by Mark Ellis
“Is he now? Never mind. Let’s see what we’ve got. The scientists didn’t find much when they dusted for prints, as I recall?
“They did find a few partial prints, apart from Miss Harris’ own prints that is. There’s a list of what was found right here.”
“Partials won’t be much use to us unless we find a suspect.”
The Sergeant’s eyes skimmed down the forensic report. “Says here that they aren’t very clear and it will be difficult to prove a match.”
“We’ll just have to rely on old-fashioned detective work then. Let’s get everything out. Is this the only box?”
“I left the box with her clothing downstairs.”
“I see. We’ll have a look at that later, although I think the main point of interest there is that some of it was very smart – a friend must have bought her some expensive outfits or given her the money to get them.” Moments later, Merlin stood gazing sadly at the pile of objects set out on the floor, the pathetic remnants of a short life. There were the china cats and dogs which had been on her mantelpiece and the little clock which had been next to the modest book collection. Merlin reached over Joan’s collection of toiletries to pick up her edition of Huckleberry Finn.
“Here’s the inscription I mentioned to you.”
“Beg pardon, sir. This is a bit of a bugger.”
The Sergeant was struggling with the lock mechanism of a small black box which Merlin didn’t recall seeing before.
“It’s a book inscription to J, presumably Joan – it says ‘To J. Hope you enjoy it as much as I do. Good luck with everything. Your friend J’.”
Suddenly the black box snapped open and something shiny spilled out on to the carpet. Bridges picked it up and whistled as it caught the light – a delicate gold necklace on which hung a small pendant encasing a single pearl.
Merlin took it and held it up to the light. “I’m not an expert but I’d say this was a superior piece of workmanship. There’s some fine design work here around the edge of the pendant. These swirling floral designs are quite special, I think. Quite unusual. No name on the box, I suppose?”
“No.”
“Shouldn’t be impossible to track down where this came from, given its quality and singular nature.”
“No, sir.”
Merlin carefully placed the necklace back in its box and sifted through various other unilluminating objects before coming at last to a small package of papers, wrapped in green ribbon.
There were four letters, a couple of bills, a theatre ticket stub and an advertisement for a book sale cut out from a newspaper. The ticket stub was for the performance of a revue at the St James’ Theatre dated Friday November 19th 1939. “Jack Buchanan. One of your favourites, Sergeant.” Merlin turned to the advertisement. “‘A Hatchards sale. Classics at bargain prices’. Determined to improve herself, wasn’t she?”
One of the bills was from a Dr Jones. Dated January 3rd 1940, it referred to services rendered by way of consultation and tests and was for the sum of five shillings and six pence. There was a signature at the bottom confirming receipt. The other was from the Grand Hotel, Brighton. It covered the cost of a double room for the night of Saturday 18th November 1939. The bill listed the room charge and various meals and drinks consumed. It was charged to a Mr and Mrs Brown. “Looks to me like she had a wonderful weekend. Theatre on Friday night followed by a champagne-filled weekend at Brighton’s best hotel. Knocked someone back thirty quid.”
“Wonder why she kept the bill?”
“A souvenir? The theatre ticket likewise?”
The first of the letters wasn’t dated but the envelope was postmarked December 4th. The scrawl was not easily decipherable nor was the signature at the bottom. At first he thought that the signature was Joseph. On second thoughts, he thought it might be Janet. “What do you think?”
Bridges turned the letter sideways. “Looks more like Jumbo to me.”
“Thank you. Most helpful. I don’t think that the author of this scrawl was the author of the Huckleberry Finn inscription.” He made a second attempt at reading the letter. “I think it’s probably from a sister or brother – just a family letter updating Joan with developments in Gloucestershire.”
The next letter was Joan’s original letter of appointment from the Embassy. The terms and conditions warned that only the highest standards of behaviour would be acceptable in her employment. It was signed by Miss Edgar.
The third letter was in an unstamped plain envelope addressed simply to “Joan”. Inside was a short undated note on plain notepaper. Merlin read it out: “‘Will see you in Piccadilly (next to Eros) at 6pm. Looking forward to a wonderful time. J x’.”
