‘But how could the two of them have met in the first place?’
‘Well, it probably wasn’t at an art exhibition. Seriously, most nuns are not allowed near anything of that kind. They’d regard it as profane. Vesta Lyle would have had to go to a convent, I suppose. Some of them operate as a retreat for women who want seclusion.’
‘Is that what she was after?’
‘Even if it wasn’t a close marriage,’ said Keedy, ‘she must have been upset by the death of her husband. And we know that she converted to Catholicism. Why did she do that? Was it out of a sense of need?’
‘What sort of need?’
‘I can’t say, Harv, but the church seemed to provide it. Nobody would attend Mass in the most famous cathedral in France unless they were staunch Catholics.’
‘Why was their wedding held almost in secret?’
‘That was their choice.’
‘It’s as if they didn’t want people to know.’
‘Perhaps they didn’t,’ said Keedy. ‘I saw it as proof of what an intensely private man Alphonse Dufays really was. That’s why I believe your theory about him working for the secret service.’
‘Chat didn’t think much of that theory.’
‘I’d put my money on you, Harv.’
Marmion grinned. ‘Have you got any money?’
‘Well, no, not really …’
‘Then don’t try to get it by working as a nightwatchman. It’d be the ruin of you. I’m not letting my daughter marry someone who can’t even keep his eyes open because he’s worked for eighteen hours a day. And on the subject of money,’ said Marmion, ‘don’t forget that the bride’s father is supposed to pick up the bill for the wedding. You don’t have to search for a second job.’
‘It was just a thought.’
‘What about NUPPO?’
‘I’ve forgotten all about it,’ said Keedy, dismissively.
‘Thank goodness for that.’
They munched their food and washed it down with hot tea. After a few minutes, Keedy remembered something.
‘You said that the murder victim was no longer a nun.’
‘Yes, I did.’
‘How do you know?’
‘It’s because she had such freedom of movement. I always thought that nuns didn’t have that. It’s one of the things they renounce, surely?’
‘What made you think she was a French nun?’
‘If she’d been in a British convent, someone would have reported her missing. They might also have recognised the description we gave of her in the press. I’m sure that Mother Superiors take a sly peak at the newspapers so that they can keep abreast of worldly affairs. Even people who withdraw from normal life want to know how the war is going on.’
‘She wouldn’t be reported missing if she’d already gone back on her vows and left the convent.’
‘I still think there’s a French connection somehow,’ said Marmion. ‘Mind you, it’s a pity the murder victim wasn’t still a nun.’
‘Why?’
‘They’re usually clothed from head to foot in black – apart from the white wimple, that is. What better way to slip unnoticed into the Lotus Hotel?’ he joked. ‘She could have walked right past the night porter in the dark and he’d have been none the wiser.’
Keedy laughed. ‘You think of everything.’
‘One of us has to.’
They were interrupted by a detective constable who handed Marmion a letter from the superintendent. When he read it, he puffed his cheeks.
‘One of us needs to get across to the Lotus.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘They’ve had more trouble from Buchanan.’
‘Would you like me to go?’
‘I’ll handle it, Joe. You can check on how much information has come in from the public since we released the name of Vesta Lyle. If there’s any running around to do, leave it to me. You’ve got something else to do later on.’
‘Have I?’
‘Yes, you’ve got to find a way to get in touch with my daughter before she forgets what you look like. Alice loves surprises. I’m sure you’ll get a warm welcome.’
‘That’s an offer I can’t refuse.’
‘It’s not for your benefit – it’s for hers.’
When Alice took a sympathetic interest in Jennifer Jerrold’s plight, it was not out of simple kindness. She knew what it was like to be stalked. Alice had been followed back to her flat one night by a man who’d been trailing her for days. She knew that someone was there, but she’d been unable to see him and was not ready for his attack. Alice was lucky. Joe Keedy had been waiting outside her flat and he was able to intervene. As a result, the stalker was given a good hiding. After that, he never dared to trouble Alice again.
Unfortunately for Jennifer, there was no detective sergeant in her life. In fact, there was no reliable male friend to whom she could turn. As one of three sisters, she’d been brought up in a house that set great store by respectability. None of the three daughters was allowed to go out alone with a man. The parents saw to that. Since men were kept resolutely at arm’s length, Jennifer had no idea how to relate to them. What she did recognise, however, was the sense of threat a man could represent. It was poisoning her life. Alice could identify with that feeling.
Jennifer clearly felt that, in leaving the police force, she would be escaping from the unwanted attention of a stranger, but Alice began to have doubts. If someone had been following her so often and for so long, it was almost certain that he knew where she lived. That being the case, Jennifer’s bid for freedom was illusory. All that she’d be doing was to shift the location of the stalking to the area near her home.
Eager to rescue her friend from her crippling fear, Alice came to a decision. Since she knew where Jennifer lived, she resolved to get there the following morning well ahead of the time when her friend left. If there was a man loitering in readiness, Alice was determined to find out who he was. His obsession with Jennifer had to be nipped in the bud before it developed into something more dangerous.
