by Mark Ellis
“And what did he do after you told him?”
“He went out.”
“Was he in a temper?”
“What do you think?”
“And when did you next see him?”
“I saw him the following day when he came home from work. I spent the day in bed, remember?”
“And did he say anything about Morgan?”
“Nothing. He never mentioned the subject again. Just kept on asking me how I was, that was all.”
“Was there anything unusual about him when you saw him?”
“No. Just his usual self.”
Merlin folded his arms and leaned forward.
“Kathleen. Do you think Cormac killed Johnny Morgan?”
“No, I don’t. But if he did, I don’t think I could blame him for it.”
He raised an eyebrow at Bridges and got to his feet.
“We’ll be going now. At some stage I think you’ll have to come to the Yard to make a full, formal statement. We’re going to have to see if we can find where your brother is, so we can have a word with him.”
“Chief Inspector?” Kathleen’s voice was barely audible again. “What will happen to the photographs of me?”
“They are evidence. Joan’s murder has been resolved without the need for a trial, but in the case of Johnny Morgan, the photographs might be needed – but I’ll do my best to see if we can avoid that.”
She stood up, her whole body shaking.
“Very well. I… I’ll rely on your best then.”
Merlin’s feet were up on his desk again. Bridges noted that somehow or other his boss had found the time to have the hole repaired.
“You’re sure that the brother did for Morgan, are you, sir?”
Bridges had just got off the phone to Dublin where the Garda had agreed to track down Cormac Donovan as a matter of urgent priority.
Merlin rubbed his forehead. “It fits, doesn’t it? He’s a big ox of a man. Despatching Morgan as efficiently as he was despatched would be child’s play for Donovan. And when I saw what I’d missed before in the forensic report, the traces of red earth they found under Morgan’s fingernails, I thought back to Donovan coming into that front room with red mud all over his boots. Morgan was a ladies’ man, a fastidious man. I don’t think he’d have allowed himself to have dirty fingernails. Even if Donovan had bathed after work, I’d bet the dirt from the building sites would be engrained in him. If Morgan had to fight Donovan off, red dirt could easily have got under his fingernails. Donovan had motive and opportunity and now he’s skipped the country. Yes, I do think Cormac did it. An act of honourable revenge, I suppose. I don’t know that I can blame him really, but the law will.”
Bridges sucked in his breath and stirred his tea angrily. “Can’t we do something about Norton? He’s the one at the heart of this mess. If it weren’t for him none of it might have happened.”
Merlin closed his eyes. One of his favourite tunes played in his mind – ‘C’est à Capri’. A lovely summery song. The version by Tino Rossi was the best. He wondered whether Sonia appreciated French music like that. Bridges coughed and Merlin returned to reality. “Of course I’d love to put Norton away, but what for? Blackmail? A bit thin and anyway, I’m sure the A.C. and Mr Zarb would be encouraging us to hold off and sweep the whole business under the carpet. No. Unfortunately with Norton all we need is to dot some i’s and cross some t’s and then send him packing.”
“It sticks in my gullet, that’s all.”
Johnson came in, followed by Cole and Robinson. Merlin removed his feet from the desk. “Good! Here’s our team. Let me bring you all up to date.”
Over a crackling line, a voice with a surprisingly refined English accent announced itself as Inspector Elwood from the Garda. It was almost midnight and Merlin had just finished writing his report. “We’ve found the Donovan family, but there’s no sign of the man of the house. His wife says he’s gone off in search of work. Says she doesn’t know where and doesn’t expect him back for a couple of days. We’ve put a description out across the country. We’ll let you know when he turns up. I’m sure he will.”
EPILOGUE
Tuesday February 13th
Arthur Norton looked out of the porthole of his upsettingly spartan cabin. It was dusk and the ship was slowly steaming out of Cork harbour. He’d been lucky to find passage on the MV Winchester at such short notice. Zarb had pulled a few strings and got him on its voyage from Portsmouth to Boston via Cork. His reluctance to leave England had melted away after his latest encounters with the British police. He had given up trying to get through to the Ambassador, who had no doubt succumbed to advice to keep him at a distance. He would have to remind him of what he knew about the seamier side of Kennedy business dealings when he next saw him.
He poured himself a glass of Bushmills and brooded. Those British bobbies would get what was coming to them when Hitler crossed the Channel. How would they like it when the Gestapo were doing their jobs? He thought of Joan’s beautiful body. He’d had some fun in England. Pity about what happened to her but c’est la vie. Pity too that he hadn’t been able to follow through with Kathleen. His blood pressure rose again. He’d teach that smarmy Irish crook a lesson. He’d make sure Joe Kennedy knew his worth.
After a second drink, he decided to get a bit of fresh air. Up on deck he noticed that the small complement of passengers at Portsmouth had been joined by a few newcomers. Everyone was leaning against the ship-railing, watching Cork recede slowly into the distance. He spotted a pretty brunette and squeezed into a space between her and a tall man. As soon as he got into position, the brunette turned away and walked to the other side of the ship. He sighed and gazed at the waves foaming around the vessel’s prow.
“On your way home, are ye?” Norton turned to look at the sturdy red face of the powerfully-built man next to him.
“Yes. Home to Boston. At last.”
“Been away a long time?”
“A couple of years in London, yes.” The tall man stared hard at the fading lights of the town. “That’s my home. Ireland that is, not Cork. Don’t know when I’ll see it again.”
The man’s brawny frame shuddered with what Norton took to be emotion.
“Headed for Boston, are you?”
“Yes, I’ve got some relations there. Hoping to get set up and have my family join me.”
The man turned his head and looked closely at Norton. “I lived in England for a while. In north London, in fact.” He held out his hand. “Cormac… er… Reilly is the name.”
