Shadows of the Dead Read online

  Contents

  Cover

  Recent Titles by Jim Eldridge

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Chapter Eighteen

  Chapter Nineteen

  Chapter Twenty

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  Chapter Twenty-Seven

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Chapter Thirty

  Chapter Thirty-One

  Chapter Thirty-Two

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  Chapter Thirty-Five

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  Chapter Thirty-Seven

  Chapter Thirty-Eight

  Chapter Thirty-Nine

  Chapter Forty

  Recent Titles by Jim Eldridge

  The Detective Chief Inspector Stark Mysteries

  ASSASSINS *

  SHADOWS OF THE DEAD *

  For Younger Readers

  THE LETHAL TARGET

  THE LAST ENEMY

  THE BIG ROCK AND THE MASKED AVENGER

  HUNK AND THUD

  THE GIANT RUMBLE

  THUD IN TROUBLE

  JACK VERSUS VETO

  THE FINAL SHOWDOWN

  * available from Severn House

  SHADOWS OF THE DEAD

  An Inspector Stark Mystery

  Jim Eldridge

  This ebook is copyright material and must not be copied, reproduced, transferred, distributed, leased, licensed or publicly performed or used in any way except as specifically permitted in writing by the publishers, as allowed under the terms and conditions under which it was purchased or as strictly permitted by applicable copyright law. Any unauthorised distribution or use of this text may be a direct infringement of the author’s and publisher’s rights and those responsible may be liable in law accordingly.

  First published in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  Crème de la Crime, an imprint of

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD of

  19 Cedar Road, Sutton, Surrey, England, SM2 5DA.

  This eBook edition first published in 2017 by Severn House Digital

  an imprint of Severn House Publishers Limited

  Trade paperback edition first published

  in Great Britain and the USA 2017 by

  SEVERN HOUSE PUBLISHERS LTD

  Copyright © 2017 by Jim Eldridge.

  The right of Jim Eldridge to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Designs & Patents Act 1988.

  British Library Cataloguing in Publication Data

  A CIP catalogue record for this title is available from the British Library.

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-095-9 (cased)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78029-577-0 (trade paper)

  ISBN-13: 978-1-78010-857-5 (e-book)

  Except where actual historical events and characters are being described for the storyline of this novel, all situations in this publication are fictitious and any resemblance to living persons is purely coincidental.

  This ebook produced by

  Palimpsest Book Production Limited,

  Falkirk, Stirlingshire, Scotland

  To Lynne, for ever

  ONE

  London, November 1921

  ‘Fire!’

  He was falling backwards, bullets tearing in to him, ripping through the khaki of his uniform. He hit the mud, sinking, and as he disappeared beneath it, he was suddenly elsewhere, watching as the boy in the khaki uniform was tied to a chair, strong ropes binding him as he struggled and screamed and screamed for his mother … until a cloth was tied over the boy’s mouth, cutting off his frantic cries.

  ‘Fire!’

  This time he tried to step back but he couldn’t move; the mud was clinging to his ankles, then to his calves, holding him in one place, forcing him to watch …

  ‘No! No!’

  ‘Paul! It’s all right! I’m here! It’s all right!’

  He woke, shaking, her arms wrapped right around him, the scent of her body filling his nostrils, replacing the smell of mud and blood …

  ‘Paul! I’m here. You’re all right.’

  He looked up at her, at Amelia, felt the sheets and blankets around them, the warmth of her as she hugged him close, rocked him back and forth …

  He fell back into sleep, still wrapped in her arms. The next time he woke, she was sitting up in bed next to him, watching him, her face concerned.

  ‘You had a nightmare,’ she said.

  ‘I’m sorry,’ he apologized, pushing himself up and slipping back against the pillows.

  ‘Don’t be silly,’ she said, and she leant across and kissed him on the mouth. ‘I love you. I love everything about you. Even your nightmares.’

  ‘No one can love them,’ he said. He looked at the clock beside the bed. Quarter to seven. ‘I meant to get home,’ he said. ‘To see Stephen before he goes to school.’

  ‘You still have time,’ she said. ‘What was it about? The nightmare?’

  ‘An execution. By firing squad.’

  ‘You were there?’

  Stark nodded. ‘His name was Harry Hawks,’ said Stark. ‘He was thirteen.’

  ‘Thirteen!’ echoed Amelia, shocked. ‘Didn’t anyone notice how old he was when he joined up?’

  ‘Of course,’ said Stark. ‘I’m pretty sure he told them his age when he went to the recruiting office to enlist. But how it worked is that the recruiting sergeant would ask volunteers how old they were, and if they said they were sixteen, or fourteen, or even thirteen, or whatever, he’d say to them, “Sorry, you’re too young. Come back when you’re eighteen.” And then he’d give them a wink and say, “Like tomorrow.” And the next day they’d go back and he’d ask them, “How old are you?” and they’d say, “Eighteen”, and they were in. Signed up.’

  ‘But thirteen!’

