The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  ‘Goodbye, Griselda,’ he cooed.

  By way of reply, she went out and slammed the door behind her.

  The conversation with Farrier and his wife had been a revelation. It altered the detectives’ perspective on the case. In addition to the name of the missing guest, Marmion and Keedy had been given detailed information about her life and character. What didn’t emerge was any explanation of why she’d signed the name of Lady Brice-Cadmore in the register at the Lotus Hotel. While staying there, she hadn’t behaved like the Bohemian artist that she was alleged to be in real life. Nobody there had questioned Vesta Lyle’s claim that she was a member of the English aristocracy. It was a part that she’d clearly played to the hilt.

  While Gwendolyn had talked fondly of her cousin, her husband was less enthusiastic. He made no criticism of the artist, but he obviously had some reservations about the woman, not least the cavalier way that she’d turned up in the past with very little notice. There’d been little reciprocal hospitality. They had only once been invited to visit her in Paris but – because of her itinerant life – they only ever saw her on the rare occasions when she needed a bed for a few days in England. As they listened to Gwendolyn’s reminiscences, all that Keedy could think about was the nude painting up in the attic. Marmion, however, was hoping for the chance to speak to Farrier alone because his memories of the woman might not be quite so sentimental. The opportunity eventually came when his wife went off to find some family photographs of her cousin. Marmion didn’t have to prompt Farrier. Lowering his voice to a whisper, he spoke to them with urgency.

  ‘There’s something I must tell you,’ he said. ‘I’ve kept it from my wife because I don’t wish to upset her by making her look at Vesta in a rather different light.’

  ‘Go on, sir,’ urged Marmion.

  ‘I was a doctor before I took early retirement. As a result, I’ve always been an advocate of sound health in mind and body. It’s one of the reasons we go dancing so much.’

  ‘Better you than me,’ said Keedy. ‘I’ve got two left feet.’

  ‘When she was last here, I discovered something about Vesta that troubled me a great deal. To be more exact, it disgusted me.’

  ‘Why was that, sir?’

  ‘I believe that the human body is a gift from God. Abusing it in any way is sinful. I won’t go into the circumstances, but the upshot is this. I caught her injecting something into her arm.’

  ‘Was it some form of medication?’

  ‘It’s not one I’d ever recommend to my patients,’ said Farrier. ‘The shameful thing is that it’s been readily available from chemists for many years, as indeed have laudanum and arsenic. Only now is the medical profession waking up to the fact that these drugs are highly dangerous and, in larger doses, can be lethal. They should be strictly controlled by legislation.’

  ‘What drug was she injecting into her arm?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘Cocaine.’

  ‘We’ve seen the effect that can have if used too often.’

  ‘It explained certain aspects of Vesta’s behaviour.’

  ‘Was the lady just dabbling with it?’

  ‘No, Inspector,’ said Farrier, ‘she had a sizeable amount with her and admitted that she’d been taking it for years.’

  ‘Surely, she was aware of the risks?’

  ‘She’s an artist. They live lives without boundaries.’

  ‘I thought you said that her husband was a senior official in the government. He must have lived in a world of rules and regulations. He’d hardly sanction the use of cocaine by his wife.’

  ‘Perhaps he was unaware of it. Vesta was very good at concealing the obvious symptoms. It was only because of my medical training that I realised something odd was going on.’

  ‘I can see why you kept it from your wife,’ said Keedy.

  ‘With all her faults, Gwen liked her. Well, you’ve heard that note of nostalgia in her voice when she talks about Vesta. I’d hate to destroy the happy memories she has of her.’

  ‘That’s very considerate of you, sir.’

  ‘I think that’s why we haven’t seen her for the last four years. Vesta was shocked at being caught in the act but not as shocked as my wife would be if she knew the truth.’

  ‘It would shatter her image of the woman.’

  ‘It would, Sergeant. She loves to boast about the famous artist in her family,’ said Farrier, ‘and enjoys impressing people. But nobody would be quite so impressed if they realised that Vesta Lyle is a cocaine addict.’