There was no envelope for the final letter which was crumpled and torn. Most of the top half was missing. “I think the signature’s the same as on the doctor’s receipt, Sergeant. And what’s this – ‘nancy test – negative’?” Merlin held the letter up to the light. “Looks like the bill for five and six was for a pregnancy test from this Dr Jones – a test that proved negative.” He passed the letter to Bridges.
“Perhaps this was the letter Miss Foster saw her crying over?”
“You’d think a letter like this to an unmarried girl would be a source of relief rather than unhappiness.” Merlin closed his eyes and rubbed his forehead. “But what if… what if Miss Harris had set her heart on someone – ‘J’ perhaps – and hoped she was pregnant as one way to catch and secure him?”
Bridges shrugged his shoulders. “Maybe.”
Merlin rose slowly and stiffly to his feet. “We have to find out who ‘J’ is. I think this necklace might be our best bet. You’ll need to check out all the major jewellers. And we must get on and identify this Dr Jones. There’s no address on the invoice, which isn’t very helpful. And we need to check out the hotel in Brighton.” Merlin sucked in his breath, then exhaled slowly. “I wish to God we had some extra hands. We also need to get some background on Morrie Owen from Vice, assuming they’ve got any. We need to check out who owns the mews house where Johnny took Kathleen, and I’d like to put a tail on Owen and Norton. Then there’s all the other stuff I’m meant to be keeping an eye on.”
“Can’t you speak to the A.C.?”
“I’ll try. Meanwhile, let’s start picking off the tasks. It’s too late to start with the jewellery shops. You can start that tomorrow. Perhaps you can also check out how many Dr Joneses there are in West London. I’ll have a chat with Jacko Niven in Vice. See what he knows about Owen. And where the hell is that Morgan forensic report? We’re supposed to have it by now.”
CHAPTER 10
Tuesday February 6th
Arthur Norton jerked awake. There was a banging sound somewhere. For a moment he thought it must be morning and he could hear the garbage collectors at work. He found his reading glasses and in the weak light of the bedside lamp saw from the alarm clock that it was a quarter to one. His senses gradually returned to him. A wave of pungent perfume rippled over him. He could see items of female clothing hanging from the bedposts and he remembered that he was not alone.
A pretty head poked itself around the bedroom door. “Got any milk, darling?”
“It’s in the icebox.”
“In the what?”
A petite naked body followed the head through the door.
“In the refrigerator. Next to the sink, Edie. It keeps things cold.”
“Oh, I thought that was your boiler or something.” Edie ran back out and reappeared with two glasses of milk. “I had a dreadful thirst. Must have been that champagne you poured into me. You had quite a bit too, so I thought you might fancy a glass.”
“No, no milk for me thanks.”
Edie shrugged and slid back into bed as Norton took a bottle of Johnny Walker from his bedside cabinet. “Fancy something to put a bit of zap in it?”
She grimaced and shook her head before drinking half of her milk. “Never seen one of those refriderators, or whatever you call them, before. Wonderful. Th
e milk is lovely and cool.”
Norton’s left leg brushed against hers. “I was lucky to find you again. I thought the policeman might have scared you off that pitch.”
“You’ll find me most nights in the Square. Coppers ain’t normally too fussy.” She finished her drink and wiped her lips. “I’ll be off now then. Ta very much.” Norton rolled over and put his arm across her breasts.
“Don’t go yet. How about some more fun?”
“Sorry darling. You’ve paid me a couple of quid and you’ve had a couple of quid’s worth. I’m tired now and I want to get back home. It’s been very nice but I’m off.” She tried to get up but Norton tightened his grip.
“Sweetheart. Money’s not a problem. If you want more I’ve got plenty. Come on. Don’t be a spoilsport.” His arm moved down her body and he stroked her left thigh. She sighed with resignation. “Alright then, lover boy. I’ll stay another half-an-hour but it’ll cost you another two quid.”
