Assassins Page 5

  ‘No, it isn’t,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘The murder only happened yesterday, yet you’re here today. Are you also talking to his various mistresses so swiftly? Or their husbands? Or knocking on doors in the Irish areas? Or talking to the Jews? Lord Amersham was a well-known anti-Semite.’

  ‘Other officers are carrying out different aspects of the investigation,’ said Danvers. ‘It’s a wide-ranging enquiry.’

  Lady Amelia laughed. ‘I bet it is,’ she said. ‘I can think of plenty of people who’d be queuing up to see him dead.’

  ‘But not all of them own a gun,’ said Danvers.

  She looked at him, her face thoughtful. ‘I don’t have a gun,’ she said. ‘Nor does Naomi.’

  ‘Do any of your people have a gun?’ he asked.

  Even as he finished the question, and saw the tight look on her face, he knew he’d made a mistake. She stood up, her manner now stiff and formal.

  ‘I think our interview is at an end, Sergeant,’ she said. ‘Unless you have a warrant for my arrest?’

  Danvers hesitated, then he gave a silent sigh and stood up. ‘No,’ he said. ‘As I said to the girl outside—’

  ‘She’s not just a “girl”,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘She has a name. Naomi.’

  ‘As I told her, I don’t have any warrants. I’m just looking for information that may lead me to a murderer.’

  ‘Then look closer to home,’ said Lady Amelia. ‘In your own social circle.’

  As she led him towards the door, he said, ‘I’m not part of that social circle any more.’

  She opened the door. ‘Yes, you are,’ she said. ‘More than you think.’ Then she called to the girl at the typewriter. ‘Naomi, the sergeant is leaving.’

  SEVEN

  ‘Excuse me, sir.’

  Stark looked up from the notes he was making to the uniformed sergeant who’d just knocked at his door and looked in.

  ‘Lady Amersham has returned from Scotland, sir. Chief Superintendent Benson thought you ought to know.’

  ‘Did he?’ said Stark. ‘Did the chief superintendent say anything else?’

  ‘He said she was expecting you.’

  Yes, thought Stark with a sinking feeling. That’s all I need. A grieving widow, and one with close contacts at the highest levels of society and politics. They ought to have special inspectors for this sort of thing, the type who know how to talk to these people, the right kind of social etiquette, an understanding of the nods and winks and certain handshakes. Of course, he had such a one in Danvers. The right kind of background, the right connections, the right school. Danvers would know the right way to talk to Lady Amersham. They possibly even had acquaintances in common. But Danvers was busy talking to communists.

  He sighed, got up and made for the door.

  Danvers stood on the pavement outside the building that housed the British Communist Party offices, filled with impotent rage. He’d been made a fool of by Lady Amelia and that girl, Naomi. The only saving grace was that no one else had been there to see his humiliation. He’d allowed them to kick him out! How? He was a police officer. Not just a police officer, a detective sergeant, and he’d been sent off with a flea in his ear like some irritating child.

  When had the tone of the meeting changed? When he’d asked if ‘any of her people’ had a gun. The effect had been so immediate that the harshness with which Lady Amelia had ordered him out of the office could only have been a defence mechanism. He’d struck home. Someone there had a gun, and Lady Amelia knew it.

  He saw a uniformed constable appear from around the corner of the street and amble towards him, going nowhere, just walking his beat.

  ‘Constable!’ he called.

  The constable stopped and looked quizzically as Danvers hurried towards him. Danvers showed his warrant card, and immediately there was a change in the constable’s manner. He was suddenly alert, but at the same time wary. A detective from Scotland Yard. It could only mean trouble.

  ‘Is this your beat?’ asked Danvers.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Danvers jerked a thumb towards the building that harboured the Communist Party. ‘Do you know the people in that building?’

  The constable looked towards the building and hesitated a moment before replying cagily, ‘I know some of them, sir.’

  ‘The British Communist Party. They have offices there.’

  ‘I know of them, sir. But I don’t know them particularly, nor their offices. They’re not very welcoming to the police, and unless I have a specific complaint—’

  ‘Yes, yes,’ said Danvers impatiently. ‘Have you heard any rumours about them? Particularly, if any of them have been heard of as owning a gun.’

  ‘A gun, sir?’

  ‘A pistol.’

