Shadows of the Dead Read online

  ‘If the killers did that, they must have known why Lord Fairfax and Mr Adams were meeting.’

  ‘And wanted to silence them,’ agreed Danvers. ‘It’s early stages at the moment, sir. I’ve still got men canvassing the area, but I thought I’d return and report the basics.’

  ‘Good,’ nodded Stark. ‘But before you do …’

  He took the envelope from his inside pocket and held it out to Danvers.

  Danvers looked at the address on the outside and took the letter out. He read it, then stared at Stark, a look of astonishment on his face. ‘Lady Amelia!’ he exclaimed.

  ‘My thoughts exactly, Sergeant,’ said Stark. He gestured at the letter and envelope. ‘What do you make of it?’

  ‘Well, if you want my opinion, it’s nonsense!’ said Danvers hotly. ‘I mean, I’ve known Lady Amelia for years. And yes, her husband didn’t treat her properly. Nothing violent, as far as I know, but he wasn’t a good husband. My parents know them both—’

  ‘I meant, what do you make of the letter and envelope?’ said Stark.

  ‘Oh,’ said Danvers. He scrutinized the letter, and then the envelope, his brow furrowing. ‘The envelope’s marked personal for the chief super,’ mused Danvers thoughtfully. ‘Most anonymous letters are just sent to “The Person in Charge”. This person knows the structure of command here at Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I agree,’ nodded Stark. ‘And the fact that it was sent before the murders were public knowledge gives it authenticity. So, the writer is someone who’s involved with the murders and knows the inner workings of Scotland Yard.’

  ‘I think a woman wrote it,’ said Danvers. He pointed at the writing. ‘It’s similar to the handwriting style of many of the women I know. My sister, my mother, my aunts.’

  Because we move in different social circles, thought Stark. Most of the women in my family can’t read or write.

  ‘I bow to your particular knowledge, Sergeant,’ smiled Stark.

  Danvers looked at the letter and frowned again. ‘Why would the writer name Lady Amelia, sir?’ He looked unhappily at Stark. ‘And although I think it’s impossible …’ He hesitated, then asked, ‘Could there be anything in it, do you think?’

  The moment of truth, Stark told himself grimly. ‘Sergeant,’ he said, ‘there’s something you should know.’

  Something in Stark’s tone made Danvers look at him quizzically.

  ‘The fact is …’ began Stark.

  He was interrupted by the door being thrown open and the bulky figure of Winston Churchill, Secretary of State for the Colonies, crashing into the office. Churchill stood there, swaying, like a man in shock.

  Always the dramatic entrance, thought Stark ruefully. He never just walks into a room; he bursts in.

  ‘My God, Stark! What a mess!’ exclaimed Churchill. He shook his head, then looked at Danvers. ‘Will you excuse us for a moment, Sergeant?’

  Danvers looked towards Stark, who said, ‘See what you can find out about the other man. Carl Adams.’ He passed him the sheet of paper on which he’d written down the sparse pieces of information he’d collected. ‘This is all I’ve been able to find out so far from Records.’

  Danvers nodded and withdrew. Churchill waited until the door closed behind the sergeant, and then he exploded, ‘Fairfax murdered! And so foully! I came as soon as I heard.’

  It was on the tip of Stark’s tongue to ask why the murder of Lord Fairfax should involve a cabinet minister, but Churchill was driving on, pacing the floor agitatedly. He’s always pacing, realized Stark. All that energy needs to be expended.

  ‘I saw Benson first, of course. The chief superintendent. Protocol, naturally. He said you were in charge of the case. Capital! I told him. First rate! No finer man!

  ‘He told me about the letter accusing Amelia. Absolute nonsense! Amelia’s not a killer! Flighty, yes. Erratic, but most of the time she does things like this Communist Party stuff to irritate people. I like that. Shows good character. But she’d never do anything to harm Johnny. I’m sure she still had a soft spot for him, though he treated her abominably. Other women, you know. But that’s soldiers for you.’

  At least we are in agreement on her innocence, thought Stark.

  ‘No, I’ll tell you what this is about, Stark. Gallipoli!’

  Stark frowned, puzzled. ‘Gallipoli, Minister?’

