Murder at the Ritz

by Jim Eldridge

  ‘All right,’ said Lampson, doing his best to appear reluctant, but in secret gratefully relieved. ‘But I’ll be bringing the car here tomorrow when I get back from Ramsgate. I’ll put it in the yard and do the same with the keys. I don’t want to take the chance of leaving it in the street in Somers Town and someone having the wheels off it.’

  Paddington Hospital was busy when Rosa arrived, the reception area packed with people on the long benches, many suffering nasty facial injuries which they held handkerchiefs to while they waited to be seen. Rosa walked to the reception desk where a nurse was filling out forms.

  ‘Excuse me,’ she said.

  ‘One moment,’ said the nurse. She finished the form she was writing on and added it to a pile. ‘Yes?’ she asked.

  ‘Would it be possible to talk to someone in the mortuary department?’

  ‘What is it concerning?’

  ‘A friend of mine was brought here last night. She was killed during the air raid in Oxford Street. The thing is, she may not have been identified so no one will know who to make contact with as her next of kin. You know, about the funeral arrangements.’

  ‘And your name is?’ asked the nurse, reaching for a pen.

  ‘Rosa Weeks. Donna, my friend, and I shared a house.’ She hesitated, then took a deep breath before saying as calmly as she could: ‘Her head was cut off by flying glass. That’s how I know she was brought here. The St John Ambulance people remembered her because of that.’

  The nurse regarded Rosa warily. ‘And how do you know she was decapitated?’ she asked.

  ‘Because I was with her when it happened,’ said Rosa. ‘I saw it happen.’

  And she was aware that tears were starting to brim in her eyes as she saw the dreadful thing happening again, and she blinked hard to stop them rolling down her cheeks.

  The nurse looked at her, sympathy on her face now. ‘If you give me her details, and that of her next of kin, I’ll see that the information is passed on to the right people.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rosa. She handed over the piece of paper on which she’d written Donna’s name, their address near Oxford Street and Donna’s mother’s address in Clapham. She’d also added her own name and Coburg’s address and telephone number. ‘I’m staying with a friend at the moment,’ she said. ‘If you need any further information, you can get hold of me at that number. I’ve already let Mrs Dunn know that her daughter was killed.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said the nurse, taking the piece of paper. Then her tone softened as she added: ‘I’m sorry you had to see your friend die that way,’ she said. ‘Please accept my condolences.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rosa. She was about to leave, when a thought struck her and she asked: ‘One last thing. Could you tell me where I’d find the nearest base for the St John Ambulance?’

  The nurse looked at her quizzically. ‘May I ask why?’

  ‘Because they were so considerate and caring when I spoke to them, I’d like to send them something.’

  ‘Yes. Their nearest is in Praed Street, not far from the railway station. Number 163.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Rosa. ‘And you will pass on those details about my friend?’

  ‘I promise,’ said the nurse.

  It was six o’clock when Coburg arrived home, carrying a parcel wrapped in newspaper. Rosa looked at him in surprise.

  ‘That smells like fish and chips,’ she said.

  ‘It is,’ he confirmed, and he put the parcel on the table and opened it to reveal two portions of battered fish and a heap of chips. ‘I didn’t think either of us would feel like preparing a meal tonight, and you’ve got a performance at half past eight. If you’re still going to do it, that is.’

  ‘I am,’ said Rosa firmly.

  They ate the meal straight from the newspaper with their fingers. ‘It’s the only way to eat it,’ said Coburg. As they ate they swapped tales of their day: Rosa telling Coburg about her visit to Mrs Dunn, and then to Paddington Hospital.

  ‘And tomorrow I’m going to the St John Ambulance station to see if they’ll take me on as an ambulance driver.’

  ‘You’re still sure you want to do that?’

  ‘Absolutely,’ she said. ‘As I said, I need to do something to help in this war.’ She popped a chip into her mouth, then asked: ‘How was your day? Are you any nearer to solving the murder at the Ritz?’

