The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  ‘Something’s happened, hasn’t it?’ she said.

  ‘No,’ replied Alice, ‘nothing in particular.’

  ‘You’re positively glowing.’

  ‘I spent the night at home, that’s all.’

  ‘Then it must be something to do with your brother. Has Paul been found?’ Alice shook her head. ‘You only ever go to see your mother when you have a good reason. What was it this time?’

  ‘It was nothing particular.’

  ‘You’re a terrible liar, Alice Marmion.’

  ‘No, I’m not.’

  Iris snapped her fingers. ‘So that’s it!’ she said, face igniting. ‘You’ve twisted Joe’s arm and got him to set a date at last.’ Alice couldn’t resist beaming. ‘I’m right, aren’t I?’

  ‘Well …’

  ‘Oh, this is so exciting!’ said Iris, stopping to embrace her friend. ‘When is it? What are you going to wear? How many bridesmaids will you have? You’re going to invite me, aren’t you? Will you and Joe have a proper honeymoon?’

  The questions eventually gave way to envy and regret. Happy for her friend, Iris was depressed by her own situation. They walked on in silence for several minutes. Alice could sense that Iris was suffering. Wanting to cheer her friend up, she couldn’t think of a way to do it. Iris suddenly broke the silence.

  ‘I never told you what happened between Doug and me, did I?’

  ‘It’s none of my business, Iris.’

  ‘I’ve kept it bottled up all this time.’

  ‘You were hurt,’ said Alice. ‘That was obvious. The last thing you needed was someone trying to pry.’

  ‘I closed down,’ admitted Iris. ‘I was so ashamed that I didn’t want to talk about it to anyone. Can you understand that?’

  ‘Yes, I can.’

  ‘But I’m wondering if it was a mistake.’

  ‘Only you can decide that.’

  ‘After that last evening with Doug, I was badly bruised. I kept blaming myself for … what he did. But the bruises are slowly disappearing now. I’m getting over it.’

  ‘That’s good to hear.’

  Iris came to a halt. ‘Do you mind if I talk about it now?’

  Alice could see the mingled fear and embarrassment in her eyes.

  ‘Perhaps you should,’ she said.

  Superintendent Chatfield had already released a statement to the press and reporters were now baying for detail. He was therefore pleased when Keedy returned from the hotel to pass on the information that he had gathered there. In spite of his reputation for impatience, Chatfield was a good listener, waiting until the sergeant had finished before making any comment.

  ‘You’ve done well,’ he said.

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Keedy.

  ‘The only things you haven’t provided are names of possible suspects.’

  ‘It’s too early to do that.’

  ‘A member of staff has to have helped.’

  ‘I agree, sir, but that person doesn’t necessarily have to be still working at the Lotus. It could be a disgruntled employee who left under a cloud.’

  ‘Good thinking.’

  ‘I had a list of former members of staff from the manager.’

  ‘How many of them are there?’

  ‘Only four,’ said Keedy. ‘That tells you something about the place. It inspires loyalty. Most of the people who’ve worked there enjoy it enough to stay. Mrs Gosling is a case in point. She’s the mother hen of the hotel. According to her, none of the staff would do anything to cause problems for the Lotus.’

  ‘What did you make of the night porter?’

  ‘Rogan seems to be efficient enough, but I had a feeling that he was holding something back from me. He’d repay a second visit.’

  ‘Make it fairly soon,’ advised Chatfield, ‘and away from the hotel. You might get more out of him if he’s in his own home.’

  ‘That’s a good point, sir. When I questioned him, he always spoke as if afraid that the manager was listening as well.’

  ‘Is Mr Chell such a tyrant?’

  ‘He’s one of those people far too aware of their power, sir.’

  Chatfield’s eyes flashed at the perceived criticism of him. Marmion and Keedy didn’t hide their view of the superintendent’s despotic inclinations. It was a constant irritation for Chatfield. Before he could chide the sergeant, however, he was interrupted by a knock on the door. He looked up as a uniformed officer entered.

  ‘Yes?’ he snapped.