  ‘Harry looked older than he was. He was big for his age.’ He shook his head. ‘He should never have been there. I guess at that age he just thought it was a game, like playing soldiers in the park. But when the bullets and shells started flying and people started getting shot and blown to bits, it was all too much for him. He just went to pieces. He started crying for his mum. He was told to go over the top, and he refused, just curled up into a ball and kept crying and screaming for his mum over and over again.

  ‘So they charged him with desertion and cowardice in the face of the enemy, and he was shot by a firing squad. He was in such a state he couldn’t even stand up. They tied him to a wooden post, but he kept sliding down it, still crying, so they tied him to a wooden chair. He messed himself, of course, just like a baby – because that’s all he was.’

  He shook his head, haunted and angry at the nightmare that could so easily have ruined this night with Amelia. ‘It’s all about class,’ he said. ‘Harry Hawks died because he was just cannon fodder from the backstreets. If an officer, or someone from an important family, refused to go into battle, they were diagnosed with shellshock and sent home for treatment. A nice rest in a hosp
ital in pleasant surroundings. Poor kids like Harry Hawks, they were shot as an example to others.’

  ‘You sound like one of my Bolsheviks,’ smiled Amelia.

  ‘Not me,’ said Stark. ‘I do my best to avoid politics.’

  ‘Not very successfully,’ smiled Amelia.

  The ringing of the telephone pealed through the house.

  Amelia looked at the clock and frowned. ‘Seven o’clock,’ she said, pulling on her dressing gown and heading for the hallway. ‘I can’t think of anyone I know who gets up at this hour.’

  Phone calls in the early morning and late at night usually mean trouble, Stark said to himself. He got out of bed and began to pull on his clothes. From the hallway he heard Amelia say in surprise, ‘Redford?’ Then she gave a little gasp, and as Stark came into the hallway he saw her fingers clutch at the telephone cord.

  ‘When?’ She stood, barefoot and white-faced, listening to the voice at the other end. Then she said, ‘No, you did the right thing. Thank you for letting me know.’

  She hung up and suddenly sat down heavily on the chair by the telephone table.

  ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Stark.

  ‘It’s Johnny.’

  ‘Johnny?’

  ‘My former husband. Lord Fairfax. He …’ She hesitated, then said, ‘He’s dead. Murdered.’

  Stark stared at her. ‘Murdered?’

  ‘That’s what Redford says. He’s … he’s Johnny’s valet. It seems that Johnny sent him away for the night, and when he came back early this morning, he found Johnny and another man, dead.’

  Stark headed for the drinks tray. He poured a measure of brandy and handed it to her. ‘Here, drink this.’

  She forced a weak smile as she looked at the glass. ‘A bit early for it, don’t you think?’

  ‘Medicine – for shock.’

  She raised the glass to her lips, then downed it in one gulp.

  ‘Have the police been called?’ asked Stark.

  ‘Your sergeant, Bobby Danvers, has just arrived at his flat.’ She shook her head. ‘I can’t believe it. Johnny always seemed so … indestructible.’

  ‘I’d better get along there,’ said Stark.

  Amelia looked at him quizzically. ‘How will you say you found out about it?’ she asked. ‘He’ll know you must have been here with me.’

  ‘My guess is that he’ll have tried phoning me at my home and left a message with my parents,’ said Stark. ‘I’ll tell him I got it from them.’

  ‘Still not ready to be public about us?’ challenged Amelia.

  Stark hesitated. ‘I need time to tell Stephen,’ he said.

  ‘I’m not asking you to make an honest woman of me,’ snapped Amelia. ‘Where does he think you were last night?’

  ‘Here, with you,’ said Stark. ‘But once it becomes public, there are more things to think about. There’s a moral clause for police officers. Consorting with a divorced woman – and a titled one at that – could put my job at risk.’

  ‘Oh, for God’s sake, Paul,’ exploded Amelia. ‘You don’t think the Chief Constable or the Commissioner aren’t off with a variety of women, none of whom are their wives!’

  ‘Yes, but it’s like I said about Harry Hawks: there’s one rule for the rich and powerful, and another for those of us who aren’t. I’ve upset quite a few important people, and there are some at Scotland Yard who’d like to see the back of me. Invoking the morals clause would be just the ammunition they want. I’m sorry.’ He took his jacket and overcoat from the hallstand. ‘The thing is, I do want to make an honest woman of you. But there are things to be sorted out. Like, where will we live? I can’t imagine you slotting in easily into a tiny slum house in Plender Street.’

  ‘It’s not a slum!’

  ‘The area is, however you dress it up.’

  ‘Paul, you’re rushing things. Yes, I said I love you because I do, but that’s not the same as … well, getting married!’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘My God, you are so old-fashioned! What’s wrong with how things are now?’

  ‘Haven’t you heard what I said about the morality clause?’

  ‘Is that the reason? So you don’t lose your job?’

  ‘No, of course not!’

  ‘Look, Paul, we are what we are to one another, and these past two weeks have been wonderful. And I hope it will continue to be wonderful. But let’s not tie ourselves down so soon! You don’t know me properly yet.’

  ‘I know enough.’