As a result of the publicity about the murder, a number of people had come forward with information. Most of it was of no value at all and some of it was deliberately misleading. Those who came forward with the sole purpose of telling lies in order to get a share of the reward money were dealt with harshly. Yet some useful evidence did appear, largely in the form of letters.
One of the people in charge of collating it was Detective Constable Clifford Burge. He was a thickset man in his early thirties with a strong Cockney accent. Joe Keedy liked the man and was not put off by his rather unsightly features. Aware of his outstanding work in dealing with the problems of juvenile delinquency, Keedy had the greatest respect for Burge. When he went to the room where the man was reading through a pile of correspondence, he was given a broad grin by the detective constable.
‘How’s it going, Cliff?’ he asked.
‘It’s not the most exciting job I’ve ever had, Sergeant,’ said the other, ‘but it does mean I’m working on a murder investigation at last. That’s always been my dream.’
‘What you’re doing may seem like drudgery but it’s important.’
‘I hope so.’ He indicated a small pile. ‘These are the only letters worth reading. I’ve weeded out the obvious false claims and the hoaxes, of course. One man insisted that we’ll find the evidence we need in the cellars of the Houses of Parliament. You can guess what name he signed.’
‘Guy Fawkes?’
‘You’re right first time.’
‘I was cheating. He’s one of our regular correspondents. Whatever the crime we need help to solve, he always sends in his advice.’
‘These are more genuine,’ said Burge, handing over the small pile of letters. ‘To start with, they all have an address. Two of them are of particular interest.’
‘Why is that?’
‘They tell more or less the same story. The first one is from a man who was returning home after being on
the night shift. He claims that he saw a man and a woman getting into a taxi close to the Lotus Hotel at around four in the morning.’
‘That would certainly tie in with the likely time of the murder.’
‘He only remembers them because of something unusual.’
‘What was it?’
‘The woman was carrying the luggage and the man was hurrying her along. That seemed odd. He couldn’t see their faces in the dark.’
‘This sounds promising,’ said Keedy.
‘The other letter was written by someone who was actually on his way to work and walked within a few yards of the couple. He says that the man more or less bundled the woman into the taxi, then got in after her. Here’s the interesting bit,’ said Burge. ‘He heard them speak.’
‘What’s so interesting about that?’
‘They were talking in French.’
Marmion arrived at the Lotus Hotel to find its atmosphere reassuring and its mood tranquil. Beneath the surface, however, it was a different story. In the manager’s office, the owner of the hotel was enraged and even the normally unruffled manager was letting his disgust show. Marmion invited them to vent their anger in turn. Griselda Fleetwood went first, gesticulating wildly and spitting out her words like so many brass tacks. Chell’s account was more articulate and less inflamed. He gave the inspector the handbill.
‘A copy of that has gone to everyone on our mailing list,’ he said.
‘How many people would that involve, sir?’
‘It’s almost four hundred.’
‘We need you to arrest Buchanan,’ ordered Griselda.
‘I’d need a good reason to do that.’
‘You’re holding it in your hand, Inspector.’
‘What proof do you have that the handbills were sent out by Mr Buchanan? Yes,’ he went on, ‘I’m sure you’ll tell me that it’s typical of him and in line with his previous manoeuvres against you.’
‘Arrest him at once. Force him to confess.’
‘The days of the rack and the hot poker are long gone, Mrs Fleetwood. A court of law expects cast-iron evidence.’
‘That handbill maligns my hotel.’
‘Actually, most of it relates to Mr Buchanan’s hotels.’
‘Doesn’t that tell you he must have printed it?’ she asked, losing her patience. ‘I’m going to sue him for this.’
‘I’m not certain that you can do that,’ said Marmion, reading the handbill again. ‘The language has been very carefully chosen. There is a mention of the Lotus, it’s true, but there’s no direct attack on it. Only a solicitor could tell if you’d be likely to win a libel case. What I will do, in the first instance,’ he said, trying to mollify them, ‘is to find out who printed this handbill. He’s been careful to leave his name off it, but we’ll track him down somehow.’
‘At least you’ll do something, then,’ she said, resentfully.
‘You and Mr Chell are best placed to get to the root of this, Mrs Fleetwood. The list of your guests was leaked to Mr Buchanan, or whoever it was who had those handbills printed and distributed. The real villain may be under this very roof.’
‘Don’t you think we know that?’
‘It’s an obvious assumption,’ said Chell, ‘and I made it myself when I had the warnings by telephone. I went through the names of every one of the people employed here and thought hard about their individual characters and their record of service.’
‘Our staff love to work here,’ boasted Griselda. ‘That’s why we never have a problem with recruitment. We trust them and they repay us with loyalty and dedication.’
‘It’s all part of the ethos we’ve created here,’ said Chell. ‘I’ve trained them with care. In most hotels, members of staff are always on view. Here they are largely invisible until they’re actually needed. They never rush down corridors – they glide. They treat the guests as if they were royalty and that’s not as peculiar as it may sound, because some of our patrons are actually connected in some way with the royal family.’
