The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  ‘I’m not sure that I follow your reasoning, Inspector.’

  ‘When she requested it, the guest known as Lady Brice-Cadmore fully expected to leave the hotel at 6 a.m. I believe that someone arranged an earlier departure for her.’

  ‘It must have been her accomplice.’

  ‘That was my initial response. I’ve grown to distrust it.’

  ‘But the woman was fraudulent. You’ve proved that.’

  ‘Fraud and murder are very different crimes, sir.’

  ‘I still think she has blood on her hands.’

  ‘So why was that taxi ordered?’

  ‘It must have been a mistake.’

  ‘From what you’ve told me about her, it sounds as if she was a very self-possessed woman. Posing as someone else requires a lot of confidence. You enjoyed having her as your guest.’

  ‘We did,’ confessed Chell.

  ‘Did she mingle with the other guests?’

  ‘No, she kept herself to herself.’

  ‘She was obviously taking no risks,’ said Marmion. ‘How did she come to stay at this particular hotel?’

  ‘It was recommended by a friend, apparently.’

  ‘Did she mention the name of that friend?’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ replied Chell, ‘and, in hindsight, that may be significant. Frankly, I’m shocked at myself for letting someone pull the wool over my eyes. As far as I’m aware, that’s never happened to me before and I resent it. I’m not easily deceived.’

  ‘You can’t be blamed, sir. Evidently, she was very convincing.’

  ‘I took her at face value. It was a grave mistake.’

  ‘So where was that taxi going to take her?’

  ‘Is that relevant?’

  ‘It could be. Did the taxi driver say where he was supposed to take the false Lady Brice-Cadmore?’

  ‘He was booked to go to Euston Station.’

  ‘Then that was certainly her intended destination,’ Marmion concluded. ‘A woman as composed and well organised as the one you describe would not do anything on impulse. She planned to leave here at six o’clock this morning but was prevented from doing so. We know that her bed was not slept in. I fancy that she was forced to leave during the night.’

  ‘This is all very hypothetical,’ complained Chell. ‘You don’t have any idea of the identities of our guest or of the woman found dead in her room. That’s why Mrs Fleetwood was so furious.’

  ‘Who is Mrs Fleetwood?’

  ‘She’s the owner of this hotel. When I sent her a telegram earlier on, she responded immediately. After coming here to establish the facts, she went off to Scotland Yard in search of answers. Mrs Fleetwood is a woman of great determination, Inspector,’ he warned. ‘She won’t rest until the murder has been solved and the ugly stain on this hotel has been well and truly removed.’

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  Joe Keedy was still reeling from his encounter with Griselda Fleetwood. By sheer force of personality, she’d startled both himself and Chatfield. It was only when she tried to issue orders that the superintendent had had to remind her that he would make any operational decisions relating to the investigation. Chatfield agreed that her main business rival did merit a visit, but he was not prepared to accept her assertion that Fraser Buchanan had to be regarded as a prime suspect. With Griselda’s imprecations still ringing in his ears, Keedy had been dispatched to interview Buchanan. On his way to the man’s home, he reflected on the sense of purpose that had driven Griselda Fleetwood to open the Lotus Hotel and he was bound to admire the way she’d prospered in a highly competitive market. Keedy had met her in a pugnacious mood. When she rubbed shoulders with the minor aristocracy who favoured her hotel, he suspected her tone would be far more reverential.

  Keedy found himself thinking about her husband, wondering how he coped with his wife’s temper and her compulsion to dominate. It was a Herculean task that most men would shun. Alice had occasional bursts of anger, but they paled beside the pulsating rage of Griselda Fleetwood. When they were married, Keedy reflected, he wouldn’t dream of spending a night away from his wife if it could possibly be avoided. Mr Fleetwood, by contrast, probably yearned for escape. In every way, his wife would be a daunting bedfellow.

  When he reached the house in Regent’s Park, he had no idea what to expect. Griselda had described her rival in the most unflattering terms, leaving Keedy with the idea that he’d be confronted by a cold, ruthless, guileful ogre without even a scintilla of humanity. What he actually found when admitted to the Buchanan residence was a tall, genial, middle-aged man with an open face, fringed by side whiskers and lit up by a disarming smile. In spite of his ancestry, Fraser Buchanan had no hint of a Scottish accent. After pumping Keedy’s hand, he indicated the sofa. The two men sat opposite each other in what was a large and tastefully decorated lounge.