  ‘No,’ admitted Coburg. ‘I feel we’re nearly there, but I keep coming up against obstacles. I saw the personal secretary to King Zog today, and he virtually threw me out. Politely, of course. But there’s something there that definitely rings alarm bells. So tomorrow I’m going to Sevenoaks in the hope of getting to the bottom of it.’

  ‘Sevenoaks?’ queried Rosa.

  ‘I’ll tell you more when I get back.’ He hesitated, then said: ‘After we’ve finished at the Ritz tonight, I need to leave the car at Scotland Yard, so we’ll get a taxi back here.’

  ‘You’re losing the car?’ she asked.

  ‘No. I’m letting my sergeant have it so he can go to Ramsgate tomorrow.’ He hesitated, wary of saying something that would bring back those awful memories of the previous night.

  ‘Whatever it is, you can say it,’ she said.

  He nodded. ‘Ramsgate was badly bombed yesterday. He’s got relatives there and no one can get through on the phones to find out if they survived. I’m guessing the phone lines are down.’

  ‘Was it bad?’ asked Rosa.

  ‘Very bad,’ said Coburg. ‘It sounds like half the town was destroyed.’

  She stopped eating and suddenly shivered, tears filling her eyes.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ apologised Coburg. ‘I shouldn’t have mentioned it.’

  ‘Yes, you should,’ she said. ‘It’s war. We can’t hide away from it. No matter how much we’d like to.’

  CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE

  Monday 26th August

  The following morning Coburg woke to the smell of cooking. He pulled on his dressing gown and made his way to the kitchen, where Rosa was stirring a saucepan.

  ‘We’re out of eggs but there was porridge in the cupboard,’ she told him.

  ‘You were fantastic last night,’ said Coburg, seating himself at the table.

  She smiled. ‘You weren’t so bad yourself.’ Then she left out a whoop of delight. ‘God, I needed that! Sex is just the best thing!’

  ‘I was talking about you at the Ritz,’ said Coburg. ‘No one in that audience would have known what you’d been through.’

  ‘It’s called being a professional,’ said Rosa. ‘Actors call it Doctor Theatre.’ She went to him and held him tightly. ‘Me, I call it having you with me.’ She went back to the stove and turned the gas burner off, then looked at him with a wicked gleam in her eye. ‘Fancy a repeat performance to help work up an appetite?’

  Coburg caught the Underground from Hampstead to Embankment, leaving Rosa to her own task of trying to be accepted as a trainee ambulance driver by the St John Ambulance Service. They still hadn’t talked more about getting married, but Rosa seemed happy with him. Maybe I’ll raise it with her tonight, he thought. Then immediately retracted that idea; it was still very likely too soon. He’d give her space.

  When he arrived at Scotland Yard, he phoned the number in Kent he’d been given. He was informed that Lord Mainwaring was unavailable, but once he’d persuaded the butler, or whoever it was who’d answered the phone, that he was indeed a detective chief inspector from Scotland Yard and that he would be coming to Kent that very day with the express purpose of speaking to Lord Mainwaring on a matter of national importance, the person answering the phone had asked if he wished to speak to Lord Mainwaring now.

  ‘No,’ said Coburg. ‘But please let Lord Mainwaring know that I am on my way from London and should be at Richford Castle within the next two hours. It is vital that I talk to him.’

  With that, Coburg set off for Charing Cross Station.

  The train to Sevenoaks wasn’t very crowded, most of th
e other passengers were in uniform, some soldiers but most in RAF blue-grey, heading back to their bases. Coburg had a seat by a window, and as the train left the suburbs of south London he had a close-up view of the air battle taking place. As Coburg watched, one Hurricane let fly with a burst of gunfire that tore into a Messerschmitt, which exploded in mid-air, the burning wreckage plummeting towards the ground far below. There was a flash of white, then a parachute billowed out and Coburg saw the German pilot floating down.

  Everyone knew that Hitler intended to launch an invasion across the Channel from France, but first he had to smash the RAF so there’d be no danger of an air attack on his troops as they landed. That meant destroying the numerous small airfields that dotted southern England.

