Authors: Michael Ridpath
‘Really?’ said Conrad. ‘Is that why you were asking me about Constance?’
‘Absolutely. It certainly raises questions about her. Did she have a motive? Did she dislike your sister? Was she jealous of Hertenberg? Constance mentioned that Millie and Hertenberg had some kind of romantic attachment.’
Conrad shrugged. ‘I really don’t know. I have no reason to think so. Did you question Constance?’
‘Oh, yes. She denied all knowledge of the knife, which was hardly surprising.’
‘Could someone else have taken the knife from the kitchens?’
‘It seems unlikely that a professional spy like Hertenberg would do that. He would have his own knife, one would think.’
‘Unless he was trying to put blame on Mrs Scott-Dunton?’
Van Gils shrugged. ‘Maybe.’
‘You must have seen plenty of suspects lie in the past,’ Conrad said. ‘Was Constance lying? Perhaps she never saw Theo after all?’
‘I certainly have,’ said van Gils. ‘But actually, she was quite convincing. She is a strange woman, Mrs Scott-Dunton, very strange. She comes across as a naive, innocent English girl. She is very young, only twenty-three, and yet there is something else there, a kind of suppressed excitement. Passion. Most un-English.’
‘So you couldn’t arrest her?’
Van Gils smiled. ‘No. I couldn’t even keep her in the country. Remember “my colleagues”, as you called them, had informed me they had evidence that Miss de Lancey had been murdered by a German spy. Hertenberg.’
‘And you don’t believe them?’
‘Not one bit. They let her go back to England. The investigation died. Our spies are happy and I suspect yours are too.’
Could it have been Constance? Conrad wondered. There was certainly something distinctly odd about her. But why would she want to kill Millie? That was something Conrad could try to find out back in England, perhaps with Anneliese’s help.
‘There isn’t any chance that they could be right after all? That Theo von Hertenberg murdered her? Did you speak to him?’
‘In theory there is a chance. We did ask to see him at the German Embassy. He wouldn’t cooperate; he invoked diplomatic immunity, unsurprisingly. He was staying at the Hotel du Vieux Doelen in The Hague that evening, and flew to Berlin the following morning from Schiphol Airport. He has been flying back and forth a lot in the last few weeks. No one whom we spoke to, including the hotel staff on duty, saw him leave his hotel early that morning. Just this mysterious Mr Donkers whom I am not allowed to interview. And of course, if Hertenberg never left the hotel, then it implies he never arranged to meet Millie in the dunes in the first place.’
As Conrad considered the detective’s words, a surge of relief flooded through him; he had hated the idea that Theo could have murdered Millie. He much preferred the possibility that Constance had stabbed her. But perhaps that was too much to hope and he was fooling himself.
He would have plenty of questions himself for Theo when they met the following day in Leiden.
‘I have a favour to ask,’ he said.
‘Yes?’ The detective’s eyes narrowed again.
‘Can you arrange for Millie’s body to be sent back to England? I assume you have already performed a post-mortem.’
‘We have,’ said van Gils. ‘It shows what one would expect: your sister died from stab wounds to the chest. But I am sorry. Technically the case is still open and the investigation is continuing, although in practice they expect me to do nothing more. But it means we cannot release the body, at least for now.’ The policeman sounded genuinely regretful.
‘Inspector van Gils. I am sure I have broken lots of rules I don’t even know exist to tell you what I have told you. Can you not do the same for me? It sounds as if your superiors would not be unhappy to see evidence related to this particular investigation leave your country.’
‘You are right about that.’ Van Gils allowed himself a gruff smile. ‘I will see what I can do.’
Kensington, London
Alston walked briskly through Kensington Gardens on his way back from a luncheon at the Savoy with Freddie Copthorne, a newspaper proprietor and a general. It was late afternoon, dark, but not yet pitch black, and he could still see his way.
Luncheon had gone well. There was no doubt that Alston was widening his circle of influential admirers, to whom he knew he came across as someone who was sound, reliable yet astute. Not a hothead, but one who would take difficult decisions to do what was best for his country.
He was buoyed by
The Times
leader of that morning, which had floated the idea of a Cabinet shake-up, perhaps involving the War Office, and named him as one of two or three able men with experience of business as well as Parliament capable of providing an injection of vigour into the government.