  ‘Yes, Goddammit! You fought. You of all people know about Gallipoli!’

  ‘I know about it, Minister, but I don’t understand—’

  ‘They blamed me for it!’

  Yes, they did, mused Stark. And that’s because it was your idea.

  In 1915, when Churchill was First Lord of the Admiralty and with the war going badly, Churchill had pushed for an attack on Germany’s ally, Turkey. As a result, early in 1915, a campaign had been launched in the Dardanelles Straits along the Gallipoli peninsula, aimed at taking Constantinople. The first Allied landings by British, French, Australian and New Zealand troops had been made on the beaches of Gallipoli in April 1915. By the end of the year, it was obvious that the campaign was a disaster for the Allies and a victory for the Turks. The surviving Anzacs – Australians and New Zealanders – had been evacuated in December 1915, with the last British forces retreating in January 1916.

  ‘A disaster, perhaps, but I paid the price for it! I resigned from the government! How many others would have done the same?’

  Not many, admitted Stark. But the price that Churchill had paid for this disaster – the loss of his seat in the cabinet – wasn’t as big a price as the 205,000 dead and wounded Allied troops had paid. The Australians and New Zealanders, especially, had suffered the most in terms of casualties as a percentage of their small populations – 34,000 dead and wounded Anzacs.

  But then Churchill had redeemed himself. Gone off to fight in the trenches, adopting the distinctive blue helmet of the French forces. Again, Stark couldn’t imagine any other politician doing the same thing. Whether it had been done as a kind of atonement, or for some other reason, Churchill had never lacked guts.

  ‘Johnny Fairfax was my number two in planning Gallipoli,’ continued Churchill. ‘They blamed us both. The relatives, that is. Most saw what we were trying to do. To be frank, we were let down by those in the field. They should have carried out proper intelligence about the conditions on the ground. We expected the Turks to just crumble, but we were wrong, I’ll grant that. But no one could have foreseen how good a commander Ataturk would turn out to be.’

  He stopped pacing and turned to face Stark. ‘Both of us received death threats from relatives of those who died. Me and Johnny.’

  ‘Gallipoli was six years ago,’ pointed out Stark.

  ‘War casts long shadows,’ replied Churchill. ‘There had been other attempts on Johnny’s life before, and on mine, claiming vengeance for what happened at Gallipoli.’

  ‘But what about the other man who was murdered with Lord Fairfax? The American, Carl Adams?’

  Churchill shook his head. ‘Incidental. He just happened to be in the wrong place at the wrong time. They came for Johnny and found this American chap with him, so they had to silence him as well.

  ‘Mark my words, Stark. This is about Gallipoli.’ He looked at his watch. ‘I have to go. I have a cabinet meeting.’

  As Churchill opened the door to leave, past him Stark saw Danvers waiting in the corridor. Stark waved for him to come in as Churchill marched off. ‘Back so soon, Sergeant? Surely you haven’t found out what we need to know about Mr Adams so swiftly?’

  ‘No, sir. I’ve been thinking about that letter, sir.’

  ‘So have I,’ said Stark. He hesitated, then said awkwardly, ‘Sit down, Sergeant.’

  The embarrassed tone in Stark’s voice made Danvers give a puzzled frown. He sat down in the chair opposite the chief inspector and waited.

  ‘Sergeant, I have an admission to make,’ began Stark.

  He hesitated again, racked by indecision. As he’d said to Amelia, there was a morals cl
ause in his contract, and if it came out that he and Amelia Fairfax were lovers, his career would be at risk. He didn’t have enough influential people who would protect him. And there were certain top officials, especially in Special Branch, who would like to force him out if they could. And now, with Amelia named as a suspect in the case he was investigating … At the very least he’d be removed from the case. His career might be saved with a demotion to constable, but he’d never be able to regain chief inspector status.

  He took a deep breath and looked at the waiting Danvers.

  ‘You’re going to tell me that you are Lady Amelia’s alibi for last night, sir,’ said Danvers. ‘I apologize for interrupting, but I thought it might make it easier for you.’

  Stark stared at his sergeant, thunderstruck. ‘How the hell did you know?’ he demanded. ‘Have you been having me watched?’