Saturday 17th February
THE TIMES : Losses at Sea
The Admiralty announced with regret last night the loss of three merchant vessels to German U-boat attacks in the North Atlantic. The Merchant Vessels Aurora, Darwin and Winchester were lost on Thursday and Friday.
Monday 19th February
BOSTON GLOBE : Prominent American Diplomat Lost in U-
Boat Sinking
Mr Arthur Norton, a senior diplomat at the US Embassy in London for the past two years and a long-time associate of the Ambassador, Mr Joseph Kennedy, was one of the passengers feared drowned after the sinking of the MV Winchester just south of Greenland on Friday last. Mr Norton was believed to be returning for a leave of absence after a successful spell of service in London under Mr Kennedy. All crew and passengers are feared lost after the U-boat attack. Mr Norton was a bachelor and leaves no family.
Tuesday 20th February
DAILY MAIL : Knightsbridge Death
A Foreign Office civil servant was yesterday found dead in his house in Hans Place. It is understood from police sources that Mr Frederick Douglas appeared to have hanged himself. Mr Douglas was the only son of the recently-deceased Sir Matthew Douglas, the wealthy industrialist, landowner and former High Sheriff of Cheshire.
Wednesday 21st February
“How’s your Polish friend, Jack?”
It was another packed evening in The Surprise. “Dropped me. Figured out that I p
ut you on to her and won’t have anything to do with me. Said she didn’t like being bothered by policemen, even if they were as nice as you.”
Merlin nodded his head in commiseration, while feeling his heart pound a little faster.
“Och, the sacrifices I make. I put you on to my pretty Polish friend to try and help you solve your case. I lose the friend and then hear from you that what she had to tell you wasn’t crucial to the case in the end. I think you owe me, Frank. Now let’s see. Say, when some nice, pretty female needs a bit of protection, you know who to pass the job on to. Better still, when a film star needs a security escort to a film premiere, I’m your man. Margaret Lockwood or Joan Fontaine will do nicely. You’ll bear that in mind, won’t you?”
“I will. And sorry about Sonia. Give her a bit of time and perhaps she’ll have you back.”
“No, no. Moved on to pastures new. There’s a smart little redhead working in an office near my post. Taking her out tomorrow. Muriel her name is. Could be in for some fun there.” Stewart belched. “All your loose ends tied up nicely then?”
“Not quite. We still haven’t tracked down Cormac Donovan. He seems to have disappeared off the face of the earth. Although our relations with the Irish police are not the best, I truly believe they’ve tried their hardest for us. I think he’s skipped the country.”
“Where to, d’you think?”
“America would be the logical choice. I’ll have another chat with the Garda tomorrow and ask for his description to be circulated over there. To be honest, I don’t really mind if we lose him completely. I’m pretty satisfied that he’s guilty of Morgan’s murder. If there’s a trial, poor Kathleen Donovan will be dragged through the mill and I’d rather avoid that.”
“Not like you to be so easy on a murderer.”
“Maybe I’m getting soft in my old age. But you know we didn’t have a bad result. Apart from Donovan, most of the culprits have ended up paying the penalty one way or another.”
“I thought there was just one other culprit. The chap who was run down by the bus.”
“Yes, and he may have been the least bad of the bunch. We got Morrie Owen closed down and charged with the Myerson killing, together with his hired hands, the Wisemans. Then there’s Morgan, who suffered the Irishman’s revenge. Not to mention Norton. Not sure if he wasn’t the guiltiest of the lot.”
“What happened to him?”
“He went down in a ship on his way back to America. I got the news at the weekend. Another U-boat attack. Terrible tragedy, but in his case, some good came of it.”
The two men fell silent. Merlin stared into his beer and shuddered as he wondered what it would be like to drown.
“Is that a new suit you’ve got there, Frank? Very smart. Boss give you a raise or something?”
“You must be kidding.”
“He must be very happy with you though?”
“He was very happy for about one minute. I thought in the brief afterglow of this case I’d try him one more time on the subject of my joining up but he blew me out of the water again. Then he started banging on about the IRA and what a terrible time the Home Secretary was giving him. Then he had a good nag about the fingerprint report I hadn’t submitted to him. Finally, to cap it all, he had a go at me about his niece, the one he seconded to my team, because he’d heard she’d gone to the pictures with Tommy Cole, the Constable we had helping us. Said I should have kept a closer eye on her, and it was my fault if he had hell to pay with his wife!” Stewart attempted to look sympathetic but failed. He waved his empty glass in the air and Merlin wandered off to the bar. Rummaging in his pocket for change, he felt that sense of anticlimax he always felt when a case was solved. Alcohol was not the answer, though. He ordered a beer and whisky chaser for his friend and a lemonade shandy for himself. Tomorrow he had to interview an intriguing foreigner who’d been picked up acting suspiciously in Liverpool Street Station. He wanted to have a clear head for that.
Back at the table, the Scotsman frowned. “A chaser for me but not for you? That’s not fair.”
“Don’t worry amigo, Salud. Cheers!”
Stewart laughed. The smile on his face widened almost into a leer. “By the way, Frank, despite her comment about policemen, I think Sonia took a fancy to you. She was intrigued when I told her about your family background. Looks like she might have a thing for dark, brooding, Latin men. You should pop around sometime to say hola.”
Merlin looked up at the smoke-covered ceiling. The image of Sonia’s captivating face, giggling uncontrollably at the milkman’s incontinent carthorse, sparkled in his mind’s eye. You know, Jack, he thought to himself, I might just do that – I might just do that!
About the author
Mark Ellis lives in London and has been a barrister, corporate executive and entrepreneur.
Princes Gate is his first novel.