It was becoming increasingly clear that in war the normal rules of political advancement didn’t apply. Alston might only have been in Parliament since 1935, and he was barely forty, but he was indeed a man of energy and vigour, and his country needed him. More importantly, he could see things
clearly
– he always had been able to. For him the issues of the day were unobscured by sentiment or traditional patterns of thought. The world was changing in ways that very few of his colleagues in Parliament understood. Modern Germany pointed to the future; Neville Chamberlain, with his frock coat, winged collar and furled umbrella, tugged Britain back to the past.
When the crisis came – and Alston was sure there was going to be a crisis at some point in the future – Alston wanted to be the one important figures such as the newspaper proprietor and the general turned to. He wasn’t at that point quite yet, but he was getting there.
It wasn’t just luncheon and
The Times
article that were responsible for lifting Alston’s spirits. Constance had said she would drop round to his flat to report on what had happened in Holland. This would be his first opportunity to see her since she had returned to England; Alston had spent the previous few days at his castle in Berwickshire with his wife and son. Alston was worried about Constance: it must have been shocking to discover Millie’s dead body like that. And he felt very sorry for poor old Arthur Oakford. Who had killed his daughter? he wondered.
Of course, what he really wanted to do with Constance was fuck her. It was less than two weeks since Alston had taken Constance to his bed, or perhaps it was the other way round. That afternoon had been a revelation. Alston had just told his wife he might not get a chance to return to Berwickshire until Christmas, citing important affairs of state in London. But really he just wanted to see Constance. And fuck her.
But he would have to be gentle with her. She would be upset. He would have to be patient, wait until she had recovered her strength.
As he strode down Ennismore Gardens in the near darkness, he saw what seemed to be the silhouette of a woman on the pavement outside his building.
It was her!
She approached him. As he drew closer, he saw that her face was flushed with excitement, rather than grief.
‘You must be cold,’ he said, touching her cheek.
She smiled and pecked him on the lips. In the dark street, no one could see. ‘I am. Can I come in? Perhaps you could warm me up?’
Alston felt a deep sense of satisfaction as he pulled Constance’s naked body close to him. Fucking had been, if anything, wilder than before, as if Constance’s experience in Holland had inflamed some primeval passion. Alston, that paragon of culture, intellect and rational thought, had felt like a caveman.
‘Could you tell I was pleased to see you?’ Constance said, running her hand over his chest.
‘Yes.’ He squeezed her. ‘I was worried in case... Well, in case you were distressed about Millie. Are you going to see her brother?’
‘I’ve seen him. In the Russian Tea Rooms, over the weekend.’
‘How is he?’
‘Rather upset, I’d say.’
‘I’m not surprised. Do they know who killed her?’
‘They think it was Theo von Hertenberg. The German spy. Millie’s friend.’
‘But why would he kill her?’
Constance unhooked herself from Alston’s arm and sat astride him, pinning him down against the bed.
‘He wouldn’t.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Because he didn’t kill her.’
‘He didn’t kill her? But you just said he did.’
‘
They
think he did. But
I
know who really killed her.’
‘
You
know?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘Because it was me.’
‘You!’ Alston struggled to sit up, but Constance pushed him down on his back and kissed him. At first he struggled, but then he responded.
She came up for air.
‘Why? How?’ Alston demanded.
‘When I telephoned you from Scheveningen you said I should stop Millie telling anyone what Theo had said about the Duke of Windsor. So I stopped her.’
‘I didn’t say to kill her!’
‘No. But it was pretty clear to me that that was the only way to shut her up, and I had to do it quickly, too, before she had a chance to talk to anyone. I don’t know what exactly is going on with the Duke of Windsor, but it must be desperately important. Isn’t it desperately important?’
‘Yes, it is,’ Alston admitted. ‘So what did you do?’
‘I told her that Theo wanted to meet her out on the dunes before dawn. I sneaked into the hotel kitchens and borrowed a knife. Then I got up even earlier than her, and hid in the bushes in the dunes.’
‘You stabbed her?’