  CHAPTER SIXTEEN

  Ellen Marmion had never been a close friend of Rene Bridger’s because they had so little in common. If anything, she found the woman morose and apprehensive. Yet it turned out that there was another side to her, and Ellen was starting to see glimpses of it. As they sat in the kitchen and drank their leisurely cups of tea, Rene spoke more candidly to Ellen than she’d ever done before.

  ‘It was my husband’s fault our Alec joined up,’ she confided. ‘He egged our son on. Bert said that, because he was too old to fight himself, then someone in the family had to do it for him. I blame Bert.’

  ‘When they brought conscription in,’ Ellen pointed out, ‘everyone of a certain age would have had to join, including your son.’

  ‘Our Alec wasn’t allowed to wait for that. His father kept on and on at him until he went down to the recruiting station. It wasn’t right, Ellen. The lad was barely eighteen.’

  ‘Paul wasn’t all that much older.’

  ‘If only he’d waited until conscription, Alec might still be alive. As it was, he was killed at Mons in August 1914.’

  ‘A lot of soldiers fell in that battle, Rene.’

  ‘There’s only one that matters to me,’ said the other, eyes flashing. ‘I’ve never been able to look at my husband in the same way since then. I believe he’s got our Alec’s blood on his hands.’

  ‘That’s unfair.’

  ‘It’s what I see. Bert sent him off to die when he could have waited a bit. Alec didn’t want to go, and I did everything in my power to keep him safe at home, but my husband knew best.’ Her lip curled back in a sneer. ‘Husbands always do, don’t they?’

  ‘Harvey put no pressure on Paul to join up.’

  ‘Then you were lucky.’

  Iron had entered the woman’s soul. Her anger was implacable.

  ‘Why have you been having second thoughts about this meeting tomorrow?’ asked Ellen, keen to steer her onto another topic.

  ‘I found myself thinking about it. I wondered if this Mr Dacey really does have proof that the Germans have been sneaking into this country for years. Also,’ added Rene, ‘my husband said it was nonsense, but then, Bert says that about most things. So I thought I might go along just to annoy him.’

  ‘I’m still hovering.’

  ‘Earlier on you wanted to go.’

  ‘Alice tried to talk me out of it.’

  ‘She can’t stop you, Ellen. It’s your decision, not hers. What’s the worst that can happen? If Mr Dacey can’t do what he says in that advert, then we simply walk out of the meeting.’

  ‘That’s true.’

  ‘On the other hand …’

  ‘He might really have evidence to back up his claim.’

  ‘That’s why I decided to be there tomorrow. What about you?’

  ‘Well …’

  Ellen bit her lip and pondered.

  Alice’s journey back to her flat had been lengthened by the air raid. She was just about to change buses when she heard the distant buzz of the aircraft so she ran to the nearest Tube station for shelter. Like everyone else in London, she was getting used to daytime and night-time raids, and took the appropriate action. It meant that she was sitting below ground on a crowded platform for the best part of three-quarters of an hour. When she finally emerged with the others, she joined a bus queue and waited, conscious that it might be some time before the vehicle actually came. She let her mind wander.

  After her visit home, sh
e was worried about the way her mother had plunged into dejection after reading a novel. It was totally out of character. Ellen had always been such a sane, steady, level-headed woman who never let anything vex her for long. Yet a library book she’d borrowed had clearly shaken her to the core. Alice could only hope that she’d managed to restore her mother’s confidence and dispel her fears.

  When the bus finally came, she collapsed gratefully into a seat. Instead of worrying about her mother, however, she found that the person who monopolised her thoughts now was Jennifer Jerrold. Something about the policewoman’s explanation for considering resignation did not ring true. Having believed her story when she first heard it, Alice now began to question the version she’d been given. Going on duty in the hours of darkness had introduced policewomen to the realities of life at night in the capital. Drunkenness, violence, prostitution and sexual assault were common sights, much of it accompanied by streams of profanities. It would have shocked Jennifer. as indeed it had shocked Alice at first.

