Текст книги "A Spider in the Cup"

Автор книги: Barbara Cleverly

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Orford was impressed. He beamed. He took out his pencil and scribbled a few notes on Chesterton’s plan. “I was planning to have the lads down there with measuring tapes and all the paraphernalia at first light. But before they run loose churning up the mud, I’ll send in a couple of discreet blokes—one of whom might be me—to keep watch on that boat. See if we can catch ourselves a witness. Another one,” he sighed with mock weariness. “The more, the merrier, I expect.”

“Only three to go,” said Joe. “I’ll take the colonel and his men in one job lot. Mr. Chesterton, you’ve been of great help. Could you, as you leave, ask Swinton to come in?”

SWINTON SETTLED DOWN on a chair, flanked by his Suffolk gardeners.

Sam and Joel gazed about them, recording yet another experience of the city with wide-eyed disbelief. For men whose sole previous contact with the law of the land had been the village bobby’s boot up the bum as they fled an orchard with pockets full of scrumped apples twenty years before, their presence in the office of a top man at Scotland Yard was overwhelming. And, in some ways, disappointing. Not at all what they’d expected. No clanking cell doors, no manacles, no screams, not even many men in uniform. Their tea had been served from a trolley by a flirty old biddy in a white pinny. In the top bloke’s office there were more surprises. All here was neatness and order with pictures on the walls like someone’s front parlour. A telephone stood to attention on an expanse of gleaming mahogany desk. Across the desk a smiling young gentleman in a smart city suit greeted them by name and they listened with disbelief as he told them who he was.

He began his business by thanking the pair for their efforts and the speed with which they’d worked to secure a vulnerable corpse.

“Weren’t nothin’ else we could ’a done,” said Joel modestly. “Blowed if we was goin’ to let that old river have her!”

“Well, you’ll be pleased to hear that we have a very strong line of enquiry going at the moment and we’re expecting very soon to be able to give your girl an identity. We’ll let you know her name before much longer.”

This was what they were anxious to hear. Two more victims, Joe thought, ensnared by the dead girl whose grip showed no sign of loosening.

“We’ll be glad to give our statements, Commissioner,” the colonel said. “And if there’s anything else we can supply—anything at all—you know where we are. We’ll stay on in London until someone sounds the all clear. Pleased to be of help.”

“A few questions, for the moment,” Joe said. “I was wondering how you got yourselves into this predicament. Tell me—it was Miss Herbert’s selection of terrain, was it? This stretch of riverbank?”

“Not exactly. In fact I take full responsibility for the choice of that patch. Hermione was determined to stage her dowsing experiment and, having been consulted, I cast a soldier’s eye on the problem. Three things recommended the Chelsea reach to me.

“One: ease of digging. Mud not pleasant underfoot but quickly moved with the right spades.

“Two: strong possibility of making a find. The banks of the Thames are a rich hunting ground. The museums of London are stuffed with items brought to light by a swirl of those dark waters. From very ancient times up to the day before yesterday. And that particular bit seems to have been in use in the Roman-British period, which is always of interest. Certainly of interest to Reginald Stone. He, for one, was quite keen when I proposed it, though I’m sure he would deny any enthusiasm if you asked him. Yes, Reginald had a definite gleam in his evil old eye!”

Ambushed by a stray thought, Swinton unlocked his eyes from Joe’s. The clipped ops-room tone was abandoned as he added: “Yes … he leapt straight on to it, you might say. The coin, I mean. He turned that riverbank into a lecture theatre.” He snorted with laughter. “Had my lads gripped all right, didn’t he?”

Sam and Joel grinned and nodded agreement. “Never knew that about coins!”

“Well, that’s ivory-tower dwelling intellectuals for you! Corpse on our hands, Thames lapping round our ankles and the prof’s raving on about some petty little military venture that occurred about two thousand years ago!” the colonel huffed with amusement.

“Still, that did come to pass on that very spot, didn’t it?” Joel objected mildly to his boss’s dismissive tone. “That were weird!” he said, eyes appealing to Joe. “Man on his knees in front of them towers, the river behind him and a ship going by. I got a good look at it before the colonel took it off the prof and made it safe. Like a photograph from the past. It fair made my skin crawl! And the prof—he were explaining as how it were the young lady’s fare across the river. But not the Thames …”

“Lethe, he called it,” Sam supplied. “Lethe—the river of Hell. Entrance to the Underworld.”

