Текст книги "The Blood Royal"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Текущая страница: 6 (всего у книги 27 страниц)

Chapter Six

Left alone, Lily sat for a few minutes trying to make sense of the hastily assembled file. This was decidedly ‘works in progress’. A pile of papers had been scraped together from various sources: scene of crime notes, press cuttings and even letters on headed writing paper. This bird’s nest was destined, she expected, after passing through Miss Jameson’s typing machine, to be the building blocks of the final case file. After reviewing all the material and admiring the quality of the scene of crime work carried out by torchlight through the night, Lily managed to put it all into chronological order.

A devastating tale was beginning to emerge. From the earliest documents, she understood that Sandilands had, last month, set up a protection force from the ranks of the Special Branch for Lord Dedham, along with one or two other prominent military gents. Evidence had led him to suppose that they were likely targets for the Irish gunmen of Sinn Fein. Three distinguished men, including General Lansing, had been attacked in varying and – Lily judged – amateurish fashion the month before on the streets of London. There had been an attempted cudgelling, a knifing and – most seriously – a shooting where the bullet, mis-aimed in the struggle, had passed harmlessly through the general’s upper arm. All the victims had defended themselves with spirit and none had been seriously hurt. None of the assailants had been apprehended.

‘Thuggery on the streets of the West End,’ had been the deduction of two of the victims. But the third, Lansing, had sought out the receptive ear of Sandilands to express a different, more thoughtful, view. He’d exchanged words as well as blows with his two assailants and had been intrigued to receive a torrent of abuse delivered with an Irish accent. A southern Irish accent, he’d said firmly. His family had property near Dublin and he knew what he was talking about. Apart from Lansing’s certitude, there didn’t appear to be an obvious Irish connection and no one had claimed responsibility for the outrages, but someone – Sandilands? – had taken the pattern as a warning of worse to come as the situation in Ireland grew ever more inflamed.

Every day Irish desperadoes were setting their own cities ablaze, shooting and blowing up their countrymen, with no regard for age or sex, it seemed. Lily had cringed at the reports of families bombed to bits in the middle of the night, of men kidnapped, tortured and executed, of bodies left in the gutter. Only the day before, a little girl had answered a knock on the door and been shot in the stomach. With a shiver, Lily remembered reading the press speculation that the daily murders and explosions being suffered by that country could easily be exported to England.

Beaverbrook’s journals had thundered on for weeks about the dangers. It was just a matter of time and opportunity, they asserted. Significantly, the words ‘desperado’ and ‘hooligan’ had been replaced by the more alarming ‘terrorist’. There was a large population of Irish settlers in London, many with military training in the British army. They would have easy access to the arms and ammunition which lingered on in anonymous dumps in discreet places after the war and they would have the will and the skill to use them. In a city crowded with immigrants from many nations, the Irish blended in better than most, being indistinguishable in appearance from the native Englishmen. And unless they cared to engage you in conversation, revealing their accents, or announce to you at gunpoint that they were Irish, you would never know who was about to blow your brains out.

Sandilands seemed to have been handed a list of endangered politicians and public figures. Police squads had been allocated to these gentlemen. But before his plans could be put into action, the patrols had been stood down at the request of the potential victims themselves. Copies of their letters to Sandilands had been kept. Dear Commander … frightfully grateful and all that … military man myself … not in my own capital … no necessity … must therefore decline …

With the protection withdrawn and the admiral shot dead, questions would be asked in the press and in Parliament – to say nothing of every public bar in the land. ‘And where were our policemen in this?’ was likely to be the most politely phrased enquiry. Resignations would be expected. Sandilands was quite right to have fallen on his sword – Lily feared that his position was, indeed, untenable. Until she turned up a note he had carefully kept. The note authorized – indeed, demanded – the instant suppression of the police guard on the gentlemen concerned, who had no wish for it to continue. It was judged an expensive manoeuvre and an unnecessary one. The note was signed by the Home Secretary himself.