  Yet both of them had quickly adapted to the situation and learnt to take it in their stride. If Jennifer had told her parents what she’d been forced to experience, they’d have been outraged on their daughter’s behalf. If that were the case, Alice asked, why had they waited for over a year before they did something about it and urged Jennifer to quit the force? People with a strong faith tended to react immediately to anything that ran counter to it. Mr and Mrs Jerrold would long ago have insisted that their daughter hand in her resignation. What had caused the lengthy delay?

  The more she replayed the conversation she’d had with the other policewoman, the more Alice came around to the view that Jennifer had lied to her. Brought up in a God-fearing home, the woman was herself a committed Christian. Had she been so offended by the sight of drunken revellers vomiting in doorways, by the series of disgusting propositions put to her by lecherous off-duty soldiers or by the unmistakable sound of couples having intercourse in dark corners, Jennifer would have resigned at once. Instead of that, she’d put her sense of duty before her delicate sensibilities and remained in the Women’s Police Force.

  Alice began to wonder if she’d even mentioned to her parents the rigours of patrolling London at night. Knowing what their reaction would be, Jennifer might well have kept them ignorant of what their daughter routinely saw when wearing her uniform. Something else had forced the woman to resign. Out of friendship, Alice was determined to find out what it was.

  The drive back to London was taken up largely by a discussion of what they’d learnt about Vesta Lyle. Claiming to be interested in her work, Keedy said that it would have been helpful to see the example of it that was hidden away in the attic of the Farriers’ house.

  ‘It might have told us something about her character,’ he said.

  ‘Wanting to see that painting,’ observed Marmion, drily, ‘tells us something about your character, Joe.’

  ‘You’d expect a man to paint that kind of scene, but not a woman.’

  ‘Vesta Lyle sounds as if she’s a very unusual woman.’

  ‘I’m surprised that Mrs Farrier put up with her. Everything seems to have been done on her cousin’s terms. She was exploiting them.’

  ‘That’s what artists often have to do. Most of them struggle to make a living so they sponge off friends and relatives.’

  ‘But Vesta Lyle wasn’t poor. Her paintings made money and she had a husband with a steady, well-paid job. She had exhibitions all round Europe. I wonder what her husband thought about that?’ said Keedy. ‘I’m looking forward to spending all my free time with Alice. What sort of husband and wife spend so much time apart?’

  ‘It was their choice, Joe.’

  They fell silent. Marmion was still weighing up the new evidence they’d gathered but Keedy was thinking about his earlier exchange between them. His intention of taking on another job had been well and truly quashed by Marmion and he accepted the wisdom behind his comments. As far as union activities went, however, Keedy hadn’t been entirely put off by the inspector’s harsh comments. He still believed that improved pay and work conditions could only ever by achieved by coordinated action from policemen throughout the country. War had increased their workload significantly, widening their range of responsibility as they enforced the dictates of the Defence of the Realm Act. DORA, as it was known, had empowered them to interfere in people’s private lives in a way that was unthinkable before the war.

  Yet there was no recognition in the pay structure of the Metropolitan Police Force of the additional and more dangerous duties they’d been compelled to take on. When the time came to demand more, Keedy vowed that he’d stand shoulder to shoulder with like-minded police officers, even if his companion didn’t happen to be one of them.

  Marmion ended the silence with an abrupt question.

  ‘What was the most important thing we discovered today?’

  ‘Don’t make a horse jump something that’s too high for it,’ said Keedy, ‘or you’ll end up in a wheelchair like Mrs Hassall.’

  ‘It’s not something to laugh at, Joe. She was the one who came up with the name of Vesta Lyle and I’m eternally grateful to her for doing so. At a stroke, she gave this investigation the boost it needed.’

  ‘At least we’ve got something to take back to Chat.’

  ‘It might also help to appease Harold Fleetwood for a while,’ said Marmion, ‘though he won’t be happy until the killer who caused all that trouble at his wife’s hotel is dangling from the gallows.’