Joe broke the automatic silence of respect for the dead that followed. “I’ll settle for a bunch of roses and a corner of a Surrey churchyard when someone decides my time has come,” was his quiet comment. “And then the colonel took the item into safe custody, as you say, Joel. Your handkerchief, Swinton?”

“Certainly. And with care. I know you fellows are fanatical about fingerprints though I don’t suppose any suspect ones would survive the conditions they were subjected to—saliva, river water?”

Joe counted himself no boffin and had no clear idea either but the three men were looking at him with the eager enquiry of students sitting in the front row on the first day of term. He replied firmly, “The forensic techniques we have these days surprise even me, colonel. Our backroom boys have made huge advances since the war. I’m always amazed by the ability of the most minute traces of natural grease excreted by the human skin to survive adverse conditions. And, if we’re so lucky as to find them on a resistant surface such as metal or glass, an imprint can stay clear for years. As both you and the professor handled it, Colonel, I shall have to ask you both to supply—”

“Already done, old chap. Orford here—it was one of the first things he arranged.” He nodded at the inspector, acknowledging his efficiency.

“And the third attraction of the Chelsea foreshore?” Joe prompted.

“Ah, yes. Three: discretion. If we’d put our waders on and started squelching about outside Westminster or in the Archbishop’s front garden … well, questions would have been asked. But out there in Chelsea … that’s still quite a rough area with a reputation for a certain bohemian laissez-faire atmosphere. Full of poets and painters and other lefty loose-livers who aren’t going to pay much attention to a group like us: busy bees braying across the mud to each other in confident English voices. An irritation at the most. Clear field given.”

“So all those involved knew the location some time before the dig?”

“Six days before,” said the colonel firmly. “Ah. I follow. That would be three or four days before she died, if Hermione got it right.”

“Hermione got it right,” Joe confirmed with a smile. “Now, sir, would you take me through the moment of discovery once again? It was Miss da Silva, I understand whose implement was responsible?”

The colonel was on Joe’s wavelength with alarming speed. “I see where you’re going with this. Ludicrous notion—I agree!—but you have to follow it to source to discount it. Yes—she alone, I’d say, located whatever it was she located. The coin? The dead flesh? Who really knows what triggered the response? I don’t claim to. No one indicated that precise spot. She was merely trawling over the wide area Hermione had outlined. I’ll swear no human agency guided her hand. It could just as well have fallen to young Jack to feel the twitch of his device. And, well, you’ve seen our Doris! No malice aforethought, I’m sure,” he concluded comfortably, closing Joe’s main line of enquiry.

“By your group, perhaps, Colonel. But someone was malicious enough and murderous enough to kill that poor child and leave her to rot in London mud. I won’t rest until I have him.”

The colonel’s chin went up as he said, with feeling: “By Jove! That’s the stuff! I only wish the villain were here to see the light in your eye, Commissioner.”

CHAPTER 8

Left alone with the inspector, Joe was amused to see a swiftly stifled expression of relief flit across the stolid features when he announced that he was returning to Claridge’s and leaving Orford in charge. But relief was chased away by a growing uncertainty and it was with a brave show of confidence that the inspector confirmed he had the night’s procedure in hand and would report back any interesting development to Joe.

“You have good men on this?” Joe asked, distancing himself yet showing support.

“I’ve hand picked ’em.” Orford passed a list over the desk. “Mix of uniform and CID. I’ve added a couple of blokes I know in the River Police. Good lads.” And, casually: “Shall I be reporting back to you, sir?”

“Yes. Here. Could you manage this evening? I’m planning to hang around pestering Rippon for his conclusions so you may find me in the labs. I’ll leave a message for you at the desk downstairs.”

As the inspector left, Joe called after him, “Don’t think I’m deserting you, Inspector. I’m following a different track. A track which may, if things go very badly, lead to the same outcome. I pray I’m heading in entirely the wrong direction.”

AS THE DOOR closed, Joe lifted the phone and a minute or two later he had Bacchus at the other end.

“Still there, James?”