  ‘No, sir. It was deduction on my part. The fact that you appeared at Lord Fairfax’s home so soon after Redford had telephoned Lady Amelia to let her know what had happened. The fact that you hadn’t been at home last night, as I discovered when I phoned very early this morning. And then I began to remember looks that passed between you and Lady Amelia towards the end of our previous investigation.’

  ‘Looks?’

  Danvers nodded. ‘Looks where you were both doing your best to pretend indifference to one another.’

  Stark fell silent, mulling this over. Then he said, ‘You should have been a detective.’

  ‘Thank you, sir,’ said Danvers.

  ‘Who else knows?’ asked Stark.

  ‘No one, sir. At least, as far as I know.’

  Stark thought it over. ‘You do understand that this has to be completely between ourselves,’ he said. ‘If it gets out—’

  ‘It won’t be through me, sir,’ Danvers assured him. ‘You have my word.’

  ‘You realize you may well be charged with suppressing evidence if it does come out?’

  ‘If I believed that Lady Amelia was guilty, I wouldn’t be a party to it, sir. But I believe this to be a smokescreen to try to divert attention away from the real murderers.’

  ‘Murderers?’ repeated Stark.

  ‘Yes, sir. From my inspection of the scene, I am sure there was more than one person involved in the murders.’

  ‘Go on.’

  ‘Before I do, sir, my thought about the letter. I’ve got a friend whose father is a graphologist.’

  ‘A what?’

  ‘Someone who can tell about a person’s character by their handwriting.’

  ‘An old school friend?’ enquired Stark with the gentlest hint of friendly mockery.

  ‘Yes, sir. His father works in the manuscript section of the British Museum.’

  ‘What’s this graphologist’s name?’

  ‘Sir Bernard Wallis.’

  Of course, thought Stark wryly. Nothing as common as ‘Mr’. Stark got up and headed for the coat hook.

  ‘Right, Sergeant. Let’s go and see this Sir Bernard Wallis.’

  FOUR

  The manuscript room in the British Museum had a musty smell to it, which was hardly surprising when every shelf was filled with books and papers, many of them centuries old. There was a reverential atmosphere in the large and ornately decorated room, similar to that felt in cathedrals and large churches. But that, too, was hardly surprising, reflected Stark as he looked around at the shelves rising up to the high rounded ceiling. That ceiling was adorned with paintings as grand and ornate as those on the ceilings of the Vatican: imposing figures from Greek and Roman mythology, intertwined with mythical creatures.

  At ground level in the enormous circular room, amidst a sea of dark wooden tables, at which students and academics sat in silence as they pored over ancient texts, Stark and Danvers stood and waited for Sir Bernard Wallis. Then Danvers whispered, ‘Here he comes.’

  Stark saw a tall, thin man approaching, dressed in a tweed jacket. The most noticeable thing about him was his long and bushy white beard, which hid any evidence that he might have been wearing a tie.

  ‘We used to call him Father Christmas,’ whispered Danvers. ‘But that was behind his back, obviously.’

  Sir Bernard reached them and held out his hand to Danvers with a smile. ‘Robert,’ he greeted the sergeant warmly, but they noticed that he kept his voice down to a reverential level.

  He turned to Stark. ‘And you must be Detective Chief Inspector Stark. Welcome.’ He glanced towards the tables, where some of those working were shooting venomous looks towards them in condemnation of this sound of the human voice.

  ‘We’ll go to my office,’ said Sir Bernard, dropping his voice to a whisper.

  Stark and Danvers followed him out of the circular room and across a black-and-white marbled floor to a door marked Sir Bernard Wallis. Inside, Sir Bernard gestured them towards two padded leather chairs, both of which were laden with piles of books.

  ‘Just take those off and dump them anywhere,’ he said.

  Stark lifted a pile of books off and looked around for a suitable place to put them, but saw that every available surface – the desk, shelves and the tops of cupboards – seemed to be already filled with books.

  ‘On the floor will be fine,’ said Sir Bernard.

  Stark dumped the books in his hands on the carpet, next to existing piles, then sat down in the now vacant chair, while Danvers did the same.

  ‘Good to see you again, Robert, and looking well,’ said Sir Bernard. ‘How are your mother and father?’

