Who Is Simon Warwick

by Patricia Moyes

  Declining the cigar, Henry said, “Do you personally believe that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick, Sir Percy?”

  “Don’t see ’ow anybody could fail to do so. Not with the evidence Ambrose collected.”

  “You never met the young man yourself, did you?”

  “No, I didn’t. Didn’t ’ave a mind to. Better get the ’ole thing settled legally first, that was my feeling.”

  Henry said, “I believe you had something to do with the adoption, back in 1944.”

  Percy Crumble grinned. “So our Cecily’s been talking, ’as she? Might ’ave known. Yes, I telephoned ’Umberton woonce or twice, as Mr. Alexander told me to. Just about practical details—where the baby was to be collected from, and that. Great Ormond Street ’Ospital for Children—that’s where ’e was at. My job was to get ’im from there down to ’Umberton’s office in Marstone, where the adoptive parents were picking ’im up.”

  “You mean, you took the baby down yourself?”

  “No, no, no.” Sir Percy laughed. “Fine sight I’d ’ave been, with a two-week-old baby. No, foonily enough, it was Diana—that’s my wife, although of course she wasn’t then—it was Diana took ’im down. She being a friend of Mrs. Dominic’s from school days. She was driving an ambulance in Loondon, then. Took yoong Simon down on the train on ’er day off. That was the first time I ever met ’er. After that, we lost tooch for years.”

  Henry said, “Did the name Finch mean anything to you, Sir Percy? I mean, did Mr. Humberton ever mention the name of the adoptive parents?”

  Crumble shook his head. “Never,” he said. “Captain X, it always was. And the poor kid referred to as ‘the consignment of goods.’ More like a ruddy smuggling than a regular adoption, as I said to Mr. Alexander at the time.”

  “You did? What was his reaction?”

  “Oh, just said that it was the way these things had to be done.” Crumble’s North Country accent was beginning to wane.

  “Did you ever see the baby yourself, Sir Percy?”

  Crumble shook his head. “He was just a bill of goods like I said, poor little bugger. But Diana saw him, all right.”

  “And you can both confirm that Mr. Humberton was the solicitor through whom the adoption was arranged?”

  “Certainly we can.”

  “That would seem to clinch the case that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick.”

  “Like I said, Chief Superintendent, Ambrose has all the evidence he needs, and the sooner it’s proved in court, the better.”

  “The better for you, Sir Percy?”

  “The better for Warwick Industries.” Sir Percy Crumble lit a cigar, and his brown eyes twinkled at Henry through the smoke as he puffed at it. “Save your breath, now. You’re thinking that I had a good motive for disposing of Simon Finch, and you’re asking yourself where I was on Saturday morning. And you’re wondering ’ow best you can ask me the same question, tactfully. Well, consider it asked, and I’ll tell you. The wife and I flew oop to Scotland Friday evening, to stay with Lord Abercrombie. I just got back this morning, and she’s still there.”

  “That seems very straightforward.” Henry took details of the plane, the flight number, and the times. Then he said, “You landed at Edinburgh. How did you get on from there?”

  There was a little pause, and then Crumble said, “Bobby Abercrombie sent a car. It’s a two-hour drive.”

  “So what time did you get to Abercrombie Castle?”

  With no pause this time, Crumble said, “Diana must have got there about nine in the evening. I stayed in Edinburgh—had some business there. If you want to check, I saw our Scottish agent, Bill Fyfe, in his office at eleven on Saturday morning. Caught the eleven thirty-five train to Abercrombie and got to the castle in time for a late lunch.”

  Henry made a careful note, studied it, but said nothing. Sir Percy said, crossly, “You’re not suggesting I could ’ave nipped back to Loondon and murdered this character, are you?”

  With a broad smile, Henry said, “You had a private plane at your disposal and there are also the scheduled flights. I’ll have to check on it. It’s the sort of thing that’s always being done in detective stories.”

  Crumble’s smile matched Henry’s. “Well, if you find it can be doon let me know,” he said. “Might come in useful in the way of business.” He stood up and extended his hand. “Nice meeting you, Chief Superintendent. Let me know ’ow things coom along. Good to get this matter settled, and know woonce and for all that Simon Warwick is dead. Then we can all go about our business.”

