The Unseen Hand

by Edward Marston

  ‘That would explain why they never considered having children.’

  ‘So what brought them together in the first place?’

  ‘We were told that. Vesta Lyle chose a precarious profession. She married him to have some financial stability.’

  ‘When her paintings began to sell, she had plenty of money to support herself. I’m wondering if it may also have been supplemented by an income from the government. Don’t let’s jump to any conclusions,’ warned Marmion, ‘or we may be going off in the wrong direction altogether, but I think it’s possible that both she and her husband might have been engaged in some sort of espionage.’

  From the moment she left the house, Ellen knew that she’d go to the lecture, after all. For all her protestation, she was keen to hear what Quentin Dacey had to say on the subject of The Unseen Hand. Her husband and daughter need never even know that she’d been to central London with her friend. On the bus journey there, she and Rene Bridger speculated on what they might be told. Because they were so engrossed in their conversation, the journey seemed to flash by.

  The hall in which the lecture was being given was in a side street off Charing Cross Road. Since they were among the first to arrive, there was a wide choice of seating for them. Rene nudged her.

  ‘Let’s sit in the front row, Ellen.’

  ‘Oh, no,’ said the other, nervously.

  ‘I thought you wanted to ask him a question. The best place to do that is when you’re very close.’

  ‘We can sit further back, Rene.’

  ‘What are you afraid of?’

  ‘I don’t know.’

  ‘Look at your hands – they’re shaking.’

  ‘If we decided to sneak out before it’s finished,’ said Ellen, ‘it would be much easier to do that nearer the back. It won’t be quite so obvious then.’

  ‘The more obvious, the better, I say. If he talks rubbish, he needs to be told. In any case,’ continued her friend, ‘we may not have to leave at all. Mr Dacey may be right in what he says. If that’s the case, I hope you’ll be grateful that I talked you into coming.’

  ‘I am grateful, Rene.’

  ‘Then prove it by sitting in the front row with me.’

  Ellen felt trapped.

  During her visit to Scotland Yard, Griselda Fleetwood had only been slightly pacified by Chatfield. As she took a taxi back to her hotel, she was still seething. When she got there, bad news was waiting. Rex Chell took her into the privacy of his office to break it.

  ‘I’m afraid that Mrs Beech has left us,’ he said.

  ‘But she was due to stay for three days.’

  ‘Unfortunately, she read one of the morning papers.’

  ‘Oh dear!’

  ‘If guests order one, Mrs Fleetwood, we can’t really hide the newspapers away. As it happens, we were lucky. Mrs Beech simply made a polite excuse and checked out. Someone else might have shouted at us for not warning them about the murder – then refused to pay the bill.’

  ‘Yes,’ she said, gloomily, ‘and they’d be right to do so.’

  ‘What happened at Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Ha! The superintendent is blind. The evidence against Buchanan is staring him in the face and he refuses to see it.’

  ‘Aren’t they doing anything about him?’

  ‘He claims that they’re “looking into” his activities. It’s another way of saying that he doesn’t really believe what I told them.’

  ‘Cui bono?’

  ‘What does that mean?’

  ‘“Who stands to gain?” It’s a Latin phrase.’

  ‘Buchanan will gain from our losses. I’ve told them that.’

  ‘Mrs Beech is a prime exhibit,’ said Chell. ‘When she left here, she went straight off to the Unicorn. Sadly, she’s not the only guest of ours to do that.’

  ‘The papers are largely to blame. I’ve set my husband on to them. He may not speak Latin, but he has a few choice phrases of his own. We can’t let editors get away with trying to ruin us. It’s a flagrant misuse of power.’

  ‘I couldn’t agree more, Mrs Fleetwood. However, all may yet be well if Inspector Marmion tracks down the killer.’

  ‘How can he do that when he’s driving around Berkshire on a pleasure trip? That’s what hurts me the most, Mr Chell,’ she hissed. ‘Nobody has shown the slightest interest in saving us.’