  ‘They are both well, thank you, sir,’ replied Danvers.

  Sir Bernard turned towards Stark and gave him a twinkling smile. ‘And you, sir, as I recall, are the man who saved the life of the King! A hero for our times, a true Cicero, but with muscular power as well as intellectual!’

  Stark looked uncomfortable. ‘I am afraid the newspapers are prone to exaggeration, Sir Bernard. I was just doing what I was paid to do.’

  ‘Mon métier et mon art, c’est vivre!’ beamed Sir Bernard. ‘Montaigne, 1533 to1592. “Living is my job and my art!” I think you are being too modest, Chief Inspector. But forgive me, you didn’t come here to listen to an old man expend his knowledge. Robert – excuse me, Sergeant Danvers – said you wished for my advice.’

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Stark. He took the envelope from his pocket, but paused before he passed it across the desk to the distinguished bibliophile. ‘Unfortunately, this letter contains an allegation against a certain person. I would have preferred to have cut out the names of the people concerned, but to do so would have reduced the document to just the barest of words, which I don’t think would have given you much to go on. If you would prefer not to be compromised with this information in this way … after all, you are not an employee of the police …’

  ‘Do you have a penny?’ asked Sir Bernard.

  ‘A penny?’ asked Stark, surprised.

  ‘Yes. Or a halfpenny will do.’

  Puzzled, Stark reached into his pocket, took out a handful of coins and selected a penny. He passed the coin to Sir Bernard.

  ‘Thank you,’ said Sir Bernard, taking the coin and putting it into his own pocket. ‘I am now officially in your paid employment on this issue, the transaction witnessed by Sergeant Danvers, and as such I am sworn to confidence, just as if I were a solicitor acting on your behalf. Nothing that passes between us in this room can, or will, be passed on to any other parties.’

  ‘Thank you,’ said Stark. He handed the envelope to Sir Bernard, who opened it and took out the letter. He read it through silently, then took a pair of spectacles from a case on his desk, put them on and studied the letter through them in greater detail.

  ‘We’re hoping you might be able to get an idea of the kind of person who wrote this,’ said Stark.

  Sir Bernard nodded, still studying the letter. Then he announced, ‘A woman. Educated, and from a good family background. Independent-minded. Attractive and she knows it. Used to being in control. Mid to late thirties, at a guess.’r />
  ‘You can tell all that from just these few lines?’

  ‘It’s not just what she says; it’s the style of the handwriting, the curves and loops of the pen, the words she chooses, even the quality of the paper the letter’s written on.’ He looked at the letter again. ‘If you like, I can have the paper examined, see where it came from.’

  ‘That’s very kind of you, Sir Bernard, but I think the information you’ve given us is already of enormous help.’

  Sir Bernard folded the letter and put it back in the envelope, then returned it to Stark.

  ‘Glad I could be useful,’ he said. ‘I read about the murder in this morning’s later edition. So fresh, the ink was still wet. They didn’t say much, just that Lord Fairfax and some American chap …’

  As he struggled to remember the name, Stark prompted, ‘Carl Adams.’

  ‘That was the name. Said they’d been found poisoned in Lord Fairfax’s flat. Dreadful.’ He looked at the letter again and frowned as he asked, ‘You don’t think there’s anything in it, do you, Chief Inspector?’ He tapped the letter with a long finger. ‘I mean, I know it’s none of my business, but I’ve met Amelia Fairfax a few times at social events here at the Museum, and I must say she seems the last person in the world who’d do such a dreadful thing.’

  ‘We’re keeping an open mind on it,’ replied Stark blandly. ‘But we do thank you very much for your assistance, Sir Bernard. It’s been of enormous help.’

  Afterwards, as Stark and Danvers left the silence of the museum and stepped out into the raucous, shrill sounds of Museum Street, Stark muttered, ‘Yes, all right, Sergeant, I can guess what you’re thinking. If Sir Bernard had added “red hair”, it would have been a description of Lady Amelia.’

  ‘It might be better if we don’t pass that information to the superintendent, sir,’ offered Danvers. ‘In view of his opinion that Lady Amelia is connected with the murders.’

  ‘But why would she name herself in a letter?’