‘She might have. It wouldn’t have mattered, you see. Not to her. But it mattered to me.’
‘Did you take any of the letters?’
Chadwick shook his head. ‘You may search the flat if you wish.’
‘We shall do,’ said Forbes-James. ‘Do you possess a photograph of Mr Duke?’
‘I destroyed them all. You will find only his letters to me. Naturally, I would prefer it if you didn’t read, them, but . . .’ He shrugged resignedly.
‘When you approached Mr Montague,’ Forbes-James said, ‘were you in any way influenced by a desire to aid his cause?’
Bending over with some difficulty, Chadwick plucked his wig from the carpet, set it on his head, and adjusted it. ‘I am aware,’ he said, ‘that you find me both repulsive and ridiculous. I disgust myself - not for what I am, but for what I have become - but I am not a traitor. And I did love Bunny, very much.’ Again, Stratton found himself oddly touched by the man’s dignity, and felt himself rebuked, although for what, he could not say. After all, he told himself as he followed Forbes-James back to the car after searching the flat and narrowly escaping the evil attentions of Chadwick’s tiny, beribboned dog, he was only doing his job.
FIFTY-FIVE
‘I’ve had Apse’s handwriting checked against those letters,’ said Forbes-James on the journey back to Dolphin Square. ‘It’s identical. ’
‘Did you ask Sir Neville for a sample?’ asked Stratton.
Forbes-James shook his head. ‘Mrs Calthrop found one in my papers. We’ll need a photograph of Duke - there wasn’t one in that box of Miss Morgan’s. Perhaps you could find out if the young chap she lived with had anything - you said he had the rest of her effects.’
‘If he has, it’ll be at his sister’s,’ said Stratton. ‘She lives in the Clerkenwell Road.’ He glanced at his watch - quarter past six. ‘I could look in there now. She works for a dressmaker, but I should think she’d be home by the time I get there.’
‘Good idea.’ Forbes-James leant forward to instruct Stumpy. Stratton listened hard in case he used her name, but he didn’t.
‘Sir Neville must have been pretty frightened,’ said Stratton, ‘to have caved in so quickly to Montague. And Chadwick must have been fairly sure of his ground to have gone to Montague with nothing incriminating to produce.’
‘I was thinking about that,’ said Forbes-James. ‘It rather depends on the individual, of course. There are some chaps everyone knows about - their proclivities - and of course if they’re useful to us . . .’ He shrugged.
‘You mean you protect them in return for information?’
‘I believe it sometimes happens,’ said Forbes-James, disingenuously. ‘Another sort of man might try to brazen it out, of course - take Oscar Wilde - especially if they’re inclined to think they’re above the law. At least Apse had more sense than that, and we can’t afford a scandal.’
‘We still don’t know the identity of the corpse from the church, sir.’
‘That may not be important.’
‘Not to you, sir, but—’
‘I know. But, as I said, it may not be in the national interest to pursue that particular line of enquiry any further. Sleeping dogs, muddied waters, frightened horses, and so forth. It’s essential to keep things as simple as possible. Cigarette?’
Forbes-James got out of the car at Dolphin Square and Stratton travelled on to Clerkenwell, feeling gloomy. He was beginning to find the whole business intensely depressing, and the thought of Johnny being involved in it, not to mention the probable reaction of Lilian and Reg, was too horrible to contemplate. Of course, if he wasn’t allowed to take it any further, then Miss Morgan’s death would remain un-investigated, thus letting Johnny (and himself) off the hook - at least, until the next time. Because, for the Johnny Booths of this world, there always was a next time.
He thanked Stumpy and went into the courtyard of the Peabody Buildings and up the stairs to Beryl Vincent’s small flat.
‘Can I help you?’ Beryl looked puzzled for a moment, then added, ‘It’s Mr Stratton, isn’t it? How did you know Joe was here?’
‘I didn’t,’ said Stratton, pleased. ‘All right, is he?’
‘Wait, I’ll call him. Jo-oe!’
‘It was you I came to see,’ said Stratton. ‘Why’s he back?’
‘He’s on leave. Going abroad next week. But why did you want to see me?’
Noting the look of alarm on her face, Stratton said, ‘It’s nothing bad. I just wondered if I could have a look through Miss Morgan’s belongings.’
