud hut in what Max assumed was Sudan, or somewhere near. In Palgrave’s hand was a brutal-looking sword – a kaskara.
Then Max saw a book lying on the sideboard. Its spine had been cracked to keep the book open. Max had a closer look, and saw that one page had been dog-eared. He lifted the book and read the lettering on the spine.
With shaking hands, Max read the dog-eared page. There was a single word written in the margin and, in that word, Max’s greatest fear became confirmed.
Max replaced the book and went back to his seat. In a quiet voice, he said, “I think I’m in trouble.”
“What?”
“Rice has a book. It’s over there. It’s a history of the Guards in the war. There’s an account of my Military Cross, and Palgrave’s death, and one word written in the margin.
“Which word?”
Max took a breath and said, “Lies.”
“Oh, Max.”
“I think Inspector Longford was right. I think Rice was investigating my account of Palgrave’s death, and I think he might have something to prove the truth.”
Just as Martha was about to reply, Mrs Rice came back with more tea, and some biscuits. “Help yourselves,” she said.
“Mrs Rice,” Max said, “can you tell us anything at all about why your husband was in Peterborough or—”
He almost said ‘or London’, and realised just in time that if he admitted to knowing that, she’d wonder why. He said, “—or whether he’d had any business recently with old army colleagues?”
“Old army colleagues? My husband retired a long time ago, young man. He occasionally sees General Monroe; they were friends, you know. But nobody else, I believe. He lost his other friends.”
Max sighed and nodded. This was proving more difficult than he’d expected. Either Rice had told his wife nothing, or she simply wasn’t prepared to tell a stranger.
After her third cup of tea, Martha had to excuse herself for a few minutes.
“Upstairs,” Mrs Rice said. “Last door on the right.”
With Martha gone, Max found that Mrs Rice became more introverted, not even looking at him as she nibbled on biscuits.
Max was trying to shape a question that might not seem too onerous or perplexing for Mrs Rice. He was still framing the question when a doorbell sounded.
“I wonder who that could be,” Mrs Rice said.
She left the room. Max heard her open the door and mutter to someone. He heard a man’s voice mutter back. Then the door closed.
When Max looked up, Mrs Rice entered the room, a grim expression on her face. Max was about to ask her whether anything was wrong, but he didn’t need to. Behind Mrs Rice were two police constables, and they didn’t look like they’d been invited for tea.
“I know who you are, Mr Dalton,” Mrs Rice said. “And I know you killed my husband.”
Max jumped up, but there was nowhere to go. The two constables rushed forward, each grabbing and holding one of his arms.
Then Martha came out of the kitchen and walked into the sitting room. “I hope you don’t mind…” she said, stopping suddenly when she saw the policemen.
“Martha,” Max said, “run.”
“What?”
One of the coppers had turned now and had seen Martha.
“She’s part of it,” Mrs Rice said, stretching an accusing arm and finger towards Martha.
“She’s a killer.”
Chapter Thirty-Four
Martha burst out of the house and past the police car parked outside. She ran along the cobbled street for two minutes, before half-collapsing against the side of a tall flint wall.
She felt faint, her heart hammering in her chest. She was hot from the run, and yet the air was cold, reaching into her skin and freezing her throat. She’d left her handbag in the hotel, and her coat at Mrs Rice’s.
She had to think. She was scared.
She looked back to see if she was being followed, but there was nothing that way except the street and houses, and an old man on a bicycle, slowly cycling away from her.
She needed to recover her breath, to calm down. And think.
When she looked around her, she realised she was next to the cathedral. She gathered herself, walked calmly towards it and, entering, took a seat at the back of the nave.
She went into herself, leaned forward in her seat.
Some of the people in the cathedral had noticed her, but to them she was simply a young woman praying ardently, perhaps for a husband who’d been posted to a far-flung part of the empire, perhaps for her child, sick with some life-threatening illness.
In fact, she was trying desperately to think through the course of events that had led to her fleeing to this sanctuary, and which had deposited her on a seat in Lincoln Cathedral with her hands clutching each other while her brain fought her panic.