“Still there, Joe? I was just knocking off. Look—are you there at your desk for the next half hour?”

“I can be. Something on your mind, James?”

“Yes. I need to give you the usual update but there’s something more.”

“I’ll be here.”

James Bacchus came in clutching a sheaf of files under his arm and settled down, a weary smile on his face. “On my way to the Savoy. The French are kicking up again. How do you say, ‘Up yours!’ in French, Joe?”

Joe told him. “But make sure you’re exchanging a salute when you utter the words. That way, their gun hand is nowhere near their holster.”

“My fault. I’ve been neglecting them. I’ve been spending more time than I ought on your American.”

Joe trusted Bacchus’s nose for trouble well enough to feel uneasy. “Give me what you have, James. I’ll make some notes and save you the time.” He began to write.

“So, all going quietly about their business … He lunched where? Hotel Victoria? Ah, yes. This was scheduled, I understand. Prime Minister and the ambassador present—that meeting. And you covered it yourself? Good man. Luncheon in honour of Cordell Hull. Given by? The Pilgrims … Pilgrims? Who are they? I confess ignorance.”

“It’s an Anglo-American Friendship charity. A very grand one. You know—it’s a reference to the Mayflower, the ship that carried the first English pilgrims to Cape Cod in sixteen twenty. They have more descendants than you’d believe over there, considering half the passengers died within a year of landing. President: the Duke of Connaught. Patrons: our king and the president of the United States, whoever he happens to be. They gathered to hear an address by Lord Derby and drink a toast to”—Bacchus referred to a notebook—“to ‘the continuance of good relations between this country and the United States.’ Cordell Hull replied that the Pilgrims’ organization had become renowned throughout the world by reason of the splendid services it had rendered in fomenting friendship and cementing better relations between nations.”

Joe stifled a yawn. He was getting restive and wanted to move on. “All this fomenting and cementing is nothing but good news, I’m sure. I can’t think of a safer place for our bird to be roosting than in the bosom of these patriots. Did you get a guest list? I’d like to hear who was there.”

“Just get a copy of tomorrow’s Times. I noticed their journalist was let in. It was hardly a hush-hush do! I’m surprised they didn’t open with a fanfare. Batting for England we had: our Prime Minister Macdonald and half the aristocracy … a few generals and admirals, a couple of bishops. For the away team: Secretary of State Hull … senators, governors, the consul general. And from both sides of the Atlantic: a seriously heavy brigade of bankers.”

Joe’s expression of slight boredom was enlivened by a flash of humour. “Thank God no one put a bomb in the surprise pudding. The wealth makers of the world would have been splattered over London!”

“Strawberries, crème de la crème and blue blood sauce,” Bacchus spoke grimly. “A real Eton Mess we’d have had to clear up!” He shrugged the idea away. “No. Never likely to happen. Military Intelligence were there in force. Ex-guardsmen,” he sniffed. “Blended right in. But the Branch had it covered just in case. Someone had to keep the glasses charged. I buzzed about like a bee in honeysuckle time. Those blokes do a lot of toasting.”

Joe smiled with anticipation at the picture of neat, slim, unctuous James Bacchus leaning close to the world’s most powerful men as they grew increasingly inebriated and indiscreet.

“Can’t wait to hear!”

“Nothing too exciting, I’m glad to say. I could hope it set the mood for the conference. After a lot of heart-swelling stuff about the Magna Carta, Habeas Corpus, the balustrades of Boston and the Liberty Bell they got down to the serious pledges. These appeared to be: ‘Action rather than words’ and ‘the World Conference must not fail because it dare not fail.’ ”

“No objectors to that?”

“No one. Not a single voice raised in dissent. ‘Brothers across the Briny’ was definitely the theme.”

“Fine sentiments! I’d have raised my glass to that! Let’s hope Kingstone was listening. Did he appear moved by all this high-minded fervour?”

“Hard to tell. He behaved himself. Taking more in than he was giving out. He tucked into the food but I’ll swear he only drank a couple of glasses throughout the meal. Saving himself, I expect.”

“For what?”

“He knew he was going on somewhere afterwards.”

Joe picked up the slight unease in Bacchus’s voice. “Not according to our schedule, he wasn’t, James.”