‘You don’t need to sell the Lotus to me, Mr Chell,’ said Marmion. ‘Its virtues are clear. Nevertheless, confidential information was patently taken from here and given to a third party who used it to your disadvantage.’
‘We must have been robbed,’ concluded Griselda.
‘There was no report of a break-in and you have a night porter on duty at a time most likely to entice burglars.’
‘Then the matter is in your hands, Inspector. We expect action.’
‘You’ve every right to do so,’ said Marmion. ‘I’ve told you that one of my detectives will root out the printer responsible for the handbill. But my focus – as you’ll understand – must remain on the murder inquiry. Once that’s been brought to a satisfactory conclusion, you won’t have to worry about handbills like this one because the Lotus will be restored to its deserved place among the hotels of the capital. I know you were outraged when you saw what had been written about you,’ he continued, ‘but don’t forget that some of your patrons rang to warn you about the attack on the Lotus. That shows the high regard in which they hold it.’
‘I never thought about that,’ she said.
Griselda smiled for the first time that day.
Ellen’s delight slowly evaporated. Having enjoyed thinking about the way she’d confronted Quentin Dacey, she decided to make some early decisions about the guest list for the wedding. Since her daughter wasn’t yet ready to do so, Ellen felt that she’d take the first step on Alice’s behalf. Seated at the kitchen table with a pad, she started with the names of the immediate family then branched out. In no time at all, she had over thirty people pencilled in for an invitation.
One name, however, was missing and it created a chasm in the list. If Paul were not there, his absence would overshadow the whole event. At the same time, if he turned up in the surly mood that had made him leave home in the first place, there’d be a nasty atmosphere at the wedding. Ellen was once again torn between wanting him back and accepting that he had effectively deserted the family. The longer he stayed away, she believed, the less chance there was of his ever coming back. Hopes that he might be present at his sister’s wedding were futile.
Ellen felt a pang of regret and used the pencil to cross out every name on the page. Making plans for the wedding was far too painful.
Chelsea was known for its hospital, its barracks, the quality of its housing and its literary associations, but not everyone there lived in style. Gordon Wale and his family occupied the ground floor of a terraced house in a dingy backstreet. The first thing that Keedy noticed when he got there was that the people who rented the upper half of the house were very active. There was a constant thud of feet above his head. Wale was used to it, but the sergeant found it distracting. After introducing himself, Keedy explained that he’d come as a result of the letter sent to Scotland Yard.
‘What were you doing out and about at that time of night?’
‘I work as a storeman in a factory,’ said Wale. ‘It’s in operation twenty-four hours. I have to walk over a mile to get there.’
‘Well, I’m very glad you took that route. What you saw could turn out to be valuable evidence in a murder investigation.’
‘That’s why I wrote to you, Sergeant.’
Wale was a chunky man in his fifties with a rough beard and bushy eyebrows that all but obscured his eyes. It was clear from his letter that he was not well educated. There were several grammatical errors and a number of words were misspelled. It didn’t detract from the importance of his testimony. Keedy asked him to recount what had happened.
‘I was walking along the street,’ said Wale, ‘and I saw this taxi pulled up at the kerb. Next minute, two people came towards it. The woman was carrying a suitcase and a handbag, and the man was hurrying her along.’
‘How close did you get to them?’
‘They brushed right past me.’
‘And you heard them speak French – is that right?’
‘I
think it was French. I don’t speak the language myself.’
‘How old were they?’
‘Oh, they were not young, Sergeant. They deliberately kept their heads down when they passed me but, from the way they moved, I’d say they were as old as me, if not older.’
‘What did they do when they reached the taxi?’
‘The man opened the door and put the suitcase in, then he more or less shoved the woman after it. As I carried on walking, the taxi started up and drove past me. That’s it,’ said Wale. ‘I thought no more of it until someone at work mentioned later that there’d been a murder nearby that night.’
Keedy probed for more detail until he realised that there was nothing left to learn. After thanking the man, he made for the door.
‘Is there any chance of a reward?’ asked Wale, hopefully.
‘No,’ said Keedy, ‘I’m afraid not. There’s a long way to go yet before we solve this crime. Your contribution has been small but very useful. Thank you, sir.’
Since there was a new development in the case, Marmion was duty-bound to report it to the superintendent. He went to Chatfield’s office in the knowledge that he might well be chastised by his superior because of what had happened at their last encounter. Marmion showed him the handbill received by the Lotus Hotel.
‘And who do you think put this through the letter box?’ asked the superintendent, malevolently. ‘Was it a French nun of dubious character? Or do you think it might have been a member of the secret service who died three years ago? Don’t let us rule out a German spy posing as an exotic dancer.’
‘Very funny, sir,’ said Marmion.
‘I look forward to listening to more of your bizarre suggestions.’
‘In this case, it seems certain that Mr Buchanan is involved. He owns the two hotels mentioned in the handbill.’
‘And what does it actually say here?’ Chatfield read the text quickly then looked up. ‘If Buchanan really is behind this, it’s an example of sharp practice.’
‘I agree, sir, but is it actionable?’
The Unseen Hand Page 22