Who Is Simon Warwick

by Patricia Moyes

  “As far as we could,” said Quince. “He gave us the name of the place, and it turned out to be a private school on the south coast somewhere, which closed down eight years ago. Not a hope in hell of tracing any records.”

  “He thought of everything, didn’t he?” Henry said. “Meanwhile, I have to try to find out who killed him. And in that connection—I’ve a favor to ask you.”

  “A favor?”

  “As Lord Charlton’s executor,” Henry said, “I suppose you had to go through all his papers.”

  “I’m still at it, old boy. Finding Simon Warwick is only a small part of what I have to cope with. 1 really feel Bertie Hamstonc ought to help me, but what can you do with a man who spends half the week in the country and then says he’s too busy to . . . Oh, well. Never mind. What do you want of me?”

  Henry hesitated. Then he said, “I have a feeling that there might be . . . something relevant . . . among Lord Charlton’s most personal papers. Things he would have kept at home, not in the office. In his private desk, probably.”

  Ambrose said, “If you’ll give me an idea of the sort of thing you’re looking for, I’ll see what I can find.”

  “That’s the trouble,” Henry said. “I don’t know what I’m looking for.”

  “Really, old man—” Ambrose sounded both amused and exasperated. He had formed quite a high opinion of Henry’s abilities, but if this was the way that senior detectives went about their business . . .

  “What I would like,” said Henry, “is permission to go through Lord Charlton’s personal papers myself.”

  This produced a predictable defensive barrage from Ambrose, who felt obliged to protect his client’s privacy even after death. Only Henry’s veiled but definite threat to inspect the papers with a search warrant, if he could not do so without one, finally made Ambrose agree. After all, he could see no harm in it. Just a little irregular. It was arranged that he and Henry should meet at the house on Belgrave Terrace at eleven o’clock the following morning, Tuesday.

  Next, Henry telephoned the Kensington hotel where Harold Benson was staying.

  “Mr. Benson? I wondered if I might come along in half an hour or so and have a word with you.”

  Harold Benson sounded jaunty and a little nervous. He said, “Coming to arrest me after all, Chief Superintendent?”

  “Not this time,” said Henry. “I’ve got some rather interesting news for you. I’d like to discuss it privately with you before we go to the Yard and take a formal statement.”

  “A formal statement?” Benson was definitely shaken.

  “Witnesses have to make formal statements, you know,” said Henry, soothingly. “See you in half an hour.”

  10

  Harold Benson, Henry thought, seemed less at ease than usual. Not surprisingly, perhaps, because teatime in a Kensington hotel must always be something of an ordeal for an American. Not even the most Anglophilic Virginian matrons could have prepared Mr. Benson for the hushed chintziness, the tinkle of spoons, the discreet half-whispered conversations interspersed with shrill demands for more buttered toast, the inexorable femininity and elderliness of the occasion.

  At a corner table behind a potted palm, Harold Benson looked hopelessly at the dented metal teapot and the plate of dried-up rock cakes, and suggested that Henry might officiate. Resisting a wicked impulse to confuse the young man even further by suggesting that he be mother, Henry poured out two cups of insipid tea, and said, “Well, Mr. Benson, the mystery of Simon Finch has been solved.”

  Benson put down his teacup with a clatter, which caused two ladies in mauve hats to suspend their conversation for long enough to give him an admonitory look. He said, “What do you mean by that, Chief Superintendent?”

  Henry said, “Just that the young man who was murdered was not Simon Finch after all.”

  Benson seemed to relax. He leaned back in his chair and said, “Who was he?”

  “His name was Ronald Goodman. He used to work in the office of the lawyer who arranged the adoption of Simon Warwick. That was how he got hold of the papers which he used to convince Mr. Quince of the soundness of his claim.”

  Benson smiled, apparently genuinely amused. “I knew it must have been something like that,” he said. “The man was an obvious fake.”

  Henry said, “Ronald Goodman was a fake, Mr. Benson. Simon Finch was not.”

  “I’m afraid I don’t—”

  “I think you do, Mr. Benson. Simon Warwick was adopted by a couple named Finch who lived in McLean, Virginia. He was brought up as Simon Finch. Ronald Goodman was not Simon Finch. Are you?”