  ‘I’ve been expecting someone to come,’ said Buchanan, cheerily. ‘When there’s a spot of bother at the Lotus, I always get the blame.’

  ‘It’s much more serious than a spot of bother, sir.’

  ‘Did Griselda give you my home address?’

  ‘Yes, sir, she did. It’s only fair to warn you that Mrs Fleetwood is not exactly an admirer of yours.’ Buchanan laughed heartily. ‘We’re involved in a murder investigation, sir. I’m sorry you find that a cause for amusement.’

  ‘I wasn’t laughing at what is clearly a heinous crime, Sergeant. It was Griselda’s reaction to it that tickled me. The idea of weighing the evidence carefully before making an allegation would never occur to her. She immediately points an accusing finger at me. If it wasn’t so absurdly comical, I’d feel both hurt and insulted.’

  ‘How did you come to know about the murder?’

  ‘News travels fast.’

  ‘Could you be more explicit?’

  ‘My own hotel, the Unicorn, is a mere two streets away from the Lotus. If anyone so much as flushes a toilet at Griselda’s dainty little refuge for titled ladies, I get to hear about it.’

  ‘What have you been told in this instance?’

  ‘I know that a murder took place during the night and that the police have no idea who the victim might be. That’s common knowledge by now, Sergeant.’

  ‘May I ask where you were last night, Mr Buchanan?’

  ‘You can certainly ask,’ replied the other, smoothly, ‘but I don’t feel obliged to tell you anything about my private life. Suffice it to say that I was not kidnapping a guest at the Lotus and leaving a dead body in exchange. That’s simply not my style.’

  ‘And what is your style?’

  ‘Stay at the Unicorn and you’ll find out.’

  ‘I can’t afford that luxury, sir.’

  ‘That’s a pity. You’d see how a hotel should be run.’

  Keedy was irritated by the man’s complacent grin. Buchanan made no effort to disguise his delight at the misfortune of a rival hotel. He was unashamedly gloating. Though Keedy could understand why Griselda Fleetwood loathed him so much, however, he didn’t get the feeling that the man was involved, directly or indirectly, in the fate that had befallen the Lotus. Buchanan was far too cocksure, basking in his innocence. Seeing no reason to stay, Keedy rose to his feet.

  ‘I’m sorry to have disturbed you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘You have your job to do, Sergeant. I suppose there’s no point in sending regards and commiserations to Griselda, is there? Believe it or not,’ Buchanan went on, ‘I’m genuinely sorry that she’s in such a dire situation. It’s bound to affect business at the Lotus.’

  ‘Mrs Fleetwood is bracing herself for that.’

  ‘She has this strange conviction that I resent her setting herself as a hotelier simply because she’s a woman. That’s arrant nonsense. What I resent is the fact that she’s a dabbler, a rank amateur who is only playing at being a hotel proprietor instead of learning the trade properly.’ Sudden anger brought Buchanan to his feet. ‘As well as the Unicorn, I own the Roath Court in Piccadilly, not to mention hotels in B
ath, Manchester and Edinburgh. Security is paramount in all of them. Unlike Griselda, I’d never employ women to do jobs that only men can handle. Every hotel of mine has former police officers on duty twenty-four hours a day. That’s why I’d never be in the kind of unholy mess that she is now in. Griselda Fleetwood has only herself to blame.’ His mood changed instantly and he beamed at Keedy. ‘It was good to meet you, Sergeant. You’ve no need to come here again …’

  Ellen Marmion had been struck by what her friend, Rene Bridger, had told her. When she went into the library, therefore, Ellen immediately began to search for a novel called The Invasion of 1910. It was on a shelf of recently returned books. The author was William Le Queux but, like her friend, Ellen had no idea how to pronounce the surname. She simply went to the desk and had the book stamped. On the walk home, she was in two minds, not knowing if she should actually read it or if it might be more sensible to exchange it at once for a romantic novel. The latter would be in no danger of upsetting her. At the same time, it was unlikely to throw new light on the wartime situation.

