“What about Reggie Vickers?” Hetty asked. “You were right. Everything he told you about Payne and the plot to kill him was true. I must admit, I had my doubts. It was such a wild story.”
“He was too scared to be lying,” Rachel said.
“And now he’ll be in a blue funk,” Trueman said. “I’ve said it before. You can’t rely on Vickers.”
“Without him,” Rachel said mildly, “we’d never have known that Gilbert Payne was alive. Let alone that he was returning to Britain under a false name.”
“Or that Clive Danskin would be acquitted of murder,” Hetty said. “Or about those others. Henry Rolland and the woman. Or about Mortmain Hall.”
Trueman said, “Vickers must realise he’s already told you too much.”
“He’s not told me everything he knows,” Rachel said. “He’s held things back. Foolish of him. He may as well be hung for a sheep as a lamb.”
“Shall I have a word with him?”
“Please. He and I need to talk. Face to face.”
“What if he begs you to forget everything he’s ever said?”
“You won’t forget,” Hetty said. “Will you?”
“No,” Rachel said. “I never forget.”
*
Reggie Vickers stirred in his bed. His head was aching, his throat parched. Forcing open his eyes, he peered at the alarm clock on the small walnut table.
Five past eight. Surely he’d set it for seven. Why the devil hadn’t the blasted contraption rung?
“Did you…?” he began, before realising he was alone.
He struggled out of bed, and pushed a hand through his tousled hair. One advantage of a set of bachelor rooms in the Albany was that it was only a short walk to his office in Whitehall. Parting the velvet curtain, he gazed down on to the courtyard. Bright enough this morning, with no sign of rain, thank heaven. There was every chance of a full day’s play at Lord’s. He must nip over to St John’s Wood, blow away the cobwebs. An afternoon at the cricket would do him a world of good.
Last night, he’d put away a hell of a lot of Scotch, if the throbbing in his temples was anything to go by. Was Doodle right, was he drinking too much? Doodle seemed less understanding lately. They’d quarrelled last night, though now Reggie found it difficult to remember the precise cause of their spat. Oh well. When a chap had so much on his mind, the bottle made for a decent refuge.
The bed was empty, and there was no sign of Doodle’s neatly folded clothes. Was it possible that he’d slept through the alarm, while Doodle got ready for the day?
He kicked open the bedroom door with his bare foot, and called out. “Are you there?”
No answer.
Reggie groaned. He hoped Doodle wasn’t sulking. That was the last thing a fellow needed, especially when he wasn’t feeling too chipper.
He stumbled into the bathroom. A good wash always worked wonders, and by the time he’d dressed, his mood had lightened. Never mind if Doodle was hunched over the breakfast table, smouldering with resentment. The promise of a top-notch dinner this evening would work wonders. The Criterion was always reliable. Doodle had a taste for Veeraswamy, but Reggie couldn’t get on with Indian food. The place was nothing more than a curry club for ex-servicemen from the colonies.
Contemplating his reflection in the hall mirror, he took a deep breath, and plastered on a bright smile. That had been quite a bender last night, but he didn’t look too rotten. The dark rings under his eyes would fade soon enough. The relentless expansion of his waistline was a worry, but damn it all, he was only thirty-two. Hardly one foot in the grave.
He strode into the kitchen, ready to utter a cheery greeting. The words died on his lips as he saw the envelope on the breakfast table, propped against the tin of coffee. His name was on the envelope, in Doodle’s elegant script.
He yelped in dismay. Somehow he didn’t need to rip open the envelope and read the letter inside to know what Doodle had written.
*
“And what about Jacob Flint?” Hetty demanded.
“What about him?” Rachel said.
“Have you lost interest in him?”
Rachel yawned. “It’s barely five minutes since you accused me of being sweet on the poor devil.”
“Sorry.” The housekeeper bit her tongue. “I don’t mean to cluck round you like a mother hen. But someone has to…”
“Our intrepid reporter amuses me. And he can make himself useful.”
“Except that you sent him off with a flea in his ear.”