  ‘Someone is insisting on seeing you, Superintendent,’ said the newcomer. ‘It’s to do with the murder at the Lotus Hotel.’

  ‘Then he’ll have to wait until I’m ready.’

  ‘I’m not waiting for anybody,’ said an angry voice.

  And a big, handsome, middle-aged woman in a tweed coat, skirt and hat stormed into the room and confronted Chatfield. She adjusted her monocle so that one gimlet eye focused on him.

  ‘I am Griselda Fleetwood,’ she declared.

  ‘And what’s your interest in the Lotus Hotel?’ he asked.

  ‘I own it.’

  Living and working in the capital had spoilt Marmion. When he had no access to a police car, he knew that he could always summon a taxi. Assuming that he’d be able to do the same in Didcot, he had a rude awakening. All that the town offered him by way of transport was a horse and trap. Inevitably, it was a slower and less comfortable means of travel, but he had no choice. Clambering up beside the driver, a pimply youth with a mouth permanently agape, he gave directions then put a hand quickly to his hat as a gust of wind threatened to dislodge it. There was an immediate problem. While the driver had heard of Elmstead Manor, he’d never been to the house before and was not quite sure how to get there. The journey was therefore punctuated by occasional stops to ask directions from random people. On the ordnance map that Marmion had consulted beforehand, it had looked fairly close to East Hagbourne, a village within easy driving distance of Didcot, yet in reality Elmstead Manor turned out to be farther than anticipated. Marmion began to despair of ever reaching his destination. His eye then fell on a fingerpost.

  ‘Stop!’ he yelled.

  ‘Why?’ asked the driver, hauling on the reins.

  ‘We’ve just passed a sign to the house.’

  ‘I didn’t see it, sir.’

  ‘Well, I did. Turn round and go back.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘And be quick about it, please.’

  ‘Very good, sir.’

  Tugging on the reins, the driver did as he was told. When the trap was eventually pointing in the right direction, they found themselves bouncing and swaying along a rutted track. Autumn leaves rustled on either side of them as they rode through an avenue of trees. Marmion got his first fleeting glimpse of the house through the branches of an old oak. It was a large, rambling, half-timbered Tudor building set in broad acres of parkland. The track soon opened out into a wider drive, giving them a clearer view of the manor. As he studied it, Marmion’s hopes of finding Lady Brice-Cadmore there began to fade very quickly. Something warned him to brace himself for disappointment. His journey could be in vain.

  The trap pulled up in front of the house and he got down onto the gravel. As Marmion approached the front door, it opened before him and a manservant came out to greet him.

  ‘Can I help you, sir?’ he asked.

  ‘Yes,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ve come in search of Lady Brice-Cadmore.’

  The man was taken aback. ‘There must be some mistake.’

  ‘I can assure you that there isn’t. I’m Inspector Marmion of Scotland Yard and I’m here in connection with a crime that was committed in the Lotus Hotel in London. Until last night, Lady Brice-Cadmore was a guest there.’

  ‘That’s impossible, Inspector.’

  ‘I’ve seen her signature in the hotel register.’

  ‘I very much doubt that, sir.’

  ‘Isn’t her ladyship at home?’

  The man’s voice lowered to a whisper. ‘No, s
he isn’t.’

  ‘Then can you suggest where I might find her?’

  ‘Did you come through East Hagbourne, sir?’

  ‘Yes, we did.’

  ‘Then you passed the parish church of St Andrew,’ said the man, solemnly. ‘Lady Brice-Cadmore was laid to rest there three years ago.’

  CHAPTER SIX

  Keedy and Chatfield took time to acclimatise themselves to their unexpected visitor. When she’d first burst into the room, she dazzled them. There was a potency about her that was almost intimidating. Chatfield offered her a seat with exaggerated politeness as if in the presence of minor royalty. Keedy, meanwhile, was marvelling at her compound of power, determination and good breeding. Neither of them had met anyone quite like Griselda Fleetwood before. Her manner was haughty, her tone peremptory.

  ‘I’ve just come from the hotel,’ she said, ‘and was told that an Inspector Marmion was in charge of the case. He is not available, it seems, so I was advised to speak to Superintendent Chatfield.’