  Hoping to see Bunny Hassall again, the detectives were obliged to wait because she was not there. As they looked out through the windows of the living room, they soon saw her, sitting in a trap and urging the pony on with a flick of the whip. No longer able to ride, she could obviously still take pleasure from being around horses. When she disappeared into the stable yard, they waited in silence.

  It was fifteen minutes or so before she finally wheeled herself into the room and showered them with apologies.

  ‘We should be saying sorry to you, Mrs Hassall,’ said Marmion, ‘for barging in here without warning.’

  ‘You’re very welcome, Inspector.’

  ‘Thank you.’

  ‘Why don’t you both sit down?’

  The visitors exchanged pleasantries with her as they took their seats on the sofa. Marmion then used a sentence that he’d employed many times when breaking bad news to bereaved parents. He lowered his voice and spoke with due solemnity.

  ‘I’m afraid that I have sad tidings for you.’

  ‘What is it?’

  ‘You may remember that I told you about Sir Godfrey’s condition.’

  ‘Please don’t tell me that he’s died,’ she said, hands clasped. ‘I’ve been praying for him to recover. He was such a resilient man. He’d always enjoyed rude health in the past.’

  ‘He passed away in his sleep yesterday.’

  ‘God rest his soul!’

  She closed her eyes tightly and recited a silent prayer. Marmion and Keedy had no choice but to sit there and wait. Her reaction had been very different to that of the Farriers. They had been sorry to hear the news, but it had not moved them deeply. Bunny Hassall, on the other hand, was devastated. When she eventually opened her eyes again, she changed the subject.

  ‘Did your visit to the Farriers yesterday bear fruit?’

  ‘Yes, it did,’ replied Marmion. ‘As a matter of fact, we came on here after calling on them for a second time.’

  ‘You must be getting to know Berkshire quite well.’

  ‘I wish we had time to enjoy its delights.’

  ‘It’s lovely to be out in such beautiful countryside,’ said Keedy. ‘The air is so much cleaner here than in London.’

  ‘That’s why we all live so long in the country, Sergeant. Sir Godfrey was in his eighties, you know. But for this cruel business, he might have survived for many more years.’

  ‘We’ll never know, Mrs Hassall.’

  ‘Alas, we won’t.’ She looked quizzically from one to the other. ‘What brought you back here?’

  ‘It was something you told us the last time,’ said Marmion.

  ‘What was that?’

  ‘This may not be the right moment to put such a question to you. Given what I’ve just told you about Sir Godfrey, you may not wish to dwell on your friendship with him.’

  ‘Oh, it was more than friendship, Inspector. We were close.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘And don’t think I’m too grief-stricken to talk about him because I’m not. As for the past, I have no regrets about what happened between us. It was simply not to be.’

  ‘You said that he proposed to you.’

  ‘Well, he did and he didn’t,’ she said with a light laugh. ‘Godfrey was like that. He made it sound like a joke, but I knew that he was being serious. At the same time, I realised that we were simply not made for a lifetime together. Years later, he thanked me for turning him down.’

  ‘Had he met his future wife by then?’

  ‘Good lord – no! Godfrey was courting someone else.’

  Keedy stared. ‘He seems to have been very—�
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  ‘You don’t need to say the word, Sergeant,’ she said before he could complete the sentence. ‘Think it, if you wish, because it’s true. If you’d seen him in his declining years, you’d never have imagined that Sir Godfrey had had such a wild life in his younger days. There was no time for watching birds and listening to music then. His father was to blame.’

  ‘Really?’

  ‘He had this idea that his son’s education would be incomplete if he didn’t go on what used to be called the “Grand Tour”. He expected Godfrey to be swept away by the beauty of European art and architecture, and to come back singing the praises of Mozart, Beethoven and Brahms.’

  ‘Is that what happened?’ asked Marmion.

  ‘To some extent, it did, but there was an interim period that really upset his father. Godfrey didn’t follow the prescribed itinerary.’

  ‘What did he do instead?’

  ‘He stayed months longer in one place than he was supposed to.’

  ‘And where was that?’

  ‘Paris.’

  Marmion’s ears pricked up. Keedy’s mouth fell open.