  Looking rattled, Benson said, “I am Simon Warwick.”

  “If you are,” Henry said, “then you are not Harold R. Benson, Jr. You know about that. I don’t. I’ve come here this afternoon, quite unofficially, to warn you.”

  “Warn me? Of what?”

  “Well,” Henry said, “look at it like this. If you are really Harold Benson, putting forward a false claim to be Simon Warwick, then you run a grave risk of being arrested for fraud, and maybe also for the murder of your rival claimant. After all, you must admit that you had both motive and opportunity.”

  Benson opened his mouth to protest, but Henry went on. “That could let you in for a stiff prison sentence, but nothing worse. We don’t have the death penalty in England.”

  “But—”

  “On the other hand, if you are not Harold Benson, but Simon Finch—that is, Simon Warwick—then you may well pay for it with your life. Ronald Goodman was a stupid, greedy young man—nothing more—and he was killed because somebody believed that he really was Simon Finch. It was a mistake. Do you think that a person who has gone to those lengths once to eliminate Simon Warwick would hesitate to kill again, if he’s convinced he’s now got the right man?”

  Benson was pale but firm. He said again, “I am Simon Warwick.”

  “Where did you get Simon Warwick’s passport, Mr. Benson?”

  “I told Quince. From my mother.”

  “From Mrs. Harold R. Benson, Sr.?”

  There was a tiny hesitation before Benson replied, “Of course.”

  Henry stood up. He said, “Thank you for the tea, Mr. Benson. Take care of yourself. Accidents can happen, you know. If by any remote chance you really are Simon Warwick, alias Simon Finch, alias Harold Benson—then I should disprove the Benson alias right away and come to us for police protection until your case is heard and proven. Whoever went to all the trouble of murdering Ronald Goodman is going to be very cross indeed when the news breaks.”

  The next morning, Henry found himself in the library of Lord Charlton’s Belgravia house, accompanied by Ambrose Quince. The room looked very different from the warm retreat that Ambrose remembered from his last visit to Lord Charlton. Now the furniture was shrouded in dust-sheets, the Fireplace was empty and clean-swept, and the room had the chilly feeling of an unoccupied house in winter, when the heating has been adjusted to the lowest possible point that will not actually damage the furniture.

  Ambrose shivered as he fumbled in his pocket for keys. He said, “I wish I knew how to turn the thermostat up. Nobody living here now, of course. The house comes up for auction next month.” Henry said, “I thought that if Simon Warwick was found, he would inherit this house.”

  Ambrose sneezed and blew his nose. “Blasted cold coming on,” he said. “No, Bertie Hamstone and I agreed on the sale. Now that our prime claimant has turned out to be not only dead, but a phony, there’s no sense in letting this good furniture rot—not to mention the house. The proceeds of the sale will go into the estate, of course. But until we Find the real Simon Warwick—

  Henry said, tentatively, “Harold Benson?”

  Ambrose shook his head decisively. “No chance of it.”

  “Young Finch ran away from home,” Henry said, thinking aloud. “He took another identity. You were always convinced that the two boys knew each other. Supposing that Harold Benson is dead, and that his friend Simon Finch t
ook over—”

  Ambrose sneezed again. Tetchily, he said, “That’s ridiculous. Benson’s life is perfectly straightforward and documented—birth, home, school, university, and job. No, the obvious answer is that Benson knew Simon Finch and got the passport from him somehow. So Benson decides on an impersonation. He can’t get away from having to use his own passport and birth certificate, but he knows enough about Finch’s story to provide more or less plausible stories to cover the discrepancies.”

  Henry rubbed his nose with his forefinger. He said, “I wonder.” Ambrose was not listening. He went on, “And since Finch has not come forward, despite all the publicity, it’s also obvious that he’s not in a position to come forward—in plain words, that he’s dead. We’ll advertise again, of course—for Simon Finch, this time—but we’ll get no genuine claimant, you mark my words. Then we’ll go to court and ask for leave to presume the death of Simon Warwick, otherwise Finch. And that will be that.”

