‘We’ll drop you off at Great Marlborough Street,’ said Forbes-James. ‘See what you can do about locating Chadwick. I’ll make sure you have all the assistance you need . . . Report to me as soon as you’ve got something, and make it quick.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Good. I’ll arrange for a sample of Apse’s handwriting to be checked with one of those letters. What did he call himself, by the way?’
‘Binkie, sir.’
‘Dear God,’ murmured Forbes-James, and closed his eyes.
FIFTY-FOUR
Stratton picked up a file and shook it. The office window, which had formerly refused to open, was now, thanks to Arliss’s attempts at maintenance and the effect of further air-raids, stuck at half-mast, and consequently the November cold chilled the room and everything was covered in grey, gritty dust. He took a sip of his tea and made a face. In just a few days he’d managed to forget how vile Cudlipp’s brews could be. He was lighting a cigarette to get rid of the taste when Policewoman Gaines put her head round the door. ‘We’ve found him, sir. Robert Peregrine Chadwick. Address in Belgravia. Chester Square. As far as we know, he’s still there.’
Bollocks, thought Stratton. Chadwick wasn’t their corpse. That would have been just too easy, wouldn’t it? Bollocks, bugger, fuck and shit. Aloud, he said, ‘Well done. Does he have a telephone?’
‘No, sir.’
‘Right.’ Stratton lifted the receiver and blew into it before dialling Forbes-James’s number. Margot Mentmore’s efficient voice told him to please hold the line, and then the Colonel said, ‘Any luck?’
‘Yes, sir. Robert Peregrine Chadwick. Lives at No. 96, Chester Square.’
‘Not your corpse, then.’
‘Doesn’t look like it, sir.’
‘Pity. I’ll do a spot of digging. Meet me outside his house in . . . let’s say two hours, shall we? That ought to give me enough time.’
Stratton caught a bus to Victoria and walked to Chester Square, where Forbes-James was waiting for him in the Bentley. The houses were huge, venerable, and very grand. If Chadwick was a professional blackmailer, thought Stratton, he obviously had a great many wealthy victims.
‘The flat’s over there.’ Forbes-James gestured towards a house a few hundred yards away. ‘It was left to him, apparently, by a man named Lionel Atwater. A life-long bachelor,’ he added, sardonically. Bloody efficient, thought Stratton. He must have found that out in about ten minutes.
‘Inherited the flat in 1938,’ said Forbes-James. ‘Fifty-three years old and, as far as we can ascertain, still alive.’
He certainly wasn’t their corpse, though Stratton thought he was having a fair old go at drinking himself to death. Montague’s ‘fleshy’ was a good description, and the ‘dyed hair’ was, in fact, an unconvincing wig. He was wrapped in a silk robe with an oriental pattern of swirling, bug-eyed dragons. His features, which, like the rest of him, were submerged beneath a thick layer of fat, resembled blobs of molten wax. He stood on the threshold, blinking at them, one pudgy fist closed around a glass. Hysterical falsetto yipping and the sounds of paws scrabbling against paintwork issued from behind a door further up the narrow hallway.
‘Detective Inspector Stratton, CID, and this is Colonel Forbes-James. May we come in for a moment?’
Chadwick made a squawking noise and clasped his hands together, losing hold of the glass, which shattered on the parquet floor. Forbes-James and Stratton stepped back smartly to avoid being splashed, but Chadwick barely seemed to notice. He was too drunk, Stratton thought, to register fear, or even surprise.
His sitting room reminded Stratton of a posh brothel he’d raided some years ago, and it looked as if a particularly violent orgy had recently taken place. Pieces of flimsy gilded furniture seemed to be scattered about at random, there were cigarette burns and dark stains on the sofas and armchairs, ash on the pale carpet, and various bottles strewn around. One blackout curtain hung loosely, half off its rod as if someone had tried to swing on it, while dirty plates, soiled cushions, and several small turds seemed to indicate that neither the dog, nor, presumably, its owner had left the place for some days.