Lily put it conspicuously at the front of the file.

The investigating CID officer at the scene of the assassination of Dedham, a Superintendent Hopkirk, had been there in minutes and seemed to have done a thorough job in the short time that had elapsed. She noted and admired the neat handwriting, the succinct phrasing. The officer must have been miffed to find a deeply involved, guilt-ridden and angry commander on site and breathing down his neck, she guessed. With the map of London she always carried with her and the pencilled sketch on squared paper provided by the inspector, she was able to pull together the outline of the atrocity. And Lily was left, after absorbing all the dimensions, bullet counts, and initial witness interviews, with a feeling of sorrow for the dead man. And for his wife, who had reacted to the outrage with incredible courage, throwing herself into a firefight with the retreating gunmen. A formidable pair, the Dedhams.

Everyone in the land knew of Lord Dedham. Naval man turned politician, speechmaker extraordinaire, rather in the simple style of Mr Churchill, he told the truth as he perceived it with a clarity that appealed to everyone.

When it came to political speeches the admiral used the tactics of the bare-knuckle fighter: get the first blow in and make it a cruncher. His views on the unrest which had preceded and accompanied the signing of the Anglo-Irish Treaty had been delivered with the gloves off very recently in Dublin. He’d accused the prime minister himself, Lloyd George, of working with the king’s enemies and had gone so far as to condemn him for having ‘shaken the bloody hands of murderers’. Dedham was a clear enemy of Sinn Fein and denouncer of the bombs and bullets that organization used instead of words.

The admiral had been sure of many things, but after his years of service in the Navy he was most certain that ‘if we bale out and leave Ireland, Britain is faced across the sea with an enemy that blocks its trade routes. And that is to say – the end of the British Empire. Shall all the gallant sacrifices made fighting the German foe to the east count for nothing, set at nought by a treacherous stab in the back from our neighbour to the west?’

Sandilands had inserted a news cutting reporting this speech, delivered to an enthusiastic audience on 24 May – Empire Day. The occasion had been a memorial supper to mariners lost at sea and Lord Dedham had further stoked the fires of patriotism by finishing with a quotation from Rudyard Kipling:

The tumult and the shouting dies;

The Captains and the Kings depart:

Still stands Thine ancient sacrifice,

An humble and a contrite heart.

Lord God of Hosts, be with us yet,

Lest we forget – lest we forget!

‘Ouch!’ Lily muttered as she leafed through the details. ‘Bet there wasn’t a dry eye in the house.’

They were dealing with a national hero but also a victim who had enemies running into the hundreds if not thousands. Enemies with powerful, armed and ruthless forces behind them to do their bidding. ‘A crazed and driven foe’ might have been Kipling’s verdict.

It had been Dedham’s first day back in London when he’d been ambushed. A crucial moment of imbalance, well judged by the assassins, Lily thought. And yet something had gone disastrously wrong for them. The gunmen, both Irish by birth, it was surmised, had been caught almost immediately after the killing. They’d been arrested and interrogated initially in the Gerard Street police station only two streets away from the admiral’s doorstep.

Rustling her way through the sheets Lily began to pull together a story of remarkable courage. The cabby whose taxi the killers had commandeered had driven off in the direction of Paddington station but had almost immediately taken a turn off the main road into Gerard Street. There he’d swerved at the last minute and driven his vehicle at speed in through the gates of the police station, hooting his horn. The duty sergeant at the gates had instantly slammed them shut, trapping the taxi and its occupants in the courtyard. A squad of coppers just coming off duty in the West End had surged out and arrested everyone.

Their bag consisted of four persons: two gunmen, both injured. At the moment of arrest, one had a slash across the left cheek and a .22 bullet embedded in the muscle of his back, the other had a broken wrist.