  ‘He’d enjoy pulling the lever himself.’

  ‘Yes – especially if the noose was around Buchanan’s neck.’

  ‘Do you think the Lotus can recover?’

  ‘If anyone can breathe new life into it, Mrs Fleetwood can.’

  Since a few guests had now left the hotel prematurely, it was reassuring to see a new one arriving that evening. She was a fleshy, middle-aged woman in an ocelot coat and a hat with ostrich feathers sprouting from it. The hotel’s owner waited until the receptionist had booked her in before she moved across to speak to the newcomer.

  ‘Good evening,’ she said, sweetly. ‘Welcome to the Lotus. I’m Griselda Fleetwood.’

  ‘I’ve heard that name before.’

  ‘I own this hotel.’

  ‘Yes, that’s right. Lady Carvington mentioned your name when she recommended this place to me. She stays here often, I gather.’

  ‘That’s true,’ said Griselda, broadening her smile to conceal her animosity about their mutual friend. ‘Lady Carvington has graced the Lotus many times.’

  ‘She has such exacting standards. To gain her approval is a real achievement.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘I had intended to be here earlier but the train from Derby was abominably late. Even in first class … it was also revoltingly dirty.’

  ‘I’m sorry to hear that, Mrs …’

  ‘Beech,’ said the other, grandly. ‘Mrs Amanda Beech.’

  The receptionist pressed the bell on her desk to summon a porter, and a young man in a neatly pressed uniform appeared instantly. He picked up the suitcase that the taxi driver had brought in when he delivered his passenger. Mrs Beech sailed contentedly off in the wake of the porter. As soon as she was out of earshot, Griselda turned to Chell, who’d been watching from the other side of the lobby.

  ‘How long do you think we’ll be able to keep her?’

  ‘She’ll stay for one night, at least.’

  ‘Not if Phyllis Carvington knows that she’s here. She’ll have her friend out of the Lotus in a shot.’

  ‘Our troubles are only temporary, Mrs Fleetwood.’

  ‘I’m beginning to doubt that.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just a feeling I have.’

  ‘I wish I could share it. In launching his attack on us, Buchanan hoped to bring us down for good. If he’s failed to do that,’ said Griselda, anxiously, ‘he’s bound to try something even worse. That’s my greatest fear, Mr Chel
l. What else has he got up his sleeve?’

  Fraser Buchanan was walking across the lobby of the Roath Court Hotel when someone stepped out from behind a potted palm and offered him an envelope. Taking it from him, Buchanan slipped it into his inside pocket.

  ‘Thank you, Maitland,’ he said.

  He left the building with a smile of satisfaction.

  ‘Tell me more about Vesta Lyle,’ said Chatfield.

  ‘You’ve heard all there is to hear, Superintendent,’ said Marmion.

  ‘Not quite,’ added Keedy. ‘You forgot to mention her gift to the Farriers of a nude painting she’d done. They felt too embarrassed to hang it on their wall, so it’s hidden away in the attic. It’s strange, really,’ he went on. ‘Mr Farrier was a doctor for many years. You’d have thought he’d be quite used to looking at naked bodies.’ He turned to Chatfield. ‘It was a painting of people having a picnic on a riverbank, sir.’

  ‘I find the very notion offensive,’ said the superintendent. ‘What were they getting up to, that’s my worry?’

  ‘They were just sitting and eating, I suppose.’

  ‘These people were French. They lack our social restraints. Anything could have happened and the idea that it was depicted by a woman makes the whole thing even more abhorrent.’

  Marmion had delivered a comprehensive and measured report of their trip to Berkshire, emphasising that it had been well worth the time and expense to go there. Having listened carefully, Chatfield slapped his desk with the flat of his hand and made his decision.

  ‘You’ve unmasked the killer,’ he declared. ‘Vesta Lyle’s syringe was the murder weapon. She used it to give herself some kind of bizarre pleasure, but it could also inflict pain and death.’

  ‘I’m afraid that I don’t agree,’ said Marmion.

  ‘But it’s so obvious, man.’