  Henry went back to his office to make up his notes and go through his “in” tray before taking lunch in the cafeteria. There seemed to be little of interest. Pathologists’ reports and fingerprint analysis on the Finch case merely confirmed what was already obvious—that Simon Finch had been strangled after having been rendered unconscious by a blow to the neck such as is employed in karate or unarmed combat. Fingerprints of Ambrose Quince and Susan Benedict had been found, as expected, in the office and waiting room, with a few of Simon Finch’s superimposed where one would expect to find them—on the arms of the chair in which he sat, and on the newspaper that he had been holding. Harold Benson’s prints were on the arms of Finch’s chair—consistent with his story of finding the body. The most significant thing, to Henry, was that there was no evidence that any surface had been wiped clean.

  The only other communication said that a Mrs. Goodman had telephoned, asking to speak to Chief Superintendent Tibbett personally. She had been told that he was out, and the call transferred to Inspector Reynolds. Henry went off with a tranquil mind to eat his lunch.

  His tranquillity was shattered just as he had finished his beef stew and before he had started on the tinned peaches. Derek Reynolds loomed up beside the table, looking distinctly perturbed.

  “I’m sorry to disturb your lunch, sir, but there’s a lady in my office I think you should see.”

  Henry swallowed a spoonful of peaches, and said, “Can’t it wait ten minutes?”

  “It’s about the Finch case, sir. I think you should see her.”

  Resignedly, Henry abandoned the remains of his lunch and followed Reynolds out into the corridor. Reynolds said, “It’s a Mrs. Goodman, sir. Seems a respectable woman. She says—well, the fact is, she says she recognizes the photograph of Simon Finch, and that he’s not Simon Finch at all. She’s demanding to see the body so that she can make a positive identification.”

  “She seems to be very sure of herself on the basis of a smudged newspaper photograph,” Henry remarked.

  “If she’s right,” Reynolds said, “then it’s hardly surprising. You see, she says she’s his mother.”

  Mrs. Edith Goodman was standing in Inspector Reynolds’s office with her back to the door, looking out the window over the gray January roofscape. She turned as Reynolds and Henry came in, and Henry was immediately struck by a strong resemblance between this woman and the man he knew as Simon Finch. Mrs. Goodman was tall, with the same long, thin features and untidy fair hair, now tinged with white. She said, “You are Chief Superintendent Tibbett?”

  “That’s right.”

  “Then please put me out of my agony, Mr. Tibbett. Let me see my son.” She spoke the English of the solid, respectable middle class—the small shopkeepers, the clerks, the teachers, the civil servants, the people who quietly keep a country ticking over.

  Henry said, “Do sit down, Mrs. Goodman. I think first of all you should tell me about yourself, and why you are so sure that Simon Finch is your son.”

  She sat down. “His name isn’t Simon Finch. It’s Ronald Goodman. I’m his mother, Edith, and his father was Ernest Goodman, my late husband. Ronald was born in Surbiton, where we were living then, in 1944. My husband was with the Ministry of Health. He retired in 1956 and we moved down to the south coast. My husband died in 1965, but Ronald and I went on living in the bungalow at Ketterham-on-sea.”

  Henry remembered the map he had been studying. He said slowly, “That’
s not far from Marstone, is it?”

  Edith Goodman looked surprised. “Fancy you knowing Ketterham,” she said. “It’s such a small village, most people don’t. Yes, you’re right, it’s only a half-hour bus ride out of Marstone, which made it convenient for Ronald’s work.”

  Henry nodded. Things were falling into place. “His work as a solicitor’s clerk. He worked for Mr. Alfred Humberton, didn’t he?”

  “Well, really, Mr. Tibbett,” said Mrs. Goodman, “if you know all this about Ronald, how did you come to think his name was Simon Finch?”

  Impetuously, Inspector Reynolds interrupted. “The typewriter, sir. I told you about the typewriter.”

  “Yes, yes, I know, Reynolds.”

  Mrs. Goodman was looking from one to the other in bewilderment. “What’s all this about a typewriter?”

  “Never mind for the moment, Mrs. Goodman. I’ll explain later. Now, when did Ronald leave home?”