A young lady passenger, hysterical but otherwise unhurt. She’d given her name and a Mayfair address and, after interview, had been released from custody, insisting on a police escort back to Park Lane. Lily had a clear impression from Superintendent Hopkirk’s dry phrasing that they’d been only too glad to lay on a squad car and driver to take her home. Anything to get her out of their hair.

Lastly, the taxi driver. Discovered slumped over his wheel unconscious and at first thought to be dead. Revealed by his licence to be a Mr Percy Jenner, ex-London Rifle Brigade, he’d been hit over the head with a blunt instrument, probably the butt of a gun. He’d been conveyed to St George’s hospital where his condition had been stabilized. A constable with a notebook was at his bedside.

The bodies of the admiral and the beat bobby who died trying to stop the taxi had been taken to the morgue and post mortems were under way. The work was top priority and in the hands of Dr Bernard Spilsbury himself. Report awaited.

Lily looked up from her task, stretched her back and considered. It seemed straightforward enough: successful assassination, bungled getaway, capture of culprits. But there were details that left her with an unease, a need to know more – and more precisely. She began to write a list of questions in her notebook. She was finishing her reading of the file with the last of the exhibits – a cutting from the previous week’s Times newspaper quoting the whole of Admiral Dedham’s rip-roaring speech in Dublin, a clear incitement to murder – when she remembered there was one important thing she had to do before Sandilands returned.

Lily looked at the clock. He’d been gone for almost two hours. Where were his rooms? How long did it take for a shave? He’d said ten minutes. Allowing for brisk walking time there and back to somewhere close by … Albany? … she’d probably left it too late, she judged. She listened. All on the third floor was silent. She crept to the heavy door and opened it an inch. She was reasonably certain that she would now have early warning of anyone approaching down the corridor, or the door of Miss Jameson’s office opening. Lily returned to the desk.

She sat for a few moments staring at the telephone and wondering if she dared. With the hurdle of her decision to resign successfully jumped, what had she to lose? She found the courage to lift the earpiece.

The operator at the switchboard answered in her precise but strangulated tone. They were all graduates, these telephonist girls, and renowned for the way they could torture the English language. Lily had applied for such a post with a laundry in Clapham advertised in the newspaper over a year ago but had given up at the first hurdle when she discovered that of the other eight hundred applicants for the position, many had a degree from a university and most had a cultured, upper-class voice.

‘An internal number please, miss,’ Lily said firmly. ‘Could you put me through to extension 371?’

A few mechanical noises were followed by a gruff male voice. ‘Yes?’

‘Hello. This is switchboard again,’ Lily announced in a fair copy of the telephonist’s voice. ‘Do tell me I’m through to Catering Supplies?’ She managed to insert a touch of uncertainty.

‘I can’t. You’re not.’ The voice was military. Uncommunicative.

‘Oh, no! I’ve done it again! Most frightfully sorry, sir!’ she gushed. ‘I do hope I’ve not disturbed you. Please forgive me. It’s my first day going solo, you see. I’m on test. I so hope you won’t tell? I think I’ve just inserted my toggle into the wrong slot and made a bad connection …’

A guffaw greeted this. ‘We’ve all done that, darlin’,’ said the fruity baritone, unbending suddenly. ‘Think nothing of it. Your secrets are safe with me. Well, they would be, wouldn’t they – this is the War Office here. Ho, ho!’ He seemed to find his remark hilarious but stopped slapping his thigh long enough to add: ‘And when you do finally plug into Supplies, tell them to change the tea. That Darjeeling they’re using this month is as weak as gnat’s pee.’

‘Assam? Shall I suggest Assam, sir?’

‘Yes. That the dark brown stuff? That should do it. Well – good luck with the test, Iris! This is Iris, isn’t it?’

‘I didn’t give my name, sir. That would be against the rules.’ Lily summoned up exactly the right touch of scandalized rebuke. ‘Goodbye, sir.’

She replaced the receiver, stunned by what she’d heard.