His hand slid to the crinkly dark bush of hair between her legs.
“Hang on! Money first!”
“OK. OK.” Norton withdrew his hand and got out of the bed. Staring down at his flabby chest, he became self-conscious and threw on his dressing gown. He went to his wardrobe and rummaged around in his clothing. As he did so he realised he was drunker than he had thought. He stumbled and fell clumsily to the floor. The wardrobe teetered, dislodging a pile of papers and a large cardboard box from its top.
“Are you alright, darling?”
Norton rubbed his knee and winced. “Yeah, I’ll live.”
Edie knelt down beside him, her breasts swinging freely beneath her as she leaned forward to pat his arm. “Let me give you a hand.” She turned and reached out for some of the papers which had fluttered under the bed. She pulled back abruptly and screamed as something scurried out and disappeared under a chest of drawers behind them. “Mice! Fancy having mice in Mayfair, darling. I’d speak to your landlord if I was you.” Edie recovered herself and settled back on her haunches, shivering. “I’m going back to bed. It’s a bit parky here. I’m sure your maid can sort this lot out in the morning.” As she rose she glanced at the cardboard box whose contents had spilled out over the carpet. She knelt down again to look more closely and giggled. “You naughty boy, what’s this little box of tricks then?”
“It’s nothing. Nothing. Now up you get.” Norton stood and helped her to her feet before closing up the box and returning it to the top of the wardrobe.
“Don’t worry darling. Your secret’s safe with me. Got to have a broad mind in this business haven’t I?”
Norton’s dressing-gown cord had loosened in all the commotion and her eyes fell on his shrivelled manhood, poking out from a mound of greying hair. She giggled again and looked away.
“Come on, Edie. Here’s a fiver. Back to business. For that we can have a really good time, can’t we?”
“What did you have in mind?” She found her handbag and deposited the crisp white note.
He let his dressing-gown fall to the floor and pulled her on to the bed. “How about something a bit different?”
He turned her on to her front and slapped her backside hard.
“Oi. What are you up to? That hurt!”
“Pain is sometimes the same as pleasure, sweetheart. We’ve done the normal boring stuff. Now we’re going to be a bit more adventurous.”
“But…”
He clamped his hand over her mouth. “There now. Be a good girl. I’ve paid my money and now I want my fun.”
A string of puffy white clouds sailed sedately over the L.C.C. offices, the sun peeping through and occasionally dappling the wintry river with its rays. This agreeable prospect failed to make much impression on Merlin. He had had a frustrating morning. His first port of call had been the residence of Stewart’s Polish friend. After rising early to try and make sure that he caught the girl at home, he found only her flatmate, a dark-haired leggy girl with an impenetrable accent. As far as he could eventually understand, her name was Maria, she hadn’t seen Sonia since the previous morning and she had no idea where she was. He had hung around at the end of the mews for a while hoping that Sonia might return, but no luck.
Back at the Yard, Merlin had sent up a request to the A.C. for additional manpower. This request had been refused in a brusque note within minutes of being submitted. Sergeant Bridges was out, perhaps for several more hours, checking jewellers. Merlin’s friend, Chief Inspector Niven in Vice, had been seconded to the British Expeditionary Force on a special investigative mission and the Vice officer he had been able to speak to had not been helpful with information on Morrie Owen. On the plus side, the Morgan forensic report had at last arrived on his desk and Bridges had managed to identify several Dr Joneses practising in West London. He looked up and returned the crotchety gaze of Van Gogh’s Dr Gachet, wondering whether he had any option but to work through the list himself.
Just after Merlin had finished the rather stale ham sandwich he’d bought himself for lunch, Bridges returned from his travels and collapsed wearily into the chair facing him.
“I didn’t know there were so many jewellers’ shops in London. I’ve been just about everywhere. No luck in Hatton Garden, in Bond Street, Regent Street, Oxford Street or in Chelsea. Finally I had a look in Kensington. Found a little jewellers about half-way up Kensington Church Street. Name of Baldwins.” Bridges stretched out his legs and bent forward to rub his calves. “There was a nice young lady behind the counter. Pretty girl – looked a bit like Iris in fact. Anyway, this girl, Angela Goddard her name was, she recognised the necklace straight away. After some umming and aahing and talk about client confidentiality and all that, and after I’d told her this might be vital information in a murder case, she told me who bought it.”