  “It was three years ago. Two years after poor Mr. Humberton died and the office closed down. Ronald had worked ever so hard, you know, clearing everything up. And then he found himself out of a job. He finally got another position in Marstone, but he wasn’t really happy. He wanted to better himself, you see, so he went off to London. At first he wrote regularly, but then the letters got less and less—you know what young people are like, Mr. Tibbett— until it was a year and more since I heard. I’ve tried to trace him, but he lived in digs and was always moving about, and nobody could help me. And then . . .” Her voice trembled, but she pulled herself together and went on steadily, “Then I saw the photograph in yesterday’s paper and I knew it was my boy. I couldn’t mistake him.”

  Henry said, “Did Ronald every marry, Mrs. Goodman?”

  “Not that I know of. Certainly not up to the time he left home. And he’d have told me, and brought the girl to see me. I’m quite sure of that. It wasn’t as if we had quarreled, or anything. We just drifted apart, as it were. I expect he was doing well for himself, and didn’t have time for . . Mrs. Goodman quickly pulled a handkerchief out of her handbag and dabbed her eyes, as if ashamed of her tears.

  Gently, Henry said, “I’m very sorry, Mrs. Goodman. I’m afraid you may be right, and that the poor young man may be your son. We would all be grateful if you would identify him for us.”

  Mrs. Goodman nodded, the handkerchief still to her eyes. Henry went on, “The name Finch doesn’t mean anything at all to you?”

  The woman shook her head, emphatically. Then she looked up at Henry, and said, “Why? Why, Mr. Tibbett? Why should anybody want to kill Ronald?”

  Henry sighed. “I think,” he said, “it was because somebody believed he was Simon Finch.”

  “And why should they do that?”

  “Because he said he was, Mrs. Goodman.”

  Mrs. Goodman bore up remarkably bravely under the ordeal of identifying the body, which she stated was undoubtedly that of her son, Ronald. She also provided Henry with the name and address of Ronald Goodman’s dentist in Marstone, through whom positive dental identification could be made. She then asked, almost shyly, if she might be responsible for the funeral arrangements. Henry offered a police car to drive her to the railway station, but she replied that it was only a step to Victoria and she would rather walk. It had been rather a shock, but it was better to know the worst, wasn’t it? She then left Scotland Yard with great dignity.

  In Henry’s office, Henry and Reynolds went over the latest development with Sergeant Hawthorn, who had come to report on his morning’s work.

  “Everything will have to be checked out, Sergeant,” Henry said, “but personally I’m convinced that the woman’s story is absolutely true. Apart from documentary evidence, the so-called Simon Finch was the unlikeliest person to be Simon Warwick. On the other hand, he was the epitome of a solicitor’s clerk from Ketterham-on-sea. The family resemblance alone would have convinced me that he was Mrs. Goodman’s son.”

  “And he worked for Alfred Humberton,” said Reynolds.

  “The really significant thing,” said Henry, “is that he cleared out the office after the old man’s death. Quince told us that all papers relating to living clients were returned to them, and ‘dead’ files destroyed. Obviously, young Goodman must have come across the Warwick-Finch file, and decided it was worth keeping. And so it turned out to be. He was able to produce the original correspondence.”

  Tom Hawthorn, his head to one side, said, “Could I say something, sir?”

  “Of course, Sergeant.”

  “Well, I was thinking—I mean, Humberton’s file would have the carbons of Humberton’s letters in it, wouldn’t it, not the originals?”

  Henry grinned. “Quite right. But I think Inspector Reynolds can fill in that gap.”

  He glanced at Reynolds, who said, “Here’s how it was done. Goodman must have found and kept some old office-letterhead notepaper—not difficult to do that—and he kept the old office typewriter which had been used for more than twenty years for Humberton’s correspondence. Once he heard the search for Simon Warwick was on, all he had to do was to retype Humberton’s letters and forge a scrawl of a signature. If an analysis was made—”

  “It was,” Henry put in.

  “Well, there you are. What was the result, sir?”

  “According to Quince, the paper was shown to be at least thirty years old, and the typewriter identical with that used for other documents from Humberton’s office. That seemed good enough. Now, of course, they’ll start on the signatures, which will undoubtedly tell a different story.”