  ‘That’s me,’ he said before indicating Keedy. ‘And this is Sergeant Keedy, who is also working on the investigation.’

  ‘The manager mentioned you,’ she said, eyeing Keedy with clear disapproval. ‘He found your questioning intrusive.’

  ‘That’s in the nature of a murder inquiry, madam,’ explained Keedy. ‘We had to probe deeply in order to build up a detailed picture of how your hotel operates.’

  ‘Mr Chell could have told you that. He didn’t see the need for a cross-examination of each one of our guests, and nor do I. When they stay at the Lotus, they rely on us to protect them from any interference. You broke the contract we have with our patrons, Sergeant.’

  ‘With respect, Mrs Fleetwood, it was the killer who did that. Had there been no crime on the premises, Inspector Marmion and I would never have been to the hotel.’

  ‘Don’t quibble, young man.’

  ‘My detectives are known for their meticulousness,’ said Chatfield, trying to establish his authority, ‘and they followed recognised procedure. It has already produced results.’

  He went on to describe the steps that had been taken, the evidence gathered and how he’d given the press a description of the murder victim so that an appeal for information could be made to the public. Chatfield felt certain that they would soon have the name of the unknown woman found dead at the hotel. What he couldn’t guarantee, he admitted, was a quick solution to the crime because they had, as yet, no definite suspects.

  ‘One of them must be employed at the hotel,’ said Keedy.

  ‘I was just about to say that,’ added Chatfield, treating him to a glare. ‘Inside help was vital to the killer, Mrs Fleetwood.’

  ‘Well, it didn’t come from any member of my staff,’ she asserted.

  ‘I beg to differ.’

  ‘The people we employ are above reproach.’

  ‘Then perhaps you can suggest who did commit this murder.’

  ‘That’s exactly why I’m here, Superintendent. Your men are clearly looking in the wrong direction. The Lotus is not like other hotels. It has unique qualities that sets it apart. We cater for ladies of high society who – when they visit London – prefer to stay in a place that offers an essentially feminine atmosphere. There’s no political significance in that,’ she stressed. ‘The Lotus is not a suffragette citadel. Indeed, our guests deplore the activities of those desperate women who caused so much wanton damage in the name of equality.’

  ‘To be fair,’ said Keedy, ‘the suffragettes have abandoned their campaign for the duration of the war.’

  ‘That’s immaterial. They continue to bring shame on our sex.’

  ‘I agree,’ said Chatfield, jumping in before Keedy could say anything else. ‘But – if you would, please – I’d like you to justify your claim that we’re looking in the wrong direction.’

  ‘Your detectives are unaware of our record of success.’

  ‘That’s not true,’ argued Keedy. ‘The manager boasted of it.’

  ‘Yes, but he didn’t tell you what the consequences have been. Success always invites envy,’ she said, ‘and that has so far been confined to sniping at us in the newspapers. When that failed to dent our popularity, our rivals resorted to nastier methods. This latest outrage is the culmination of a sophisticated battle that’s being waged against us.’

  ‘What are you telling us, Mrs Fleetwood?’ asked Chatfield.

  ‘The murder took place at our hotel for a reason.’

  ‘And what was that reason?’

  ‘Sabotage.’

  Alice Marmion was horrified at the story she heard. It took a long time for the full details to emerge because they were on duty and had to deal with a number of minor incidents as they strolled side by side around their beat. There was also the problem of Iris’s sense of shame. It meant that her account was halting and apologetic. Alice was roused.

  ‘Stop doing that!’ she said, coming to an abrupt halt. ‘None of this was your fault, Iris. He must take full responsibility.’

  ‘Without realising it, I must have led him on.’

  ‘That’s nonsense.’

  ‘I simply can’t believe that Doug would have done that unless I’d given him … the wrong signals.’

  ‘Stop taking his part,’ said Alice, vehemently. ‘You’re the victim, not PC Beckett. When you escaped from his clutches, you should have reported him.’