“Oh, it was cleverly done. He stuck to the time and the place; he went in to the Victoria with Pilgrims, spent time in their exclusive company and came out four hours later. I’m sure no one else would have noticed and perhaps I’m being a bit hysterical …”

“But?”

“All a bit odd. After the lunch party broke up, some of the fellows lingered behind. A group of eight plus Kingstone. They settled down together at a table and lit cigars. Gawd! I thought I was going to be stuck there until supper time! But no. One of them told me to have brandy served in the small private dining room next door. They each picked up a little leather case. A similar one was handed to Kingstone, who didn’t appear to have come equipped and didn’t seem to know quite what he was expected to do with it. They wandered off laughing and joking into the next room. They accepted a tray of brandy and nine glasses but dismissed me at the door. ‘We’ll wait on ourselves, steward.’ Sorry, Joe, I couldn’t get near. And the Vic’s private dining room is one we haven’t yet managed to crack.”

Joe’s antennae were twitching. “You have names for these gentlemen?”

“Not all. I recognised one or two. There was a banker whose name will make your eyes pop. Two industrialists who made fortunes in the war, a retired English admiral, two other blokes I’d never seen or heard of before and a villain I did recognise from his pictures in the press.” Bacchus extracted a brown envelope from his pile and put it down in front of Joe.

Joe looked with interest. The man in question had clearly claimed the attention of the Branchman. He read the name on the front in disbelief, then read it out loud. “I say—have they spelled this correctly?”

“Heimdallr Abraham Lincoln Ackermann?”

Bacchus nodded.

“Who the devil’s this when he’s at home? And where on earth is his home? German surname, Scandinavian first name and American in the middle? That places him in the mid-Atlantic somewhere south of Iceland, wouldn’t you say?”

“Right. A man who carries his autobiography in his name. Prussian father, Swedish mother, brought up in the States.”

“How did Abraham Lincoln get in on the act?”

“Mother’s hero, apparently, though she, being an aristocratic sort of Swede, insisted on giving her son an ancient Scandinavian first name. Look inside—you may recognise him.”

Joe opened up the file and studied the photograph pasted inside. A bespectacled, middle-aged man with pale face and neatly trimmed grey moustache looked back at him with a benevolent and slightly questioning expression from under the brim of a straw boater set precisely in the centre of his head. This was not a man to wear his hat at a roguish angle. His suit was neat, his glasses had thin gold rims. He seemed to be asking, “Will that be all, sir?”

“I do recognise him. It’s my local pharmacist. Makes a point of asking discreetly if sir has everything he requires for the weekend. I’ll tell you who it isn’t—Heimdallr, son of Odin, King of the Gods! This chap couldn’t wield a paper-knife, let alone a broadsword. What’s he done to raise your blood pressure?”

“His weapon’s the pen! Are you telling me you haven’t heard of him? They told me you’d been primed …” Bacchus was stunned. “I’ll give you a minute to read through his details and another minute to get your breath back.”

Bacchus was chuffed to hear the low growl as Joe caught up. “Ackermann! Someone mentioned his name to me just the other day. One among many new ministers. How did you identify him?”

Bacchus was clearly pleased with himself judging by the studied casualness of his reply. “It was tricky. The chap was speaking with an American accent and the others were calling him ‘Abe’ so it was a moment or two before the penny dropped.”

Trying to remain calm, Joe asked, “And what, do you suppose, the new President of the German General Bank is doing in London masquerading as a Pilgrim?”

“Dunno. Guest of honour? Possible. But he could be a bona fide member for all we know. They don’t publish a list. It’s as easy to get a list of members from them as from a London club. In other words—forget it. A starchy ‘Our members know who they are,’ is the only response you get.”

“But—a German citizen?”

“They do get about, you know. We don’t own the Atlantic. The pilgrims—the original seed corn, you might say, were from several different European nations including Germany, all fleeing religious or political persecution in various lands. There were Ackermanns in Pennsylvania in the seventeen hundreds. It means ‘farmer’ and lots of farmers emigrated.”

Joe was becoming increasingly concerned that James had all these facts at his fingertips and said so.