“He’ll be back.”
“Don’t be so sure.”
“Jacob Flint has his hands full with the Danskin case,” Rachel said. “I expect he recounted yesterday’s sensation in court in breathless prose.”
Trueman gestured to the pile of newspapers. “They’re full of it.”
“What does he say about Danskin’s acquittal?”
Hetty pulled out the Clarion from the pile on the table. Blazing Car Sensation! screamed the front page. Accused Man Cleared By War Hero Witness!
Rachel glanced at the story. “He’s made a decent fist of it, considering his editor must be furious. A death sentence means they can rush out a special edition. But if a man must evade the noose, it’s some consolation if he’s saved by a gallant veteran of the Western Front.”
Trueman said, “A couple of newspapers haven’t even mentioned Gilbert Payne’s death.”
“Only because,” Rachel said, “they labour under the misapprehension that the corpse on the line belonged to an impoverished nobody called Bertram Jones. Even Danskin’s escape from the gallows would take second billing if they knew that Jones was really Gilbert Payne.”
*
The reproachful tone of Doodle’s note hurt Reggie more than any torrent of recrimination or rage.
Last night you said I was a nobody. It’s true. The first time we met, you said I’d always be your Valentine, but you didn’t mean it. Now I’ll go back to being a nobody.
Had he really been so stupid, even in his cups? Pity that his recollection of the previous evening was an incoherent blur. Yes, they’d exchanged harsh words, and this time it seemed he’d gone too far. The accusation of snobbishness was out of order. His light-hearted jokes were simply teasing, nothing more. If ever he talked out of turn, he was always quick to apologise.
Not that he’d been allowed a chance to say sorry. The last lines of the letter stabbed like a trench knife.
It’s better to end it now. My mind’s made up. There’s no going back. Not to you or your posh friend Lulu. Please don’t look for me. It won’t do any good or make any difference. We won’t meet again.
That was all. The letter wasn’t even signed with a kiss, for old time’s sake. At first, in frantic, unreasoning misery, Reggie contemplated setting off in hot pursuit. Not that he knew Doodle’s address, just that it was somewhere in Hoxton. Probably he could find the place, given time. Cheap rooms in a dingy tenement, he supposed. Not a home to be proud of.
Within moments, he thought better of it. Doodle was stubborn, and the letter crystal clear. Mustn’t make a fool of himself. Nothing worse than blubbing in front of a lover. He’d never been one to stand on his dignity, but to beg would be humiliating.
He was fumbling with the laces of his shoes when the shrill of the telephone broke the lonely silence. His heart lurched.
Doodle? Calling to explain, or apologise? Perhaps even to plead for forgiveness?
It was never too late. They could start again. He blundered across the room and snatched the receiver.
“This is Trueman.”
A wave of nausea swept over him. For an instant, he thought he was about to be physically sick. Not Doodle, but that hulking brute who worked for the Savernake woman.
How he wished he’d never heard of her. Far less begged for her assistance.
“Did you hear me?” Trueman demanded.
Reggie summoned up what remained of his courage. “It’s not convenient. Goodbye.”
/> “Don’t hang up,” Trueman said. “Have you seen the newspapers?”
“Of course not!” The sheer absurdity of the question knocked him off balance. “I never bother with them until I arrive at the office.”
“Gilbert Payne was killed yesterday.”
The words smacked like a punch to the solar plexus. Reggie uttered a wail of pain.
“Run over by one train after being thrown out of another.” Trueman was remorseless. “The police call it an accident, but you and I know better, don’t we?”
Reggie’s gorge rose. One body blow after another. How much of a pummelling could he survive?
“Miss Savernake wants a word with you.”
“No!”
“A few days ago, you pleaded with her for help.”
Reggie gritted his teeth, forced himself to speak. “She couldn’t save Gilbert. He’s dead. That… changes everything.”
“It changes nothing. What happens at Mortmain Hall…”
“Look! I’ve done all I can. This must be the end of it. I never want to hear from you again. Or from her.”
“You’ve gone too far to back out now.”