The torpor which often afflicted Merlin in the early afternoon suddenly lifted. “Who?”
“The necklace was bought on an account held by the American Embassy.”
“On a general account or a named account?”
“On a named account, as it seems.”
Merlin looked eagerly across the desk. “And?”
“It was in the name of the Ambassador himself.”
Merlin stood up and walked around the desk. “Did Miss Morris deal directly with the Ambassador when she sold the necklace?”
“No. She explained that it was normal practice for an Embassy employee to visit the shop, pick out items of interest, take them back to the Embassy on approval and then confirm any purchases, or return any unwanted items, in person at the shop.”
“How was the account settled?”
“Sometimes cash, sometimes by cheque, at the end of the month.”
“And the account covering this necklace?”
“By cheque, sir.”
“And the name on the cheque?”
“Joseph Kennedy.”
Merlin returned to his chair and rubbed his forehead slowly.
“The employee. Was it the same employee every time?”
“Yes. She says he was dressed in a chauffeur’s uniform and remembers his name as Mr Morgan.”
A shiver went down Merlin’s back. “This is some can of worms we are opening here.”
There was a firm knock at the door and both men tensed. A young, uniformed officer stood at the threshold, his features looking vaguely familiar to Merlin.
“You remember Tommy, sir. Constable Cole. Helped me bring Miss Harris’ boxes up yesterday.”
“Ah. Yes. The cross-country runner. What can we do for you, Constable?”
Cole edged nervously into the room. “A.C. sent me, sir. He asked Sergeant Miller to find someone for you. Sergeant picked me. Said you were short-handed and needed some help with your murders.”
Merlin’s slightly startled expression swiftly gave way to a smile of pleasure. “Wonder of wonders. I don’t know why Mr Gatehouse changed his mind so quickly but I’m not going to complain. Welcome.”
Cole grasped Merlin’s extended hand
and gave him a lopsided grin.
Daylight was fading rapidly as Johnson drove his car up the driveway of Pelham Court. He drew to a halt before two classical stone columns, beyond which stood the main doorway to the house. He got out of the car and filled his lungs with the crisp country air. He had read up a little on the Pelhams before his visit and knew from one of the books he’d got out of the library that Pelham Court dated from the late eighteenth century and had been designed by a protégé of John Adam’s, although the architect’s name now escaped him. Whatever his name, he’d done a good job. The grand and stylish building soared above him. To the right and left he could see the elegant wings of the house extending into the distance. Behind him to his right, acres of manicured lawns rolled away down towards the Thames.
He nervously stroked his bare upper lip as he scrunched his way over the gravel. A long, red rope dangled beneath a lamp to the side of the door and after a moment’s hesitation he pulled it.
“Can I help you, sir?”
“Detective Inspector Johnson, to see Lord and Lady Pelham. I called earlier. I believe they are expecting me.”
The short, fat, white-haired man in tails who had appeared at the door retreated a little and waved him in. “If you would be so kind as to wait here sir, I’ll inform her ladyship that you have arrived.”
The servant soon returned and ushered him across the vast, chequered, marble floor into a long wood-panelled drawing room. A blazing log fire crackled away at one end of the room. He was led to a chair close to the fire, and relieved of his overcoat. Darkness had now fallen and he could see his reflection in the French windows. He looked tired. Above the fire was a portrait of a fierce-looking man in a white wig. The subject, according to a plate at the bottom, was Henry, the first Lord Pelham 1651-1727. Johnson’s eyes travelled down and over the intricate red and black geometric patterns of an antique rug. He was embarrassed to see that his shoes were dirty and scuffed. His collar itched with the sweat and dirt accumulated over what had been a long day. He felt grubby and out of place in the midst of all this luxury.