A Little Murder (28 page)

That the documents were important she had no doubt. Yes, they were patently Marcia’s blackmailing ‘dynamite’, for apart from the name of Churchill appearing on virtually every page there was a small plan of central London with Downing Street and the War Office heavily marked, plus a short list of names including those of a Brig. H.M. Gill, an F.D. Pitlake and a K.D.A. Clerk-Herbert – all of whom she recognised.

Kerridge Clerk-Herbert had been a minor politician and poet of large ego and small talent, whose verses might have been dubbed tub-thumpingly jingoistic had they been less turgid. Two weeks previously he had attracted some mild attention by expiring from a heart attack in his bath at the Savoy. (Another of Marcia’s indirect casualties?) Lord Pitlake, on the other hand, she knew to be alive. Only that morning
The Times
had featured a large photograph of him on the tarmac at London Airport bidding a fond farewell to ‘dear old England’ as he flew off to spin out the rest of his days in Kenya (a part of Africa evidently popular with a certain brand of quisling). Asked by a reporter what he intended to do in his adopted homeland, the noble lord had replied that he would write his memoirs, keep the British flag flying and pursue his favourite sports of stalking, trapping and shooting.

Rather guiltily Rosy had also scanned the text for any mention of the name Maynard Latimer. To her relief she saw none … and then for no apparent reason an image of Adelaide’s ill-served cat flashed upon her mind, followed randomly by a picture of the rich and saintly Silvia. She mused not for the first time how it was the woman had managed to fall out of that ‘not very tall’ tree.

Then sniffing the last residue of the Schiaparelli on her wrist, she returned her attention to the document in hand and slowly and precisely tore it into shreds. These she placed in an empty fruit bowl, and clicking open her cigarette lighter set fire to the lot. Suppressing evidence? The thing was her own to treat as she chose. It had been given to her by her aunt.

A short while after Mata Hari’s confinement the following exchanges took place – in police station, flower shop and drawing room.

‘So what did Berridge have to say this time?’ asked Greenleaf of his boss.

‘Complaints as usual. Says it’s freezing on the south coast, that he’s already caught a cold and they have left him to deal with that stiff-in-the-deckchair case. You would think that having to interview all those nudists would have perked him up a bit. But not Berridge, oh no! Nothing but grumble, grumble …’

There was silence as they considered Berridge and his woes.

And then Greenleaf said, ‘But what I don’t understand about
our
case is why God suddenly turned all brisk and galvanised. Last time I saw him he was rambling on about dining with the chief constable. But then all of a sudden you
would think he had been fired by a Bofors … So somebody must have been getting at him.’

‘Harris,’ said the inspector. ‘It was Harris. Little bugger had been doing some snooping of his own. Quite unsanctioned. The super got wind, and feeling like a spare coat hanger made enquiries of the powers that be who then gave him a briefing about their Gill surveillance. But apparently Harris had been harbouring suspicions for some time. Not a word to me, of course!

‘Nor me,’ Greenleaf said huffily. ‘Bit of a brass neck really.’

There was silence as they cogitated upon Harris and his brass neck.

‘Mind you,’ said the inspector, ‘he had obviously picked up some gen from that uncle of his.’

‘What uncle?’

‘The one in MI5. Been giving him a nod and a wink, if you ask me. Still, you have to give him his due.’

‘Why?’

‘Single-minded, that’s what.’

‘You mean his single-minded pursuit of Gill?’

His colleague sighed. ‘Including him, but it goes further than that.’

‘What do you mean further? He nailed him didn’t he … well sort of. I wondered why he was so keen to go on that routine reconnaissance when we had the crank call. No one else volunteered! Must have been smelling a rat for some time.’

‘Yes, but what he really wants to nail – and will – is the top job: “Harris of the Yard”, that’s what he has in mind. You’ll see, a decade from now and the name will be on everyone’s lips:
Harris of the Yard
.’ The inspector repeated it dolefully.

There was another silence. And then Greenleaf said,
‘What I want on my lips just now is a nice head of Guinness.’

‘You’ve got something there, Herbert,’ said his superior, matey all of a sudden, ‘and then we can raise a jar to the next case – that darts player with his head bashed in at Wapping. Now that’s what I call a decent assignment – none of this poncey West End nonsense!’

Greenleaf nodded, and with squared shoulders they set off briskly for the Nag’s Rump.

‘Oh, by the way,’ Felix said casually, ‘it’s come through.’

‘What has?’

‘My plaque, of course.’

Cedric put down
The Times
. ‘You mean the Royal …?’

‘What else?’

Felix bent his head to the tapestry, but not before Cedric had glimpsed the smirk of pleasure suffusing his friend’s features. ‘Cap Ferrat, here we come!’ the professor cried.

‘It’s really been rather a trying period, don’t you think?’ enquired Lady Fawcett. ‘I don’t know about you, Rosy, but personally I feel quite
wrung out
!’ (She looked remarkably hale.) ‘In fact, so much so, that I have a booked a voyage to New York on one of the Cunards. We have cousins there who keep pestering me to pay them a visit. I gather they live somewhere on Park Avenue – not sure where that is, but Edward assures me it is very
safe
. In any case, I thought that a few days cruising on board the
Queen Mary
– or is it the
Queen Elizabeth?
One gets them so mixed up – would be most helpful.’ She paused, frowning slightly. ‘The only problem is that dear Amy is accompanying me, which will be lovely, of course, but she is not the most
restful
of girls … So I was wondering, Rosy dear, whether by any
chance you might care to join us – as our guest, naturally. Edward is taking a Pan Am flight, and the moment we have docked he will be there waiting on the quayside to steer us through the gaieties and guiles of Manhattan. Quite an adventure!’ She beamed encouragingly.

It wasn’t simply the prospect of Edward’s tutelage in New York, nor the staggering volume of Amy’s guffaws that made Rosy decline Lady Fawcett’s most kindly meant offer, but rather her own need to recuperate. She was not ‘wrung out’ exactly, but the last few months had taken their toll and she needed to reflect and take stock; and suddenly the sodden lonely marshlands of Norfolk or Kentish Romney presented an image of tranquillity which New York and the Fawcetts could never yield.

Thus with gratitude and genuine regret she heard herself pleading a prior arrangement. Yet even as she made the excuses a thought struck her: ‘How about asking Felix Smythe? They have had to postpone their jaunt to the Riviera, their host is indisposed, and meanwhile the professor is off to examine Carpathian rock monasteries, but Felix won’t go. Says he can’t stand monks … or was it heights? One of them. Anyway he’s not going. But I am sure he would love New York.’

There was a silence as Lady Fawcett considered the suggestion. ‘Well he
is
emollient,’ she murmured, ‘and he would be frightfully handy with the cocktails – Amy gets so muddled at sea!’ She hesitated, before adding, ‘But if he were away what would the Queen Mother do?’

‘Oh, I am sure she would manage somehow,’ replied Rosy smiling.

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S
UZETTE
H
ILL
was born in East Sussex, and spent much of her childhood playing spies and smugglers on Beachy Head and picnicking at the foot of the Long Man of Wilmington. Hill worked as a teacher in both public school and adult education before retiring in 1999. She now lives in Ledbury, Herefordshire. At the age of sixty-four and on a whim, she took up a pen and began writing. Hill has since published six novels, including the Reverend Oughterard series.

www.suzetteahill.co.uk