  The Invasion of 1910 had been so realistic that it had unsettled Rene Bridger at a deep level. Ellen decided that it might teach her something she ought to know. To that end, she fought off the urge to take it back to the library and carried it swiftly home. Once inside the house, she put down her basket, took out the book and sat at the kitchen table to read it. When she opened the first page, however, something dropped out and fluttered to the ground. Ellen bent down to pick it up.

  After his discussion with the manager at the stricken hotel, Marmion went straight back to Scotland Yard. He found the superintendent seated at his desk with his head in his hands. When the inspector entered the room after knocking, Chatfield took time to realise that he had a visitor. Sitting upright, he looked at Marmion as if he was a complete stranger.

  ‘Are you all right, sir?’ asked the inspector, worriedly.

  ‘Yes, yes, of course I am.’

  ‘You look rather peaky, that’s all.’

  ‘I feel fine,’ rasped Chatfield, ‘so you can stop staring at me like that.’ He adjusted his tie. ‘How did you get on?’

  ‘It was an afternoon of surprises, sir.’

  ‘Did you get to meet Lady Brice-Cadmore?’

  ‘I was too late to do that,’ said Marmion. ‘She died three years ago.’

  ‘Died?’

  ‘She’s buried in the local churchyard. I took the trouble to read the inscription on her gravestone. The mason had chiselled a pair of doves into the marble. Lady Brice-Cadmore adored birds, it seems. And so did her husband.’

  Marmion went on to describe his visit in detail and described how aggrieved Sir Godfrey had been when he learnt that someone was pretending to be his wife. Having delivered his account of the trip to Berkshire, Marmion told the superintendent about his second visit to the Lotus Hotel. When mention was made of the hotel’s owner, Chatfield let out a groan of despair.

  ‘Mrs Fleetwood sounds like an exceptional woman,’ said Marmion.

  ‘She was far too exceptional for me,’ confessed the other.

  ‘You’ve met her, I believe.’

  ‘It was like having an army of occupation in my office.’

  ‘Mr Chell spoke of her with the utmost respect.’

  ‘I have sympathy for the man,’ said Chatfield. ‘Having to work for someone like that is a punishment I wouldn’t wish on my worst enemies. She must operate a reign of terror at the hotel.’

  ‘That’s not the case at all, sir. The manager was full of praise for her. He said that she was both efficient and approachable.’

  ‘Well, I wouldn’t care to approach her, I can tell you that.’

  Chatfield gave him an edited version of her visit to Scotland Yard to claim that a rival hotelier had been behind the murder and the disappearance of a guest.

  ‘I sent the sergeant to interview the man,’ he explained. ‘According to Mrs Fleetwood, he should be clapped in irons and thrown into a cell. She actually tried to insist on being present at the arrest.’

  ‘An arrest is unlikely, sir.’

  ‘I’m sure it is, Inspector. She and Mr Buchanan have been engaged in a feud of some kind, but I simply don’t believe most of what she said about him.’

  ‘Sergeant Keedy will find out if he’s a credible suspect or not.’

  ‘He will always be a credible suspect to Mrs Fleetwood. She did give us the names of three other hoteliers but, in her estimation, this fellow, Buchanan, is the real villain.’

  Heaving a sigh, Chatfield sat back in his chair and ran an absent-minded hand through his hair, disturbing his centre parting as he did so. He went off into a reverie. After waiting patiently for a short while, Marmion prodded him out of it with a question.

  ‘Is there any word from the laboratory, sir?’

  Chatfield shook himself awake. ‘What’s that, Inspector?’

  ‘I was asking about the post-mortem.’

  ‘That won’t be completed until late this evening, I’m afraid, but one thing is now beyond doubt. She was definitely killed by poison and it wouldn’t have been a gentle death.’

  ‘Let’s hope that someone identifies her very soon.’

  ‘We can’t rely on that happening, Inspector.’

  ‘She’s a married woman, sir. A husband will be missing her.’

  ‘Not necessarily,’ said Chatfield. ‘There’s a war on, remember. Most men of his age will be in uniform. That means he may not even be alive. And if he is alive, he may not be in this country.’

  ‘What makes you think that, sir?’

  ‘When the pathologist removed her clothing, he saw that it was made in Paris. It looks as if the deceased – her husband as well, perhaps – might be French.’