  ‘Freedom of the press is a noble concept, ladies and gentlemen, and we British delight in boasting that we enjoy it in this country. Nonsense!’ said Quentin Dacey, eyes suddenly alight. ‘Utter nonsense! It’s a mirage. Instead of telling you the truth, the British press is hiding it from you. Every publication is censored. Several have been banned altogether. Why is this? It’s because the government doesn’t want you to know the ugly truth about this war. They doctor reports of casualties in battle so that we don’t know that our troops are being massacred. They give the impression that we are slowly winning the war when, in fact, it’s already been won by the Germans. How do I know this? Let me tell you …’

  It was strange. Quentin Dacey had an unusually high voice and a slight lisp, yet he had his audience spellbound. Much shorter than Ellen had imagined, he nevertheless embodied authority. Everything he said seemed to be undeniably true. Rene Bridger was also captivated by his manner and his delivery. Having come to the lecture with a certain amount of cynicism, she had no doubts now. Like Ellen, she was at the mercy of Dacey’s charisma.

  ‘Where are these spies?’ he asked. ‘Let me show you.’

  Moving to a large map of London, he pointed to a series of small black crosses that he’d placed in various locations.

  ‘German agents were living here, here and here,’ he said, ‘until I discovered their addresses. I informed the police at once, of course, but by the time they raided these houses, the enemy had flown. What can we deduce from that, ladies and gentlemen?’ he asked, voice soaring to an even higher octave. ‘The answer is unavoidable. Those agents were warned in advance that I’d traced them to their lairs. And who warned them? It can only have been someone in a senior position in the Metropolitan Police Force.’

  He paused to let the information sink in. Everybody was shaken by the revelation but Ellen was horrified. The idea that anyone in the force that employed her husband could be a German agent shocked her beyond measure. She’d planned to ask a question of Dacey, but her mouth was suddenly so dry that she was unable to speak. In the event, it was Rene Bridger who acted on her behalf. After waiting until the end of the lecture, she shot up her arm. Dacey pointed to her.

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘We were told that all German spies were rounded up at the start of the war,’ she said. ‘What do you say to that?’

  ‘I’d say that you were deliberately deceived,’ he replied.

  Rene indicated Ellen. ‘My friend’s husband saw the camps on the Isle of Man where they are kept.’

  ‘Then he was woefully misled.’

  ‘You can’t mislead a man like him.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘It’s because he’s too experienced.’

  ‘What was this man doing on the island?’ asked Dacey with a sneer. ‘Was he there on holiday or did he work there?’

  ‘No,’ said Ellen, stung by his gibe and finding her voice at last. ‘He’s a detective inspector from Scotland Yard and he was there in an official capacity. And let me tell you that I don’t believe there are any German agents in the Metropolitan Police Force because it’s filled with people like my husband who are doing a very dangerous job out of love for their country. They’d never betray it, so don’t you dare say that they would. You should be ashamed.’ Rising to her feet, she turned to her friend. ‘Come on, Rene. We’re leaving. I’m not listening to any more of his lies. He’s a disgrace.’

  As the two women made their way to the rear of the room, there was a smattering of applause that grew steadily in volume. Other people got up to follow them out.

  Dacey was well and truly silenced.

  When Claude Chatfield reported to the commissioner, he saw the pile of newspapers on his desk. Sir Edward Henry’s frown was eloquent.

  ‘Yes, I know,’ said Chatfield. ‘Instead of congratulating us on the progress we did make, the papers are sniping at us because we haven’t solved the murder. What do they expect in so short a time?’

  ‘They expect miracles, Superintendent.’

  ‘Then they need to look elsewhere.’

  ‘We get criticism and our backs are broad enough to bear it. The real victim of these articles is the Lotus Hotel. Would you want to stay there after reading this coverage?’

  Chatfield was amused. ‘I wouldn’t be eligible to stay there,’ he said, ‘because I’m neither female nor aristocratic, but I take your point. It was made very clearly by Mrs Fleetwood when she called to see me earlier on. The hotel is suffering badly.’