  Henry had walked over to the window, which looked out onto a small, damp patio with upended wrought-iron furniture. He said, “This was where you had that talk with Lord Charlton, wasn’t it? In this room, I mean.”

  “Yes.” Ambrose sounded suitably somber. “Poor old man.”

  “And he told you that he would recognize his nephew.”

  “Oh, that.” Ambrose sneezed for the third time. “I didn’t take that very seriously. I suppose he thought he’d be able to see a family likeness . . . he was very fond of his brother Dominic, or so my father told me. Liked his wife too, I believe. Well, now, if we can get on, because I’ve got a client coming at twelve . . .” Henry said, “I really don’t need to keep you here, Mr. Quince. All I need are the keys to the desk. I’ll lock everything up when I’m through, and drop the keys back at your office.”

  “Well . . .” Ambrose was dubious.

  “I won’t take anything away,” Henry reassured him. “Any documents that I may want to have photocopied, I’ll put to one side and we can arrange for it later on.”

  “I suppose there’s no harm in it.” Ambrose allowed himself to be convinced. He snuffled his way out into a taxi, and through the streaming streets to Theobald’s Road, where he allowed Miss Benedict to keep the client waiting seven minutes while he did the Times crossword puzzle.

  In Lord Charlton’s library, Henry sat at the big, old-fashioned desk, opening the drawers one by one, and feeling like a Peeping Tom. In fact, there was little that was not of a purely business or social nature. There were invitations to great houses; some old theater and opera programs, mostly for gala charity performances at huge prices; some yellowing race cards and Royal Enclosure badges. Receipts from a famous firm of jewelers for expensive items purchased at random intervals seemed to confirm what Henry’s discreet inquiries had revealed about Lord Charlton’s private life—that he had confined himself to a series of affairs with attractive but unremarkable ladies, each of whom was suitably rewarded before being gently dismissed. None of them, it was clear, had ever invaded the sanctum of Belgrave Terrace.

  The lowest drawer of the desk was the only one that yielded any sort of human information. There was an old manila envelope containing a number of black-and-white photographs, now turning sepia from age. A family group dating from the early years of the century showed a mustachioed father and a simpering blonde mother stiffly posed with two small boys. The taller, dark boy had his hand resting protectively on the shoulder of a small, impish, fair-haired lad. On the back, in handwriting that Henry recognized as an immature version of that which he had seen in Cecily Smeed’s drawing room, was written “Father, mother, Dominic and self. Christmas 1913.” There were school photographs of football teams (“1st eleven, Bingham Primary School, 1919. Dominic second from left, front row”), and amateur theatricals (“Dominic as Rosalind!!! 1922”). In 1930, Dominic—afresh-faced youth in his twenties—was photographed on the beach at Blackpool. In 1934 he was snapped standing proudly beside a boxlike saloon car. In 1938, the brothers had evidently taken a trip to Europe, for Dominic appeared gracing the foreground of the Eiffel Tower and Saint Peter’s Square.

  The last photograph of Dominic was his wedding picture from 1943. It had been a wartime wedding, without frills. There was no sign of any members of the older generation from either family— just a group of young adults of both sexes, mostly in uniform. Alexander Warwick, in civilian clothes, stood shoulder to shoulder with the bridegroom—the latter still recognizable as the mischievous three-year-old of the first photograph. The bride, in a squareshouldered, short-skirted suit and a perched, flowery hat, was a pretty but not memorably beautiful girl. Henry searched the pictured faces of Dominic and Mary Warwick for familiar features, but found none.

  He was about to return the photographs to the envelope when he noticed that there was a piece of folded paper still in it. An old letter. Henry pulled it out and read it. It was written on the printed notepaper of the firm of Quince, Quince, Quince and Quince.

  September 9, 1949

  Dear Alex,

  I have just got back from America, where I paid the visit which I promised you. In accordance with our agreement, I will not mention to which part of the United States my journey took me. I passed myself off to Captain and Mrs. X as a colleague of Fred Humberton’s, which in a way I suppose I am.