War Office? What had Sandilands and, it seemed, herself, by association of some not-yet-defined form, to do with the War Office? For what exactly did they need to know that she was ‘ready and able’? Why did they have a presence in the Scotland Yard building? The questions lined up to ambush her. The answers did not immediately present themselves. There were rumours in the force that a shadowy enforcement arm of some sort had a toehold in the Whitehall warren. Everyone had heard of ‘C’ and his department of patriotic scoundrels. MI1b? Or was it MI1c? Had Lily stumbled upon an organization of that nature? Not such a formidably secret department, she concluded, if an interloper like herself could ring them up and discuss tea supplies.

This flippant thought was supplanted by a more chilling one. She had done nothing to bring her own name to their attention. And yet their earlier conversation with Sandilands showed that they knew of her. Indeed, seemed to have plans for her. Plans on which she had not been consulted. What had he said? ‘Not fully briefed yet …’

‘Mata Hari?’ Lily had suggested half-jokingly, taking a stab at a description of the work he had in mind for her. A female spy, Dutch by birth, Miss Hari had used her allure to get information from both sides of the recent conflict. It was rumoured that, at the time of her arrest in a Paris hotel, the exotic dancer turned courtesan counted, amongst her many lovers, the German crown prince and the chief of the French anti-espionage bureau and that crucial information had passed from head to head to head on the pillow. All too unregulated. No one could be quite certain to whom the wretched woman really owed allegiance. As an agent, she had been turned and turned again. Done to a crisp, was the final decision, and she had been removed from the scene. A put-up job by the French it was generally thought, with the compliance of the British. The affair was considered significant enough to have her put on trial and executed by a firing squad in 1917.

If it was a woman with skills of this dubious nature they were seeking, they would have to look elsewhere. Their choice was laughable. Lily’s sense of proportion kicked in. She was confident that she failed to fill the bill on two vital counts. Her most exotic dance was the tango she’d learned at the Stretton Academy of Terpsichore on Saturday mornings and she had never had a lover, civilian or military. Really – she’d had enough of this shambolic crew, playing at war games and juggling with careers.

Lily reached into Sandilands’ paper tray and took out a sheet of writing paper. It was entirely suitable that it should be headed Scotland Yard, Whitehall. She wrote down her name, rank and number at the top and followed this with a brief statement of her resignation from the force, For reasons made clear to you this morning, she summarized. With immediate effect, she added, dating it. Nothing further. He had heard her views. She folded it, wrote his name on the outside flap and put it away in her pocket. It gave her the reassurance of a lifebelt tucked under her shoulders. She owed him nothing. He could ask nothing of her.

And yet she was disconcerted to find her mind returning to the possibilities he had distractingly opened up. No woman would be made such a tantalizing offer, out of the blue, without the most demanding payback being extracted, she reasoned. What had his proposition amounted to? No less than an instant elevation to detective officer working alongside the commander. Could that be right? That was no opening position with a laundry in Clapham.

She tried to remember what Sandilands had said in his doubtless manufactured confession. That he’d been in Military Intelligence during the war years … that much she was prepared to believe. Had he ever given up his role or was his present position a screen for other, murkier activities? Perhaps he was still at war and fighting on fronts other than crime? And why would he suppose that he was automatically entitled to count on her assistance with his schemes?

She was trying to recall all the wars in which England was involved from Afghanistan to Zululand and had got stuck on Ireland when she heard Sandilands stamping back down the corridor.

Chapter Seven

Sandilands went straight to Miss Jameson’s room across the corridor and stayed there for a few minutes before returning to his own office, where he found Lily closing the file and laying down her pencil.

She looked up and gave him a friendly smile. He swept off his hat, offered a clean-cut profile and asked: ‘Well, what do you think of Raoul’s handiwork?’

‘Raoul is an artist, sir. He could find a position with the finest embalming parlour in the land.’

He grinned. He decided he could get along with her cheerful lack of deference. ‘Well, how’s it going with the Dedham affair? Reached any conclusions?’