‘Dreff’ly sorry.’ Chadwick flapped a languid hand at the mess, subsided onto a sofa and closed his eyes. ‘Can’t get help these days.’ Stratton wasn’t surprised - although, given the level of squalor, he thought that Chadwick wasn’t so much in need of a maid as a bunker, preferably one lined with rubber sheeting. Forbes-James went over to the broken and spilt remains of the drinks tray and picked up a jug. ‘Some water, I think,’ he said, holding it out to Stratton. ‘And try to find some coffee.’
The kitchen wasn’t in a much better state than the sitting room. Stratton filled the jug, found a bottle of coffee essence, and boiled some water. He almost dropped the kettle when a sudden series of hysterical shrieks issued from the sitting room, accompanied by frenzied yapping from the unseen dog. Hurrying through with the jug and a cup of strong black coffee, he found Forbes-James standing over Chadwick, who was curled up on the sofa. Stratton couldn’t tell if the noises he was making were the result of genuine distress, or simply a tantrum. But then, he reflected, Chadwick was probably too pissed to know the difference himself. Forbes-James took the jug, wrenched Chadwick into a sitting position, and hurled the water in his face.
Shocked, Chadwick spluttered, hiccupped, and finally wiped his eyes on the sleeve of his robe. Forbes-James’s manhandling had caused his wig to slide off and his bald pate, obscenely exposed, looked like a turtle without its shell. He made no attempt to retrieve it. Stratton held out the coffee cup. ‘Drink this.’
Chadwick sipped, grimaced, and then, noticing the looks on the faces of the two men standing over him, gulped down the hot liquid. Stratton, catching Forbes-James’s eye, took the cup and went back to the kitchen to fetch more. When he returned, Chadwick seemed more composed, and Stratton wondered what - if anything - Forbes-James had said to him in the interim.
Forbes-James waited until Chadwick had drunk the second cup, then pulled up a gilt chair and sat down in front of him, indicating that Stratton should do the same. ‘Now then,’ he said, ‘I think we’d better start again. I am Colonel Forbes-James, and this is Detective Inspector Stratton of the CID, and you are going to tell us about your involvement with Sir Neville Apse.’
‘I was never,’ said Chadwick, with more dignity than Stratton would have thought possible under the circumstances, ‘
involved
with Neville Apse.’
‘You made a film of him, dancing. With another man.’
Chadwick blanched. ‘How do you know about that?’
‘We’ve been to see Peverell Montague. In Brixton Prison.’ Chadwick made a choking noise. ‘That picture,’ continued Forbes-James, blandly, ‘wasn’t intended to be seen by the public, was it?’
‘It was a ... a private ... private entertainment. There was nothing . . . nothing . . . wrong in it.’
‘Then why did you tell Mr Montague about it?’
‘Are you going to arrest me?’ Chadwick asked quietly.
‘That depends on what you have to tell us.’
Chadwick stared past them at the violated room. His eyes looked dead, and Stratton wondered what he was thinking.
‘Well?’ said Forbes-James.
‘Bunny asked me to film them together.’
‘Bunny?’
‘Bunny Duke.’
‘Do you mean Miss Morgan’s husband?’ asked Stratton.
‘Mabel . . .’ Chadwick batted a hand in dismissal. ‘I was his assistant.’
‘Are you telling us that it was a marriage of convenience?’ asked Forbes-James. ‘A
mariage blanc
?’
‘Of course it was. She didn’t realise at the beginning, but she found out soon enough. Not that she was . . . Bunny was very successful in those days. She enjoyed herself, spending his money. And there were always plenty of men . . .’
‘What was her attitude to Mr Duke’s behaviour?’
‘She was easy-going, I will say that. Just about the only thing I can say for her. I always told Bunny he should have chosen a better class of person, but he liked the vulgarity - the contrast . . .’
‘Contrast?’
‘With her looks. Utterly beautiful, sylph-like - and she talked like a docker. Common, coarse, drank like a fish . . . oh, you’ve no idea!’ In Chadwick’s priggish animation, Stratton caught a glimpse of the pretty, spoiled youth he must have been before age, booze and self-pity took their toll. ‘Bunny thought she was a scream, but I could never see it. Of course, that’s why she never worked in the talkies.’
‘And the scars,’ said Stratton.
‘Well, that absolutely
finished
her.’