“I’m finished with the whole business. I can’t possibly…”
“You’re sure nobody knows you’ve talked to her?”
A pause. “Not a soul.”
“I don’t believe you.”
“I’ve never breathed a word, I promise.” He drew a breath. “I’m begging you again. Just leave me alone.”
“She’ll expect you at Gaunt House this evening. Seven o’clock.”
“I can’t.”
“You must,” Trueman said.
*
Putting down the phone, Trueman glared at his companions. “Weakling.”
“Nothing but a coward,” Hetty said. “Showing himself in his true colours.”
“He’s terrified,” Rachel said.
“Last time,” Trueman said, “Vickers insisted he’d told us all he knew.”
“He was lying,” Rachel said. “Unfortunately, Payne’s death has knocked him sideways. All he cares about now is saving his own skin.”
*
Each morning, senior reporters at the Clarion met in a poky, smoke-filled room to discuss the news agenda. Walter Gomersall, the editor, turned to Jacob Flint as soon as talk turned away from the latest calamities to befall the hapless MacDonald’s government.
“Good spread on the Danskin case, lad. Pity he dodged the scaffold, but you can’t have everything.”
“That fellow had the luck of the devil,” moaned the City editor, a stern Calvinist by the name of Plenderleith. “Now he’s free to carry on deceiving weak-willed and gullible women without let or hindrance. And that nincompoop of a judge said he left without a stain on his character! No wonder people think there’s no justice on this earth.”
Gomersall sucked on his pipe. “Pity the mysterious major is so taciturn, but at least those bastards at the Witness didn’t have any joy in getting him to talk to them. Surely Danskin won’t keep mum for long? Well, lad? Peculiar business. A victim with no name. A mysterious fire. Still plenty more to be said, if you ask me.”
“His solicitors say they won’t make a further public statement,” Jacob said. “I spoke to them after the fuss had died down. Danskin has nothing to add to the story he gave the police. The tramp knocked him out and stole his car. When it broke down a few miles later, he must have investigated with a lighted match. The fireball killed him and destroyed the car, along with most of the evidence.”
“Hence the experts arguing endlessly over how to interpret the bits and pieces fished from the cinders,” Gomersall growled.
“Danskin won’t talk. He wasn’t even willing to give sworn evidence when his life was at stake.”
“Because he was afraid of cross-examination. He’s not on oath with us. Soft soap him, tell him he has a chance to set the record straight. Tell the world about the nightmare he’s lived through.”
“The solicitors say his health has broken down as a result of his ordeal.”
Plenderleith snorted. “Spare us the violin strings.”
“I’ll tell you what’s making Danskin poorly,” Gomersall said. “Being forced to explain himself to his wife and his various mistresses. To say nothing of his creditors. Divorce isn’t cheap. He must be desperate for hard cash. Those fancy lawyers cost a pretty penny. What better way to earn a few bob than an exclusive heart-to-heart with the Clarion?”
Jacob shook his head. “I tried every tack with the solicitors, I promise. No joy. The tramp is dead and buried, and nobody knows his name. Danskin doesn’t seem worried about money. He reckons it would be wrong to profit from such a tragedy.”
“Ye gods! Don’t tell me he’s acquired a conscience all of a sudden. There must be more to it than that. I bet he’s keeping the juicy titbits back so he can write a book.” Gomersall groaned. “All right, scout around for another story. Any bright ideas?”
“What about the body they found on the railway line yesterday?”
“The fellow who fell out of the funeral train and was cut to ribbons?” The editor grimaced. “What about him? The railway company is satisfied it was an accident.”
“Predictably,” Jacob said. “The Necropolis Company doesn’t want to scare off the bereaved. Kensal Green Cemetery is handier than Brookwood. Adverse publicity is bad for business.”
“True, but the police aren’t interested. The deceased spent years in Tangier, and we all know what that makes him, don’t we? For my money, he topped himself. Either way, there’s no mileage in it for us.”
“It still might be worth digging around.”