‘It’s a bit early for conclusions, sir. There’s a lot of evidence still to come in. But I have one or two thoughts.’

‘Go on.’

‘There’s something not quite right with all this. Someone at the centre of it is telling you naughty lies.’

Joe had decided as much himself in the early hours. ‘You think so? But it’s perfectly straightforward, isn’t it? A shooting occurred and the killers were apprehended, guns still smoking in their hands. And we have a confession from both of them.’

Lily produced Hopkirk’s sketch. ‘Where exactly had these men concealed themselves to lie in ambush? They must have been laid up there for ages. No one could have predicted to the minute – or even the hour – when the Dedhams would fetch up home at the end of their evening. I don’t suppose they knew themselves. And these thugs weren’t just passing by. This was not their territory. They wouldn’t have been comfortable here.’

‘And regular police patrols would have picked up – at the very least recorded – any doubtful strangers,’ Sandilands confirmed.

‘According to Lady Dedham the cab driver checked the shrubs nearest the house before she alighted and gave her the all clear. She had her wits about her but tells us that she too saw nothing of concern near the house. And yet, less than a minute later the gunmen emerged from these very bushes …’ She pointed with the end of her pencil. ‘Did the cabby look properly? Was he mistaken? Or was he lying and leading them into a trap?’

‘What a pity he’s unable to speak for himself.’

‘Is it known, sir, how they engaged his services? How they came to be riding in that particular cab?’

Joe noted her foresight. ‘Yes. I asked Lady Dedham. All above board. The cabs were lined up outside the hall when the meeting turned out and the Dedhams took the next in line. They weren’t the first and they weren’t the last out. Luck of the draw.’

‘Look – what do you think of the possibility of distraction, sir? Deliberate or accidental?’ Her pencil moved south to the opposite side of the road. ‘There’s a sort of little green area over here … it’s hard to envisage what’s on offer from a map …’

‘Shrubs,’ Joe supplied. ‘I skulked around in there myself. You could hide a couple of quiet men in there for hours.’

‘Righto. Let’s picture them hiding here while the cabby does his reconnaissance and safely unloads Lady Dedham. Then we imagine him walking back to the taxi to assist the admiral … it’s at that moment that the men run across the road and hide in the bushes near the doorstep. A diversion could well have been staged then, don’t you agree? Though the circumstances are not yet perfectly clear.’

‘Yes. The arrival of the next fare. The young lady who barged in to commandeer the cab.’

Lily read from her notes: ‘Miss Harriet Hampshire, giving an address in Park Lane.’ She paused, her brow furrowed in thought. ‘It rings a bell with me … Is this one of the houses near Pinks Hotel, sir?’

Joe nodded.

‘And Miss Hampshire claims to have been in Melton Square, visiting a friend. At least that’s what she told Superintendent Hopkirk.’

‘I saw her,’ he said. ‘Briefly before they drove her home. Stunner! She’d certainly have diverted the admiral’s and the driver’s attention. Yes, two dark-clad men, profiting from a distraction, could have got across the road to the forward cover position without being spotted. And they were wearing rubber-soled shoes. In any case, any sound would have been masked by the noise of the taxi engine, which had been left running.’ He heaved a sigh. ‘The admiral dismissed the cabby, and strolled down to his front door. The moment he stood on the doorstep, off guard and backlit by the hall lights, they struck.’

‘I’m wondering why the cabby didn’t set off at once, sir?’

‘Waiting – as he’d said he would – to make sure all was well?’ Sandilands suggested. ‘Some sort of argy-bargy with the girl? Checking directions?’

He broke off and then said, with decision: ‘But look here – that’s enough desk work. Before we go to the hospital, or the jail, why don’t I take you out to look at the scene? Cassandra – Lady Dedham – is expecting me to pay another visit. We’ll take a staff car and go and see whether, in the cold light of day, she’s remembered anything more of significance, shall we?’

And time to put the girl at the fourth – and perhaps the hardest – hurdle.