“Right. This man just happens to be at the top of my pile of foreigners to watch. I’d say he’s the key man in Herr Hitler’s new government. One of the first appointments he made. He’s got the banking slot all right but he’s also Advisor for Economics and is, we hear, about to be given charge of Hitler’s policy of redevelopment, re-industrialization and—rearmament.”

Joe groaned. “So there was a bombe surprise to follow after all.”

“Yup! He’ll be the bloke who signs the cheques for the tanks and the bombers and the roads and the airstrips. And—more importantly—who conjures up the cash to back them. I began to wonder in my suspicious way if this meeting within a meeting had been called to arrange a few transfers between consenting parties. I expected his little case to contain a paying-in book as well as a cheque book and gold pen but, no—there was another little surprise in those cases.” Bacchus said cheerfully.

“Hang on—these attaché cases—you’ve lost me. What did they look like?”

“A bit like the things Freemasons carry their leather pinnies to meetings in. No distinguishing marks. All the same design. A job lot you’d say.”

“Oh, Lord! A secret society! That’s all we need!”

“That’s what I thought. So I acquired one of them. Just to check.”

“Safely acquired?”

“Of course. When they left I was on the spot and I helped the one who was most unsteady on his pins into his coat. The gentleman happened to drop his case during the manoeuvre and staggered off without it. Luckily it had his name in it. Turns out he’s a certain Adolphus Crewe from New York. A top lawyer with links to the FBI. I got the Victoria to ring his hotel (which happened to be Claridge’s) ten minutes later with a message that it had been handed in and was in safekeeping. Would he collect or should they send it round?”

“Ten minutes? Was that long enough to break the US navy code?”

“We did that last year. Took us five. No—there was nothing much in there to detain the attention.”

“Well, go on. What was there?”

There was a pause as Bacchus considered. “A square of leather. Plus eighteen ivory counters. It’s a game. A portable game.”

“What? Like drafts? Chequers?”

“Not quite. It’s a very ancient game. Though you can still get them at Hamleys toy shop in Regent Street. Goes back to Ancient Egypt. The Bronze Age Celts of Ireland played it. The Romans whiled away the hours on Hadrian’s wall with it. My uncle Arthur was addicted. He carried one about with him too in his pocket. But—more significantly—the pilgrims, confined at sea aboard their tiny ship for two months, played it. It’s called Nine Men’s Morris.”

“And those were the Nine Men? Is that what you’re thinking? That you’d uncovered a secret gaming club? An inner temple dedicated to an ancient tradition? More like a joking link with the past, I’d say. The Masons go in for that sort of stuff, don’t they? Leather aprons, scrolls, memorised speeches?” He floundered on: “You’ll probably find the others in the society know what’s going on and think it’s a bit of a laugh. The men you tracked may be a special group who’ve achieved the Ninth Level of Peregrination and are accordingly charged with the preservation of the Society’s ancient rituals. Seems a harmless, bloke-ish way of spending the afternoon. Wish we had the time, James …”

Bacchus left a silence in which Joe replayed his own dismissive, comfortable words. His voice took on a little uncertainty as he added, “Look, James, I’ll tell you straight: I don’t much like splinter groups or secret societies within societies.”

“Time wasters usually. Overgrown boy scouts. All mouth, no trousers. They probably collect cigarette cards too. But—speaking of cards—they’re not the only collectors. I have my own bits of memorabilia. Tell you what …” Bacchus looked at his watch. “I’ll make time to rootle through my files with the Times list in hand and send round a rogues’ gallery for you to give your opinion on. All the faces I can remember. It may be important.”

“You’re needling me into saying the obvious: these nine men are no boy scouts. They’re running our world, aren’t they?”

“I’d say so. They’re certainly greasing the wheels it runs on. But look—if you want to know more, you could always ask your sergeant.”

“My sergeant?” Joe knew he was prevaricating. “Which one? I’ve got a hundred and forty seven on the books.”

“You know who I mean! Armitage. He was there. Right on the spot.”

“With his ear to the keyhole?” Joe spluttered in amusement and disbelief at the effrontery. “He waved you away and listened in to their private conclave? Cheeky bugger! From what I know of his habits, never mind their secrets, they’d be lucky to get out of there with their gold cuff-links still in place.”

“No. Nothing so crude! Armitage oozed in under his own steam. Carrying his own little case. Your sergeant is one of the Nine Men.”