“You’re a stubborn young devil.” Gomersall blew a smoke ring. “What do you have in mind?”
“Let me try to find out something about him. What exactly did he get up to in Tangier? Did anyone have cause to wish him ill?”
Gomersall flicked the suggestion aside like ash from his pipe. “Hell of a long shot.”
“You never know. This time yesterday, I’d have sworn that Danskin killed that tramp. Did Jones fall or was he pushed? I can see the headline now.”
“We’re all ears.”
Jacob raised his voice to a roar worthy of Sir Edgar. “Was Mystery Man from Morocco Murdered?”
*
“Now Gilbert Payne is dead, that may be the end of it,” Hetty Trueman said.
Rachel picked up a sheet of paper which was lying on the table. It bore four names in her neat handwriting.
Gilbert Payne
Sylvia Gorrie
Henry Rolland
Clive Danskin
“No,” she said, crossing out the name of Gilbert Payne. “Remember what Vickers told us. This is only the beginning.”
“You don’t need to get involved.”
“I watched a man walk to his death. Of course I’m involved.”
“You couldn’t do anything more.”
“There’s something I can do,” Rachel said. “I can go to Mortmain Hall.”
6
Reggie Vickers blundered through the morning in a daze. Last night’s binge was partly to blame, but hangovers were one thing, Doodle’s departure and Gilbert Payne’s death quite another. And then, to put the tin lid on it, Rachel Savernake’s thug was bullying him. He wished he’d never heard of the woman, let alone told her about Gilbert and Mortmain Hall. How could he have been so stupid?
His head throbbed, his stomach ached, and his back was playing up. He felt feverish, and wondered if he was sickening for something. It was impossible to bury personal misery by throwing himself into his work. How could he begin to concentrate on the tedious memoranda heaped up in his pending tray? Frankly, it was as well that nobody cared what happened to the trivial nonsense he drudged over day after day.
The job was a sinecure. A blue-chip education – Christ’s Hospital and Peterhouse – had ensured that he went out into the world with good connections and sophisticated table manners; he could also make up a
four at bridge and keep a straight bat. At the tail end of the war, he’d joined the Royal Flying Corps. While training as a pilot, he crashed his Sopwith Pup in a farmer’s field and fractured his spine. By the time he was walking again, the ink was dry on the Armistice. People said he was lucky to have survived in one piece, but in the darkest moments, his failure to make a worthwhile contribution to the war effort hurt more than his aching back. The story of his life was a tale of so near, yet so far.
After returning to Cambridge, he was approached about the possibility of joining the civil service. Apparently, his tutor had recommended him, which was quite a turn-up, given his academic indolence. He’d never made plans about a long-term career, but mouldering away behind a desk held no appeal. As a schoolboy he’d fantasised about playing cricket for Middlesex, but he’d never even broken into the university first eleven, and no enticing opportunities loomed on the horizon. When his pater, who was something in the City, died from a ruptured brain aneurysm and left behind a pile of unexpected debts, Reggie’s hand was forced. His liking for the good life meant that he had little choice but to earn a crust in Whitehall.
Funny thing was, whenever he described himself to new acquaintances as a glorified pen-pusher, they thought he was joking, or excessively modest. Doodle had joked that he might be a secret agent, and seemed excited by the idea. The reality lacked glamour, even if he was playing his small part in keeping Britain on an even keel. At first he’d been glad of the chance to make himself useful by undertaking occasional extracurricular duties. Just bag-carrying, nothing risky or untoward.
His natural lack of curiosity was an asset in the job, since he never kicked up a rumpus by asking inconvenient questions. Everything chugged along merrily for years. Calling Britain a land fit for heroes might be stretching it somewhat, but at least they were keeping the Bolshies at bay. Things had quietened down since the collapse of the general strike fomented by agitators. But the powers-that-be would never rest easy. During the past twelve months, he’d been entrusted with more onerous tasks, and lately he’d begun to worry about where things might lead. When he’d cottoned on to the fact that Gilbert Payne was alive and well and in mortal danger, panic had set in.
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