  Having confided the details of her failed romance at last, Iris Goodliffe was a different person. The haunted look on her face had disappeared and much of her old ebullience had gradually returned. She was able to laugh for the first time in months. Alice was at once relieved and concerned, glad that her friend had finally told her the truth but troubled that Iris had not turned to her immediately after her frightening experience. As they continued their patrol, it was Iris’s turn to ask questions.

  ‘Why did Joe finally agree to a date for the wedding?’ she asked. ‘Did you give him an ultimatum?’

  ‘No,’ replied Alice. ‘I’ve tried that before and it doesn’t work.’

  ‘So he came round to the idea of his own free will, is that it?’

  ‘Not exactly – a lot of persuasion was needed.’

  ‘Why was he dragging his heels? When two people love each other as much as you both do, they should be desperate to be together.’

  ‘Joe wants us to find a house first.’

  ‘That shouldn’t be difficult.’

  ‘We both have jobs we like, Iris. And the sort of house we have in mind won’t be cheap. We’d like to live in a nice area and that costs money. Then there’s the problem of furnishing it, of course. We’ve both started saving madly.’

  ‘At least you know when you’ll walk down the aisle now.’

  ‘Yes, it makes such a difference.’

  ‘It’s such a pity that your brother won’t be there.’

  ‘We don’t know that for sure.’

  ‘I thought you’d given up hope of ever seeing him again.’

  ‘Situations can change.’

  ‘But he’s made no attempt to get in touch with the family.’

  ‘It won’t stop us looking for Paul,’ said Alice, stoutly. ‘We’ll never give up. My father has circulated a description of him to every police force in the country.’

  ‘Then why has nobody ever caught sight of him?’

  ‘Paul is not the only missing person, Iris. There are untold numbers of them, most of whom don’t wish to be found. Then there are deserters from the army. They’ve got even more reason to go to ground.’

  ‘Yes – they’ll face a death sentence.’

  Before she co
uld make a comment, Alice was distracted by the sight of two uniformed officers turning into the street thirty yards or more ahead of them. Almost immediately, the policemen came to a halt, then went quickly back around the corner.

  ‘Did you see who that was?’ asked Alice.

  ‘No, I didn’t.’

  ‘Unless my eyes deceived me, it was PC Beckett.’

  Iris was alarmed. ‘Are you sure?’

  ‘Yes, I am, and you should be pleased.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘He was the one who dodged out of the way, Iris. You’ve no need to be afraid of him any more. Doug Beckett is too scared to face you.’

  Once she’d started to read the book, Ellen Marmion couldn’t stop. The details of the supposed invasion of England were so convincing that they took on the solidity of established fact. She was shocked at the audacious way that the German army had planned its attack on Britain and taken it completely by surprise. Ellen had no difficulty in believing the horror stories she’d heard of the bestial way in which enemy soldiers had treated their captives. The thought that they could and, in the novel, already had invaded England made her tremble all over. She soon came to see why her friend had been so terrified by the book.

  Ellen eventually forced herself to put it aside so that she could make a restorative cup of tea. Because her son had fought in the war, she read the newspaper every day to chart its progress, wincing every time she saw the latest details of British casualties. Conflict was no longer something that only happened on foreign soil. Now that German bombers were carrying out daylight raids, it was part of daily life in London. She remembered how frightened she’d been when her husband and Joe Keedy had gone to France to arrest two British soldiers and bring them back to England to face justice. Fortunately, the two detectives had returned unharmed but, if Le Queux’s novel was to be believed, they’d come back to a country that was already in the grip of German agents.

  When she felt strong enough to read on, Ellen first picked up the handbill that had fallen out of the book. It listed a series of lectures to be given by a man named Quentin Dacey, described as an academic, author, translator and renowned public speaker. The title of his lectures was The Unseen Hand and the brief description of their contents showed that his views were very similar to those of William Le Queux. He claimed to understand the German mentality and to have access to secret documents that justified his bold allegations against enemy infiltration. Though she didn’t understand what they meant, Ellen was duly impressed by the abbreviated qualifications after Dacey’s name. The photograph of him showed a once-handsome, balding, poised man of middle years with an aura of distinction about him. His eyes burnt with conviction.