Joe appeared in the doorway. He seemed larger, stronger and more confident than Stratton remembered. Must be the basic training, he thought. ‘How are you?’ he asked. ‘Enjoying the army?’
‘Don’t know about enjoying it,’ Joe shrugged, ‘but it’s not too bad. I heard what you were saying, Mr Stratton. Does it mean you’re going to find out what really happened?’
‘I hope so.’ Beryl’s face brightened as she stood back to let him into the flat.
‘Well,’ said Joe, ‘I suppose Mabel’s things belong to me now. At least, they aren’t anybody else’s, are they? No-one’s come asking for them.’
‘We’re very grateful to you, Mr Stratton,’ said Beryl. ‘Looking after Joe like that. I haven’t any tea - drunk it all, I’m afraid - but if you’d like a glass of water, or . . .’
Stratton, realising that there wasn’t any ‘or’, said hurriedly that he was fine, thank you. ‘If you could just show me where the things are?’
‘I’ll bring them,’ Joe said. ‘They’re just through here. Why don’t you sit down for a moment?’
Stratton waited while he brought in several battered-looking suitcases and a hat-box.
‘Are you going to take them away?’ Beryl asked.
Stratton shook his head. Officially, they weren’t part of an investigation, so he couldn’t very well take them back to Great Marlborough Street, and there didn’t seem much point in carting everything over to Dolphin Square, either. As for taking the stuff home, he’d got into quite enough trouble for that already. ‘If you don’t mind,’ he said, ‘I’ll look through them here.’
He knelt on the floor and opened the first case, wrinkling his nostrils at the smell of camphor. ‘I think it’s mostly clothes,’ said Joe, leaning over, ‘but there might be a few letters and things.’
‘Have you looked through them?’
‘No. Didn’t seem right, somehow.’
Beryl leant forward and picked up a dove-grey jacket. ‘I remember this. There’s a skirt as well, and a green blouse she used to wear with it. What she called a rig-out.’ She giggled. ‘Madam Sauvin would have gone spare.’
Stratton fumbled his way through various garments, including an alarming salmon pink corset, but found nothing at the bottom of the case except a pair of brown lace-up shoes. The next case contained more clothing, an odd-looking collapsible wooden assemblage that Joe identified as a wig-stand, and a straw hat that looked as if someone had jumped up and down on it. In the bottom of the third case, he found a wooden box wrapped in a number of woollen shawls, a balding fox-fur knotted around it like a strap. Opening it, he saw that it contained several framed photographs and a small bundle of letters. ‘Ooh,’ said Beryl, leaning over to look. ‘I recognise that one - it’s from one of her films. She used to have it on the mantelpiece. And those.’ Stratton held up the last photograph. Unlike the others, which were framed in silver, this one was mounted on thick cardboard.
‘I’ve not seen that before,’ said Joe. ‘She never had it on show - I’d remember.’
‘Do you recognise the man?’ Stratton asked him.
‘No.’ It was a photograph of a dark-haired man in tennis clothes, eyes half-closed against the sun, holding a racquet.
‘Maybe it’s her husband,’ said Beryl.
‘Perhaps.’ Stratton turned it over. The face didn’t look familiar from the film, probably because he’d been paying too much attention to Sir Neville to take much notice of the features of the other dancer. He took out his penknife, cut carefully around the back of the card, and pulled out the photograph. ‘There’s something written on it,’ said Beryl.
‘Cecil,’ Stratton read. ‘1938. It is her husband.’
‘Are you sure?’ asked Joe.
‘That was his name.’
‘Yes, but the date. Are you sure it’s an eight and not a five?’
‘Looks like an eight to me. Here.’ Stratton passed him the photograph.
‘Why?’
Joe and Beryl peered at it. ‘It is an eight,’ Joe said. ‘But Cecil died in 1935. Mabel told me.’
‘Perhaps she made a mistake.’
‘I’m sure she didn’t. I mean, you’d remember something like that, wouldn’t you? And it seems odd to make a mistake writing it down. Sometimes you get confused in the New Year, writing letters and things, but you wouldn’t be three years out.’
‘What else did Mabel tell you?’
‘Not much. Just that he’d directed her in films - that was how they met - and there was a fire at their house, which was how she got the’ - Joe indicated his left cheek - ‘and how he died.’