‘Yes. And then I pretended to discover her. I left the knife in her chest, but I wiped the handle clean. To get rid of my fingerprints. And I told the police and the intelligence people that I had seen someone who looked like Theo leaving the dunes. I couldn’t sound too certain about it in case it turned out he could prove he was somewhere else, but it was enough to point them in his direction.’
‘Good God!’ said Alston. He wriggled out of Constance’s grasp and sat up, reaching for a cigarette.
‘Aren’t you pleased with me?’ Constance said, smiling.
‘No, of course I’m not!’ Alston snapped. ‘That’s murder!’
‘No, it’s not,’ said Constance. ‘This is war. People die. In horrible ways.’
‘On the battlefield.’
‘This is as important as the battlefield. More, probably. Millie’s death will have a bigger effect on who wins the war, or how the war ends, than a single soldier on the battlefield. Won’t it?’
‘Yes, but...’
‘But what? I did it for you, Henry.’
‘I didn’t tell you to kill her!’
‘No. But I read today’s
Times
and I was so proud. You can do it, Henry. You can join the government. And then you can become Prime Minister. Chamberlain is useless. Halifax is a coward. Oakford is a pacifist. Churchill is a warmonger. Mosley has some good ideas, but he’s a snake. You can do it, Henry; you can lead this country to a just peace and a glorious future. With no Jews.’
Alston could tell Constance really believed what she was saying. But she had killed a young woman, a woman her own age. Stabbed her in the chest. How had she done that?
Constance seemed to sense his unspoken question. ‘There are times when you have to act, to take steps. When doing nothing is the wrong thing to do.’
Alston remembered Constance talking about ‘taking steps’ before.
‘Have you killed anyone before, Constance?’
Constance gave a small smile. ‘I couldn’t possibly say.’
‘Who? Not your father?’
‘Of course not my father!’ Anger flashed across Constance’s face. ‘No. Definitely not my father.’
‘Who then?’
‘I can’t say,’ said Constance. ‘But I did the right thing then, and I’ve done the right thing now.’ She knelt naked next to Alston and stared deep into his eyes. ‘Can you forgive me, Henry?’ she said. ‘You have to forgive me.’
Alston’s brain was in turmoil. Millie’s murder horrified him, yet what Constance had done and the reason she had done it exhilarated him. She had ignored the petty constraints of petty English morality to act, to be bold. If ever there was a time for boldness it was now.
Her eyes were deep dark pools of intensity.
She put her hand between his legs. ‘Forgive me, Henry.’
Leiden, 23 November
Kriminalkommissar Wilhelm Neuser approached the porter’s lodge of the old Academy building in Leiden. It was just a few minutes past nine o’clock in the morning. He was a short, barrel-chested young man dressed in a scruffy overcoat, and had donned some clear-lensed spectacles. He spoke to the porter in slow, clear German.
‘Dr Fuhrmann of the University of Hamburg to meet Professor Hogendoorn.’ He handed the porter a passport bearing his photograph in the name of Dr Heinrich Fuhrmann. After some head-scratching and telephoning on the part of the porter, a man with a thick grey moustache appeared and introduced himself as the professor. He led Neuser up the stairs of the Academy building.
And then up some more stairs. And then up a steep spiral staircase and through a heavy oak door, which the professor unlocked.
They were in the attic of the old building. It was a large space, framed with a network of thick wooden beams; it was clear in the middle, but around the walls was stacked a jumble of ancient academic detritus: boxes, chairs, desks, boards, group photographs, even a couple of sculls. Thin grey light filtered in through narrow windows.
The professor switched on an electric light. ‘I plan to take Lieutenant von Hertenberg up here to meet de Lancey,’ he said in good German. ‘From their point of view it should feel safe; they are out of view and earshot of passers-by. But it is easy for you to hide somewhere and listen.’ The professor gave a little laugh.
Neuser scanned the attic. ‘This will work very well,’ he said.
‘I had my suspicions about Lieutenant von Hertenberg,’ the professor said. ‘And the Englishman he saw last time.’
‘You were quite right to warn us,’ Neuser said. ‘This meeting is unauthorized. I will listen to what they have to say, and if Hertenberg is indeed a traitor, I will tell my superiors back in Germany and he will be dealt with.’