  Iris shuddered. ‘Oh, I couldn’t do that.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘I felt so guilty,’ said the other, ‘and so stupid. Because Doug was that much older than me, I thought that I was completely safe. I now see that I trusted him far too much.’

  ‘It’s not too late to make him pay for what he did.’

  ‘I’m too frightened to do that.’

  ‘Do you want him to get away with it?’ asked Alice. ‘If you hadn’t stopped him, he’d have …’

  ‘Don’t say that word. I can’t believe that Doug would have gone all the way. He’s a policeman whose job is to help people.’

  ‘Well, he certainly wasn’t trying to help you that night.’

  Alice was fuming, less at the behaviour of Constable Beckett than at her friend’s response to it. During their brief relationship, Iris had enjoyed some very pleasant evenings out with him. It was only when she went to his house that he changed dramatically. The gentle, patient man she knew suddenly revealed a darker side to his character, leaping on her when they sat on the sofa and trying to take off her clothes. Iris had only managed to escape by taking out her hair slide and jabbing it hard into the side of his face. Caught by surprise and howling in pain, he’d been unable to prevent her from pushing him off and rushing out of the house.

  ‘Report him,’ urged Alice. ‘It’s your duty.’

  ‘He could lose his job.’

  ‘He deserves to, Iris. He ought to be behind bars.’

  ‘It would be his word against mine.’

  ‘Any fair-minded judge would believe you.’

  ‘Oh, I just couldn’t face it,’ wailed Iris. ‘I’ve read about trials for attempted … you know. The woman always seems to lose. It would be a nightmare, having my private life raked over in public.’

  It was an understandable fear. Alice was also familiar with details of cases of sexual assault, which ended all too often in the acquittal of the man. In the course of trying to defend herself, a woman could lose her reputation altogether, even though she was the innocent party. Albeit hesitant, Iris’s account had the ring of truth. Alice accepted it without reservation. A jury of strangers might take a different view and Beckett’s years of service as a policeman would count in his favour. Wanting to embrace her friend by way of consolation, Alice knew that a public street was not perhaps the place to do so. She simply gave Iris a sympathetic smile.

  ‘Now I can see why you never talked about it before,’ she said.

  ‘I just couldn’t, Alice.’

  ‘You went quiet and miserable. That was very unli
ke you.’

  ‘I know,’ said Iris, sadly. ‘I’m usually a real chatterbox.’

  ‘Have you seen him since?’

  ‘Yes. I did see him once, days later. I ducked down a side street immediately.’

  ‘Didn’t it occur to you to challenge him?’

  ‘I didn’t have the courage for that, Alice.’

  ‘Did he try to contact you in any way?’ Iris shook her head. ‘So he’s never tried to apologise?’

  ‘No,’ said Iris.

  ‘That tells you all you need to know about the man.’

  ‘He’s probably forgotten me already.’

  ‘He could also be too busy looking for someone else to entice into his house. If you make an accusation against him, you might be saving other young women from suffering the same fate.’

  ‘It’s not as simple as that,’ said Iris, earnestly. ‘I went out with Doug willingly, I let him kiss me and hold my hand. I felt relaxed in his company. It’s a terrible thing for a woman of my age to admit, Alice, but the truth is that he was my first real boyfriend. I was … well, hoping I might finally have found Mr Right.’

  Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore was a wizened old man in a crumpled suit who kept fingering his goatee beard as if he was in danger of losing it. He and Marmion sat opposite each other in leather armchairs. They were in a low-ceilinged room that was occupied by dozens of stuffed birds, perched inside a series of display cases. Marmion was particularly impressed by the osprey poised to descend on its prey from the top of a glass-fronted cabinet. Sir Godfrey gestured with a skeletal hand.

  ‘I love ornithology,’ he said, ‘and, by great good fortune, so did my late wife. It’s a shared interest that drew us together. We met by chance at the Three Choirs Festival in Gloucester. A magical evening in every way! It was at the premiere of Scenes from Shelley’s Prometheus Unbound. The composer, Hubert Parry, also conducted. That was in 1880. What an extraordinary coincidence!’