  Every day young pilots, young men like the ones who sat and joked with one another in his railway carriage, took their Spitfires and Hurricanes up into the skies, the last line of defence against the wave after wave of Luftwaffe bombers and fighter planes. The average age of the pilots laying their lives on the line was twenty-one, and many of them would never live to be twenty-two. On one day alone, Coburg had been told that the German assault force had comprised 500 bombers and 1,300 fighter planes, with just a couple of hundred British fighters in the skies to defend against them, the young pilots going up again and again. And this continued day after day. How long could these young men go on?

  And not just the young pilots. Civilians and ground crews at the airfields died as the German bombs rained down, destroying buildings, canteens, air towers and nearly everyone in them, as well as leaving massive craters in the actual fields to stop planes from taking off and landing.

  If the airfields are destroyed and the RAF beaten, we’ll be lost, thought Coburg. Hitler’s stormtroopers would pour ashore up the beaches and spread inland. The Local Defence volunteers would do their best to halt the advance, but they were mostly elderly or invalided soldiers and they’d be no match for the might of the ruthless German military machine with their heavy weapons and superior numbers. They’d torn through Belgium and France at a terrifying speed, and now they were poised for this final assault, this final victory.

  As the train pulled into Sevenoaks, Coburg got up and turned to the young men who remained in his compartment.

  ‘We all thank you,’ he said.

  They looked at him in surprise as he left the train, then continued chatting to one another. He wondered how many of them would still be alive by nightfall.

  There were taxis waiting outside the station. Once again, he reflected on the apparent normality of life, while above their heads and all around them were the sights and sounds of battle. Bombs and bullets, death and destruction, and people went about their daily business, albeit with a gas mask in a box dangling from their waist or their shoulder, and – in some cases – a tin helmet for those who doubled as air raid wardens.

  Richford Castle was about five miles outside Sevenoaks, a mix of Norman and Tudor styles with Victorian additions. The two towers that flanked each end of the main house were certainly Victorian, a statement by a previous owner of the castle that he was a person of some high grandeur and deserved respect. Rather like his own father, thought Coburg, the previous Duke of Dawlish. Coburg hadn’t seen much of his father during his childhood. Nor his mother, come to that. He, Magnus and Charles had been brought up by a series of nannies, then sent away to boarding schools at the age of six, first to a prep school, followed by Eton.

  He and his two brothers had got on well enough when at home together during the school vacations, with Magnus very much in charge, already acting the part of Lord of the Manor. This didn’t bother Coburg or Charles, who were both happy for Magnus to take on this role.

  Yes, he thought as the taxi drove down the long drive towards the large, ornate mansion, I grew up in a place like this.

  When Rosa arrived at the St John Ambulance base in Praed Street, it was empty of people exccept for a harassed-looking woman in the office who was manning the phone.

  ‘If it’s urgent, I’m sorry, there’s going to be a delay. Everyone’s out on calls at the moment,’ the woman told her.

  ‘No, it’s not an emergency,’ said Rosa. ‘I’d like to apply to join.’

  The woman smiled. ‘Great!’ She took a form from her desk drawer, which she passed to Rosa. ‘If you wouldn’t mind filling this in. What sort of thing are you interested in? We’re looking for people to help with our cadets.’

  ‘I want to drive an ambulance.’

  The woman stopped and studied Rosa. ‘Can you drive?’ she asked.

  ‘Absolutely,’ said Rosa. ‘And I’ve driven lorries before, so I can handle large vehicles.’

  ‘Any medical training?’

  Rosa shook her head. ‘I’m afraid not.’

  ‘That’s a pity,’ said the woman.

  ‘I’ve done first aid,’ said Rosa.

  ‘Qualified?’

  ‘Well, that depends,’ admitted Rosa. ‘It was a course.’

  ‘Where? Who with?’

  ‘The Girl Guides.’

  The woman looked warily at Rosa, then said: ‘You need to see our manager, see what he says.’

  ‘Yes, please. I’d like to see him. When will he be free?’

  ‘He’s out all day today, but he’ll be in tomorrow.’

  ‘Very good,’ said Rosa. ‘What time?’