‘So you knew Cecil Duke before he married?’
‘Oh, yes. I’d worked with him from the beginning, you see. From the very start.’
‘And you were . . . close?’
‘We shared everything.’
‘Until Sir Neville Apse came along,’ said Stratton.
‘Yes. Of course he wasn’t
Sir
Neville then. I stayed, of course.’ Stratton, who’d expected more malice, was surprised by the sadness in his voice. ‘Bunny thought it was real. I could see that Apse was just amusing himself - he was the type - and I tried to warn Bunny, but he couldn’t see it. Mabel didn’t care - well, why should she? I’ve never blamed her for what happened. Besides, Bunny wouldn’t have confided in her about something like that.’
‘Why did you carry on working for him?’ asked Stratton.
‘What else could I do?’ Chadwick sighed. ‘I was in love. I always hoped . . .’
‘We’re touched by your fidelity,’ said Forbes-James, sarcastically, ‘but would you mind telling us why you chose to bring the film to the attention of Mr Montague?’
‘Apse ruined my life,’ said Chadwick, simply. ‘If Bunny’d let me stay with him, he wouldn’t have died. There wouldn’t have been a fire - or, if there had been, I could have saved him.’
‘Was Sir Neville with Cecil Duke on the night he died?’
Chadwick shook his head. ‘Only Mabel, as far as I know. It was at their house in Sussex.’
‘Where was that?’ asked Stratton.
‘Balcombe, near Haywards Heath.’
‘When was the last time you saw him?’
‘In May that year. We had a row, a bad one. I wrote him a letter afterwards, but he didn’t reply.’ Chadwick bowed his head. ‘I never saw him again.’
‘So,’ said Forbes-James, ‘you told Mr Montague about the film because you wanted to harm Sir Neville, because he’d come between you and Duke.’
‘Yes.’ Chadwick’s voice was a whisper.
‘Why not simply blackmail him? After all, Mr Montague offered you money, didn’t he?’
‘I would never resort to blackmail. Look at me, gentlemen. How could I?’
‘Quite easily,’ said Forbes-James. ‘It’s obvious what you are. You clearly have no reputation to lose.’
‘I have my life,’ said Chadwick. Then, glancing round the room, he added, ‘Such as it is. Apse is a powerful man. If I had approached him for money - which, incidentally, I do not need, thanks to a generous legacy from a dear friend - he could easily have found me. I imagine some sort of accident or disappearance would have been arranged. But by involving a third party, I was protected . . . In any case, money makes it a paltry thing - sordid, commonplace - and, whatever you may think, gentlemen, it was never that. I wanted to hurt Apse as he had hurt Bunny - and hurt me. To put him in an intolerable position. It took me quite a while to see how that could be done, but in the end . . . And Bunny’s dead, so what I did couldn’t harm him.’
Hell hath no fury, thought Stratton. ‘Do you have a copy of the film in your possession, Mr Chadwick?’ he asked.
Chadwick shook his head. ‘There’s only one print.’
‘And who has it?’
‘I imagine it perished in the fire.’
‘Are you telling us,’ asked Stratton, incredulously, ‘that you went to see Mr Montague with no evidence whatsoever?’
‘Yes,’ said Chadwick. ‘I couldn’t see how else to do it. Anyway, it worked.’
‘And no-one has threatened you at any time?’
‘No. I don’t suppose,’ he added, bitterly, ‘that Apse even remembers my name.’
‘Really?’ said Stratton, sceptically. As far as he could see, just about the only thing homosexual society had going for it was that it was, relatively speaking, classless.
‘Why should he?’ Chadwick shrugged. ‘He wasn’t interested in me. I was just there. Unimportant. He didn’t talk to me.’
‘Did he talk to Miss Morgan?’
‘I don’t think they ever met. There was no reason for it. He wasn’t often there when we were working. Apse knew Bunny was married, of course, and to whom, but that was all.’
‘Did Sir Neville ever write to Mr Duke?’
‘Oh, yes. I saw some of the letters. Bunny could be cruel like that. Not intentionally,’ he added hastily, ‘just leaving them around. Careless.’
‘So Miss Morgan would have seen them, too?’