  ‘What can we do to relieve that suffering?’

  ‘To be candid, there’s very little. Only an arrest and conviction will dispel the gloom over the Lotus.’

  ‘I can imagine the state Mrs Fleetwood must be in.’

  ‘The trouble is,’ said Chatfield, ‘that she’s already identified the culprit. According to her, a rival hotelier is behind the murder, but we’ve found no evidence to support that theory.’

  ‘Yes, her husband told me about the vendetta with Mr Buchanan. I didn’t realise there was so much bad blood in the hotel trade.’

  ‘It’s been an eye-opener to me as well, Sir Edward.’

  ‘What’s the inspector doing today?’

  ‘He’s following up a lead in Berkshire. I can only hope that it turns out to be of real value. He’s convinced that there was a link in the past between Vesta Lyle and Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore.’

  ‘I can’t think what it could be.’

  ‘Neither can I,’ said Chatfield, ‘but if it’s there, Marmion will certainly find it.’

  When she pressed them to stay for some refreshments, Marmion and Keedy agreed readily so that they could listen to her reminiscing about Sir Godfrey Brice-Cadmore. Talking about him gave her such immense pleasure and fleshed out the portrait that the detectives had of him. As a young man, he had clearly relished the joys of Paris and returned to the city time and again until he finally married. On the drive back to London, they were able to review what they’d learnt.

  ‘Who would have thought that he’d turn out to be like that?’ said Keedy. ‘Mrs Hassall was far too nice a woman to put it in so many words, but he obviously went abroad to sow his wild oats.’

  ‘You can see why his father took a dim view of it.’

  ‘I wish I’d had a chance to travel.’

  ‘We don’t live in that world and we have to accept it. You and I were born to work. He had the luck to go where he wanted at his father’s expense. Dad couldn’t afford to send me to Brighton, let alone to the capitals of Europe. The farthest he’d ever been out of London was to Coventry and that was only to his brother’s funeral.’

  ‘Don’t you feel deprived sometimes, Harv?’

  ‘Of course, I do, but I always count my blessings. I’ve got a difficult job maybe, but, when I get things right, it gives me a thrill that lasts for days. I’m enjoying that sensation right now.’ />
  ‘I wish that I could.’

  ‘Look at what we heard today.’

  ‘It could just be a coincidence.’

  ‘I don’t think so.’

  ‘The dates may not fit.’

  ‘The simple fact is that Sir Godfrey could have been in Paris at the same time as Vesta Lyle. According to Mrs Hassall, he loved to spend his evenings in Montmartre. That went on until he was into his thirties. Judging by what the Farriers told us, Vesta was only eighteen when she left home to study in Paris. We know that he was attracted to younger women. He eventually married one. Just think of the two of them meeting. He must have been bewitched by this promising young English artist and, on her side, she’d have been dazzled by the fact that he would one day inherit his father’s title.’

  ‘Do you think they got close?’

  ‘They must have done, Joe. She was an earlier version of Mrs Hassall. He might even have proposed to her – though you can see that his parents would never have accepted her as a daughter-in-law. Who knows?’ Marmion went on. ‘She might have nursed the desire to be his wife for years and, when their paths eventually crossed again, she made sure that she stood next to him in that photograph.’

  ‘But the sad thing was he no longer recognised her.’

  ‘Distant memories fade when you get to his age.’

  ‘Vesta must have felt so upset that he’d forgotten her.’

  ‘She got what she wanted in the end,’ said Marmion, piecing it slowly together. ‘When she deliberately chose to stay with the upper crust in the Lotus Hotel, she pretended that she was every bit as good as them by posing as Lady Diana Brice-Cadmore. It gained her respect and deference from the staff. The name was chosen with great care,’ he decided. ‘After all these years, she was finally able to be his wife.’

  CHAPTER NINETEEN

  When they walked out of the lecture, Ellen and her friend felt a quiet sense of triumph. By way of celebration, they went straight to a Lyons Corner House and treated themselves to tea. Rene Bridger couldn’t stop praising Ellen.