Mrs Rice came into her mind. They’d been right to suspect something was wrong. So, she’d known of Major Rice’s death before they’d arrived. That meant the police in London now knew, and most likely suspected Max, and Martha, of involvement. Well, that would make sense; there were witnesses who could place them in the hotel.
“Damnation,” Martha said, a little too loudly, causing one young cleric to glance at her sternly.
She sat up, opened her eyes. “Of course,” she said to herself.
She was thinking about Mrs Rice’s appearance, and how incongruous it seemed with the idea that she’d just learned of her husband’s death. But if she’d found out only today or the day before, then she might not have prepared a black dress. That piece of Whitby jet jewellery, though, was an indicator. It was a mourning brooch, and Martha had seen it and hadn’t made the connection, and now Max was in police custody as a result.
“I’m an idiot,” she said aloud.
She was starting to think clearly now. She had to get back to London, speak to her parents, and to Mr Pork. First, she needed to get back to the hotel, change into something more practical and collect their bags. She’d settle the bill and make her way to the station. She’d get the first train to London. Everything would be all right. They hadn’t done anything wrong, after all. And innocent people didn’t have anything to fear, did they?
She felt a terrible sickening feeling inside, in her stomach and her heart.
A couple of hours later, she was sitting in the station tea room, smoking a cigarette and forgetting the tea, which was getting cold on the table in front of her. She hadn’t wanted a drink, but she had to have something to make her appear normal. She didn’t think she’d ever want tea again after that experience with Mrs Rice who, clearly, had delayed them for as long as possible, awaiting the arrival of the police.
Then, as Martha was sitting, gazing vaguely at the people coming and going and coming again, she saw two things that changed the whole situation. The first thing she saw was a man called Ronald Kirby, a plumber’s mate, who was seated on a wooden bench, reading a newspaper.
Chapter Thirty-Five
Max was feeling the cold in his bones. The cell was concrete-grey and damp, with a single bare light bulb hanging eight feet above him and a wooden bench along one side. There was a heavy iron door, painted to match the concrete-grey of the walls, ceiling and floor. In this door was a small glazed eyehole. It was a holding cell; no windows and no sink.
After the policemen had taken him into the station, a desk sergeant had noted his name, date of birth and home address an
d then, leaving for a moment to confer with another, presumably more senior colleague, had returned and said to the accompanying officers, “Right, put him in three.”
So, here, in cell number three, Max had sat and waited and shivered with cold and fear while the greyness around him crept into his bones and made him shiver more.
After a couple of hours, the door creaked open and Max looked up to see the imposing figure of Inspector Longford standing behind the duty sergeant. Longford was wearing a dark overcoat and a trilby hat. The fact that he didn’t remove them told Max what was going to happen.
“I’m afraid your solicitor won’t be able to rescue you this time,” Longford said. “If he even knows where you are, it’ll take him a few hours to get here.”
“Why am I here?” Max said, his voice trembling more than he would’ve wished. “You haven’t arrested me.”
“You’ve been arrested, sir, by the Lincolnshire Constabulary. I asked them to do that on my behalf. You’ll be formally charged when we get back to Scotland Yard.”
With that, Inspector Longford reached into his coat pocket and removed a pair of handcuffs. He unlocked them using a small key, which he kept on the end of his fob chain. He locked one half of the handcuffs over his own right wrist and secured the other half over Max’s left wrist.
“There’s a car outside. It’ll take us to the station. Do you need anything before we go?”
Max shook his head.
“All right, then,” Inspector Longford said as he followed the sergeant out of the cell with Max unable to do anything except trail behind.
The journey to the station went past in a blur. Max felt as though he were caught in some invisible trap, condemned by unknown forces. Longford’s silence made the situation worse. Although Max preferred silence to anything else at that moment, he assumed that Longford’s silence meant he must’ve been feeling confident of his suspicions. But perhaps this was another of Longford’s tactics.
The two men received the occasional second glance from commuters at the station who’d spied the handcuffs, but, to Longford’s credit, he walked closely by Max’s side, keeping his hand low and maintaining discretion. Indeed, the two men, both well dressed, both tall and broad-shouldered, seemed more like colleagues than policeman and prisoner.
Murder Under A Green Sea Page 15