  I recognized the boy at once—he is already strikingly like his father, but with his mother’s eyes. He seems in good health and spirits, and Mrs. X is a most charming woman. They appear to be comfortably off, and I don’t think the boy will lack for anything material.

  I know that in 1944 I advised you to adopt Simon, and you decided otherwise. Now, he is thoroughly settled in his new home, and I would advise you to put the matter out of your mind and concentrate on the things which really interest you. The moment for action has past, Alex, and you would do more harm than good by stirring things up at this stage. However, for the distant future, you might do well to remember that he is your rightful heir, and that yours is a family business.

  As always,

  Bobby

  P.S. Judith and young Ambrose send their regards.

  Henry read the letter twice, thoughtfully. So Charlton had not abandoned his nephew as definitively as he had led Ambrose Quince to believe. Five years after the adoption, he had arranged for Ambrose’s father to visit the boy, and Robert Quince’s letter hinted strongly that Alexander Warwick was at that time considering the possibility of getting young Simon back. In fact, the letter opened up a lot of interesting lines of thought.

  Meanwhile, Henry reminded himself, fascinating as the mystery of Simon Warwick might be, his job was to investigate the murder * of Ronald Goodman. Sitting in the chill discomfort of the late Lord Charlton’s library, Henry considered Ronald Goodman, whom he had never known alive.

  Everybody—Henry included—had taken it for granted that the young man had been killed by somebody who believed him to be Simon Warwick, and wished him out of the way. But that assumption left a lot of unanswered questions. How had Goodman found out the details of young Finch’s running away from home? Had Goodman really kept the Simon Warwick correspondence and the old office typewriter all those years, just on the unlikely chance that Lord Charlton might alter his will? Wasn’t it more probable that Goodman knew a lot more about Simon Warwick-Finch than just his name? Why had Simon Finch not come forward to claim his inheritance? Was it because he was dead—or was there another reason why he dared not reveal himself? A reason that Goodman knew about, perhaps. If so, who would have a stronger motive for killing Goodman that Simon Warwick himself?

  Henry stood up and went to the window. Aloud, he said, “Who is Simon Warwick?” Harold Benson? Ambrose Quince . . . Ambrose Quince? I’m getting fanciful, Henry decided. Everybody of the right age and sex, with Mary Warwick’s blue eyes, flitted tantalizingly across his mind as a possible candidate. It seemed likely that Simon Finch had come over to England when he left home, and that his adoptive mother had flown over to look for him aft
er his father’s death. Ambrose Quince’s father knew that Simon Finch was Simon Warwick. Might he not have told his son?

  Denton Westbury had the basic qualifications to be Simon Warwick, and it seemed certain that Westbury was an assumed name. Why was he so involved with Warwick Industries, and with Cecily Smeed, who probably knew more than she was admitting?

  Suddenly, with a stirring of the instinct that Henry’s colleagues called his “nose,” he felt quite certain that Simon Warwick was not dead, as Ambrose Quince was now set on proving. Simon Warwick was alive, and very much aware of everything that was happening. I’ve almost certainly met him and spoken to him, Henry thought. There’s some reason why he can’t come forward under his own name. But he means to lay hands on that inheritance, one way or another. Of course he knew all along that Goodman was a phony—but a phony with a good chance of getting away with it. So Goodman had to be killed.

  On that basis, it seemed to Henry most relevant to his murder investigation to establish the identity of Simon Warwick.

  Back in his office at Scotland Yard, Henry had only just taken off his wet raincoat when the telephone rang.

  “Reynolds here, sir. I’ve got Mr. Harold Benson in my office.”

  “You have? Why?”

  “He insisted on seeing me, sir, and he wants to talk to you. He says somebody just tried to kill him.”

  11

  The first and most obvious thing that Henry noticed about Harold Benson was that he was scared out of his wits. Gone was the jaunty, self-confident young man who had the day before asserted that he was Simon Warwick and had appeared not unduly perturbed when warned that an attempt might be made on his life. He sat in front of Henry’s desk, as white as a sheet, nervously clasping and unclasping his hands. Either he’s a bloody good actor, Henry thought, or he really is frightened.

  Aloud, Henry said, “So you think that somebody tried to kill you, Mr. Benson?”