  Reynolds went on. “The landlady at Westbourne told me that Finch—Goodman, that is—had done a lot of typing when he first went to live there, before Christmas. Then he conveniently disposed of the old typewriter—threw it in the sea, I expect.”

  Almost admiringly, Hawthorn said, “Made a proper job of it, didn’t he?”

  “Rather too good a job for his own safety,” said Henry, dryly. “So good that he got himself murdered.”

  Tentatively, Reynolds said, “I suppose he could have been murdered because of something in his own life, as Ronald Goodman.”

  “I very much doubt it,” Henry said, “but of course we’ll have to investigate that aspect of it. You’d better forget the Hamstonesand Westbury, Hawthorn, and go after the late Ronald Goodman.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Hawthorn. “I did manage to do a bit this morning, sir. It’s all there.”

  Left alone, Henry read Hawthorn’s report. It consisted merely of facts available from various public records. Bertram Hamstone had been in his first term at Oxford when the war broke out in 1939. He had at once left university and volunteered for the army, ending up as a Royal Marine Commando. During the war, in 1944, he had married Elizabeth Barrington, a hospital nurse. After the war, he had returned to Oxford, graduated, and joined Sprott’s Bank. His father was Sir Albery Hamstone, now deceased, a governor of the bank. The family was extremely well-to-do. It was an unremarkable, if enviable, life story.

  As for Denton Westbury, there was no birth certificate issued for anybody of that name that could be traced in the records. This, Sergeant Hawthorn pointed out, was probably because the name was a false one. This was no crime, unless the man was passing himself off as the real Denton Westbury, with intent to defraud— which was clearly not the case. He had come to London, as far as Hawthorn had been able to ascertain, about seven years ago. At that time, he had been a partner in an interior-decorating business, and had achieved some small fame in exalted circles by redecorating Lord Charlton’s house in Belgrave Terrace. Despite this succès d’estime, however, the decorating venture had failed, and Mr. Westbury had taken to fund raising for worthy charities. He was known as a homosexual and a protege of Miss Cecily Smeed’s. It was through her, it was said, that he had obtained the commission from Lord Charlton, and it was she who had introduced him to the moneyed and aristocratic ladies who sat on committees for charity balls. A terse footnote from Hawthorn pointed out that most of t
his information was strictly backstairs gossip, and he could not vouch for its accuracy at this stage.

  Henry read the report, then put it aside and sat for some minutes deep in thought. Then he said aloud, “Damn it, there must have been something.”

  Ambrose Quince had already left the office for the day when Henry telephoned at half-past four. Susan Benedict alibied expertly for him. “I’m so sorry, Chief Superintendent, Mr. Quince just left for a business appointment, and he’ll be going straight home afterward. You should be able to get him at the Ealing number after six.”

  Henry rang the Ealing number right away, and was not in the least surprised to be told by Rosalie that Ambrose had been home for some time.

  “He likes to get back before it’s dark on these winter evenings. Hold on, I’ll get him.”

  Ambrose Quince received Henry’s news first with derision, then with disbelief and finally with dismay. “You say there’s no doubt at all?”

  “None whatsoever, Mr. Quince.”

  “But . . . my case is all ready to submit to the courts.”

  “Then you’d better annul it, or whatever the legal term is. What it boils down to is that Simon Finch is Simon Warwick, but that Ronald Goodman was not Simon Finch.”

  “I had those documents expertly analyzed, you know. Both the paper and the typewriter are identical to . . .”

  Patiently, Henry explained. There was a silence. Then Ambrose said, “Well, I’ll be damned.” Suddenly he started to chuckle. “This’ll stir up a hornet’s nest. So somebody murdered the wrong man by mistake? Well, well, well. Will you tell the others, or shall I?”

  Henry said, “I think you should tell your people—that is, the Hamstones, Sir Percy, Miss Smeed, and Mr. Westbury. You can leave it to me to break the news to Mr. Harold Benson.”

  “Good Lord, I’d almost forgotten him. Now I suppose we’ll have to start looking into his claim again.”

  “That’s entirely your affair, Mr. Quince. One thing did occur to me, though. You say that Finch—or Goodman—claimed he had been enrolled at an English school, from which he ran away. Did you check that out?”