‘Look,’ said Beryl, pointing to the frame, ‘there’s something else in there. Paper.’
‘So there is. Let’s have another go . . .’ Stratton eased his penknife under the frame and wiggled it until the edges were loose enough for him to tug the paper free without tearing it.
‘It’s got writing on it!’ Beryl knelt down beside him as he unfolded it.
Stratton grinned at her. ‘You’re enjoying this, aren’t you, Miss Detective?’
Beryl looked abashed. ‘Well, it’s exciting - finding things. It might be important.’
‘Or not.’ Stratton glanced at Joe, who was beginning to look uncomfortable. ‘Anyway, let’s see what it says.’ He began reading aloud:
Dear Mabel,
Are you surprised, after all this time? Perhaps you thought I’d be gone forever, but it’s the bad penny, I’m afraid. I’d been planning to come back for a while, but it was entirely by chance that I discovered what happened. Max Wolcroft. Remember him? What a shock if I hadn’t known! I shall look you up very soon. We’ll have lots to talk about, won’t we, darling? In the meantime, here’s a photograph to remind you, and I must reintroduce myself: Mr Symmonds, nowadays, but you may call me Arthur. By the by, who was the man in the fire? Or did you forget to ask his name? I’m sorry about the house, though. We had some fun there, didn’t we? But all good things must come to an end. All best, C.
‘It means he didn’t die at all, doesn’t it?’ said Beryl, eagerly. ‘He went away somewhere and someone else died in the fire and Mabel said it was Cecil, but it wasn’t. But . . .’ She frowned. ‘Why would anyone do that? She couldn’t have made a mistake, could she? I mean, you’d know who was in your own house, wouldn’t you? Unless it was a burglar, of course, but I still don’t see . . .’
‘Do you know why?’ Stratton asked Joe.
‘No. Unless . . .’ Joe blushed. ‘Well, Mr Stratton, she had quite a colourful past. Racy. And the letter . . .’
‘Makes it sound as if she had a habit of taking up with other men,’ finished Stratton thoughtfully. Chadwick had certainly implied that Mabel was promiscuous - perhaps he’d been wrong to put the remark down to spite.
‘So that’s why she was frightened,’ Beryl continued. ‘You said, Joe, remember?’
‘I thought it was just the blackout,’ said Joe. ‘But if it was because of Cecil coming back . . . She must have thought he’d tell the police what had happened - but then why would he change his name? I don’t understand.’
‘Neither do I,’ said Stratton, ‘but I don’t think he intended to tell the police.’
‘Why not?’ asked Beryl. ‘Surely it’s the first thing anyone would do. I mean, Mabel had sort of killed him, hadn’t she, saying he was dead like that. And he’d have to prove he was alive to get ration books and things, wouldn’t he?’
‘Perhaps he wanted money,’ said Joe. ‘To keep quiet about it. But Mabel didn’t have any. Do you think that’s what it was, Mr Stratton?’
‘I can’t answer your questions,’ said Stratton. ‘Even if I did know the answers, I wouldn’t be able to tell you because it’s an official investigation. I shall have to take this.’ He pocketed the letter. ‘And the photograph. It’s very important that you don’t say anything about this to anyone - and I mean anyone. I don’t mean to frighten you,’ he added, more gently, ‘but we don’t want a repeat of what happened when those two men came to Joe’s flat. Do you understand me?’
Joe and Beryl nodded, their eyes wide. ‘Yes,’ said Beryl. ‘You can trust us. Can’t he, Joe? We won’t say anything. Nothing at all.’
FIFTY-SIX
Stratton hastened to the car and asked to be taken back to Dolphin Square. As the Bentley made its slow way through the blacked-out streets, he sat back, thinking of Mabel Morgan, all terrified white face and huge, anguished eyes, fleeing from a burning house in a fancy white nightdress which flared out behind her as she ran . . . But it wasn’t a film, he thought. It couldn’t have happened like that. Mabel must have stumbled from the house shrieking, her skin and hair on fire and her flesh melting like celluloid itself, while her lover, trapped perhaps, screamed in agony, or choked up his lungs until he was overcome by smoke. Who was he? Did his wife, or family, or parents, still wonder what had happened to him? They probably didn’t have a hope in hell of finding out the poor bastard’s name, but still . . . What a way to go.