  The woman opened a large desk diary and turned a few pages before finding the current date. ‘Ten o’clock?’ she asked. ‘He’ll be in then. In the afternoon he’s got a meeting of the Joint War Organisation, which will take up most of the day.’

  ‘Ten o’clock will be fine,’said Rosa.

  ‘What’s your name?’ asked the woman.

  ‘Rosa Weeks.’

  ‘What, like that singer who’s at the Ritz?’

  ‘Yes,’ said Rosa.

  ‘Some concidence, eh,’ said the woman. ‘Having the same name as her. You’re not related to her, are you?’

  ‘Actually, I am,’ said Rosa.

  ‘Oh? Well that’ll interest Mr Warren. He went to see her and said she was very good.’ She chuckled. ‘I bet he asks you if you can get her autograph for him.’

  As Rosa left, doubts began to enter her mind. So this Mr Warren had seen her at the Ritz. What would he think when she told him that she wanted to drive an ambulance? Would he dismiss her as some performer who just wanted to do something a bit different, a fly by night, not someone who was dependable? Well, if that turned out to be case, she’d have to try another avenue. The Red Cross. Or the Women’s Royal Voluntary Service, though she’d been told they did mostly catering and knitting.

  No, she determined, I want to drive an ambulance and save lives.

  Lampson had intended to park by the central police station in Ramsgate, but the bombing had taken a major toll, with most of the town centre blocked where buildings had collapsed into the roadways. Water ran everywhere from broken water mains while workers tried desperately to repair the smashed pipes. Realising there was no chance of getting close to the town centre, Lampson parked the police car on the harbour road and walked. Everywhere was frantic activity, men in a variety of uniforms, some soldiers and sailors, but mostly Civil Defence and fire brigade volunteers, dragging beams from piles of smashed bricks as they searched to locate survivors or the dead. Lampson was tempted to make straight for his uncle and aunt’s house, but instead he decided the best way to get co-operation was to follow the rules of protocol and introduce himself at the police station. Fortunately, he’d been given the name of Barry Moss’s pal, Sergeant Peter Tremble, and he hoped that might make things easier. He knew from experience that many officers in the smaller regional forces liked nothing less than people from Scotland Yard turning up and throwing their weight about. Not that Lampson had ever thrown his weight about that way, but some did, and Lampson knew it rankled.

  As it turned out, Peter Tremble was off for the day.

  ‘So, what’s Scotland Yard’s interest in Ramsgate?
’ asked the desk sergeant, who introduced himself as Ernie Watts once Lampson had shown his warrant card.

  ‘It’s not Scotland Yard business, it’s personal,’ said Lampson, putting his warrant card away. He’d decided that the only way to get the locals to help him was by telling the truth and not pulling rank. ‘My uncle and aunt live here. When I heard what happened my guv’nor gave me permission to come down and find out if they were all right.’

  Watts regarded Lampson cautiously. ‘What’s their name?’

  Lampson told him their name and address. Watts stood studying Lampson with a wary expression, then he called a constable over. ‘Bob, take over the desk for a bit. This gentleman’s from Scotland Yard and he needs help with some enquiries, so I’m taking him to Camden Square.’

  ‘Camden Square?’ said the constable. He shook his head. ‘There ain’t hardly anything left there.’

  ‘That’s enough, Constable,’ said Watts sharply. He picked up his helmet and pulled it on. ‘Right, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Follow me.’

  ‘Look, I know you’re busy,’ said Lampson. ‘I know the way there. Like I say, I used to walk everywhere around here. I just came in to let you know I was here because that’s the proper thing to do.’

  ‘And it’s appreciated,’ said Watts as they left the police station. ‘But right now, you won’t be able to find your way around that part of town because there’s not much of it left. And you’re gonna get stopped by the people working there and told to go away. So, having me with you prevents that happening.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Lampson.

  As they walked, Watts filled Lampson in on the air raid. Although Lampson had already been told some of it by Barry Moss, Watts’s account was told with the angry, bitter tone of someone who’d experienced it.