  She shook her head. ‘Do I want you? Yes, I do. Do I want to be with you? Yes, I do. And damn their morality clause! We’ll just deny it. What are they going to do? Spy on us in bed? If anyone asks, we are friends. The very best of friends.’

  ‘From two different social classes.’

  ‘That’s their problem, not ours.’

  He fell silent, then asked, ‘Don’t you want to get married again?’

  ‘Perhaps. But next time I want to be sure it’ll last. I was married before and it didn’t work.’

  ‘Did you love him?’ asked Stark.

  ‘I thought I did,’ said Amelia briskly. Then she dropped her head. ‘No, I didn’t. I did it to annoy my mother. And he was dashing and handsome and lively, and now …’ And suddenly she began to cry. ‘And now he’s dead! Some bastard killed him!’

  Stark went to her and knelt down beside her, enveloping her in his arms, pulling her close to him.

  ‘And I’ll find out who did it,’ he promised her.

  TWO

  Stark settled into the leather seat of the taxi as it drove from Knightsbridge towards Chelsea, wondering what lay in store for him at Lord Fairfax’s flat. This was something completely unexpected; he and Amelia had just recently become involved, and here he was investigating the murder of her ex-husband.

  He knew they’d appear an odd couple if anyone found out about them. He, a detective chief inspector with the Metropolitan Police. A thirty-five-year-old widower with an eight-year-old son. A veteran of the war, having served the whole four years from 1914 until 1918 in the trenches of Flanders. He’d gone out as a private, a volunteer, and returned as Captain Paul Stark, DSM, his body torn apart by his injuries, and his heart empty when he discovered that his deeply loved wife, Susan, had died in the flu epidemic of 1918. It was said that a hundred million people had died around the world in the epidemic, but to Stark that was just numbers. Susan had been his heart, his life, and he never thought he’d ever meet anyone again who made him feel this way. And then Lady Amelia Fairfax had come into his life just a month ago, as part of a murder investigation.

  Divorced. Titled. On the surface, it would seem that the only thing they had in common was their age, both thirty-five. But beneath her aristocratic veneer, Amelia Fairfax was a mass of contradictions. For one thing, to her own class she was a maverick for her social campaigning: equal votes for women, social justice for all, which went as far as being a volunteer administrator for the British Communist Party, working at their offices in the East End of London. Consequently, she was viewed with suspicion by her own class, and her activities were followed with salacious glee by the downmarket press.

  It was a feeling that Stark knew well. Not the business of being a target for the press, but being seen as a maverick by his own class. He was viewed with suspicion by many in the police force because he wouldn’t join in taking the bribes and pay-offs to keep certain ‘important’ people out of trouble. Stark believed in justice, regardless of social class, creed or race, and that put him at odds with some officers who had a dislike for the Irish, foreigners and Jews, or ‘Micks, Wogs, Dagos and Sheenies’, as they called them. No one said that in Stark’s presence, though, not after he’d made his feelings known at a leaving party for a retiring superintendent. ‘I gave four years of my life fighting for freedom and liberty,’ he’d told a senior officer who’d made the remark. ‘That means liberty and freedom for everyone. Not just the select few.’

  Some had remarked – behind his back, o
f course – that he only expressed those views because his grandmother had been a poor Irish immigrant, escaping the famine. Stark didn’t care. Let them think what they liked. He’d seen terrible injustices during his four years in the trenches, and he’d seen injustices just as bad in the three years since he’d been back from the war. Which is why he admired Amelia and the stands she took.

  No, not just admired her. He loved her. It had hit him hard and unexpectedly. Those first few days when they’d become lovers had filled him with thoughts of her, and he had had to force himself to concentrate on his job.

  The problem was: what to do about it.

  Maybe she was right. Maybe he was rushing things. Yes, he was old-fashioned – too old-fashioned. And even if he could break down her resistance to marriage, where would they live?

  For all her declarations of social justice, and her identifying with the poor and socially disadvantaged, in all of which he knew she was sincere, he could not imagine her moving into his rented terraced three-up-two-down house in Camden Town. With no electricity, just gas for lighting. With an outside toilet at the end of the yard. No inside bathroom or running water, just a cold water tap in the scullery with a large old sink, and a tin bath that was brought into the kitchen on Friday nights and filled with pans of hot water from the coal range.

  Her house, then? But he knew that his parents wouldn’t agree to that. They deeply disapproved of his relationship with Amelia, his father in particular stating that it was ‘against the natural order’. ‘The different classes should stick to their own!’ he had said. ‘That’s how things are meant to be!’

  Which would mean taking Stephen away from his grandparents, whom Stephen loved deeply. They’d brought the boy up from when he was born, at first with Susan, and then, after Susan died, on their own. Stark had been in no fit state to be a parent to young Stephen. At first he’d been in hospital, being treated for his injuries suffered during the war, then convalescing. And after that he’d spent his time grieving for Susan, and to try to cope with it he’d thrown himself into his work as a newly promoted detective inspector. It had really only been in the last year that he’d started to form a relationship with his son. For the first seven years of his young life, his grandparents had been the mainstays for Stephen. Stark couldn’t take Stephen away from them, not yet – it would be too cruel to the boy, and to them.