  The constable shook his head. ‘Not as I’ve heard, sir. If I had, I’d have had to investigate.’ He saw that this answer didn’t please Danvers, so he added, ‘Though it wouldn’t surprise me if one of them might, sir. They’re generally harmless, just spouting slogans and things, but there are a few rough types who hang about with them.’ He gestured towards the end of the street. ‘You might get more information from the Dragon Arms. It’s a pub round the corner in Eccles Lane, and I believe some of them hang around in there.’ He winked and said, ‘The landlord’s name is Charlie Wilson. He’s a great one for hearing things that have turned out to be useful. But don’t give him more than five bob. It’ll make him greedy.’

  ‘Thank you, constable,’ said Danvers. ‘If there’s a result because of this, I’ll see that you get mentioned. What’s your name and station?’

  ‘PC 236 Charles, sir. John Charles. Stepney station.’

  Danvers nodded. ‘Thank you again, Constable.’

  Danvers headed in the direction PC Charles had indicated, took a right, and found himself in a narrow warren of lanes and back alleys. Here, in these enclosed and tight streets, the smells of the poor were kept captured, unable to be blown away by draughts and winds. The smell of boiled cabbage. Urine from the gutters mixed with the smell of washing. The acrid, sooty taint from thousands of coal fires hung heavy in the air, mingling with the decay of damp, catching Danvers in the nostrils and throat.

  It’s no wonder so many of them die, thought Danvers. The wonder is that so many survive. Fertile ground for the communists.

  Danvers walked along until he came to a pub on the corner of Eccles Lane. The Dragon Arms. An unusual name, he reflected. Usually pubs were called things like the King’s Head or the Queen’s Arms. Who’d ever heard of a dragon with arms? Maybe it had once been called something similar, like the Dragoon Arms, and a less than literate sign-painter had accidentally changed its name.

  He pushed open the door and stepped in, and was immediately assailed by the heady suffocating odour of beer and cheap gin. The interior of the pub was dark, light filtering in through the coloured glass of the windows, the gloom eased by the glow of a fire burning in the grate. At this time of day there weren’t too many customers. Three men dressed in working clothes sat at one table, half-drunk pints of beer in front of them, and they turned and looked at Danvers as the door shut behind him. A few other men sat on their own at other tables, reading newspapers. There were two women as well, drinks in front of them on the tables. Many of them had pieces of paper on which they were making marks with stubby pencils. Choosing their bets for the day, realized Danvers. Selecting the horses of their choice before going off to make contact with their street bookie and passing over their slip and cash. An illegal act, liable to a fine.

  The double standard, thought Danvers. My father can place bets on today’s races with his bookmaker because he is Colonel Danvers, and he has an account with an on-course bookmaker, even though that bookmaker may never actually go to a racecourse. These men and their bookmaker can be arrested and charged. It’s a wonder there hasn’t been a revolution here already.

  The barman watched warily as Danvers approached, and when Danvers reached the bar and took out his warrant card, th
e barman shook his head. ‘No need for that,’ he grunted. ‘I knew who you were the moment you walked in.’

  ‘I’m looking for Charlie Wilson,’ said Danvers, keeping his voice low.

  ‘In that case, you’ve found him,’ said the barman. ‘What can I do for you?’

  ‘I’m after some information.’ Danvers lowered his voice even more, to almost a whisper. No sense in alerting the whole bar and warning off someone who might be involved.

  Wilson turned and called to a man sitting at one of the tables, ‘I’m just going down to the cellar to check a barrel. If anyone wants me, tell ’em I’ll only be a minute.’

  ‘Right you are, Charlie,’ nodded the man. He went back to his newspaper, although Danvers could feel the man’s eyes on him as he followed Wilson to the hatch in the floor behind the bar and then down the creaky wooden steps to the cellar, where the barrels were stored.

  ‘Who gave you my name?’

  ‘The local constable. John Charles. He thought you might be able to help me.’

  ‘That depends,’ said Wilson. Danvers took two half-crowns from his pocket and passed them to Wilson. The barman nodded and slipped them into his pocket. ‘What do you want to know?’

  ‘I understand that some Communist Party people come in here.’

  Wilson gave a derisory laugh. ‘That lot!’ he snorted. ‘Revolution! They couldn’t organize a bunk-up in a brothel. Spend all their time talking and arguing among themselves.’

  ‘Have you ever seen any of them with a gun?’

  Immediately, Wilson was wary, suspicious. ‘Gun?’

  ‘A pistol.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It’s just some information we’ve received. I’m double-checking it.’

  ‘What have you heard?’ asked Wilson warily.

  ‘Just what I’ve said,’ replied Danvers. ‘A man who’s got a pistol, who comes in here, who’s associated with that crowd. Has he waved that pistol around in here?’

  Wilson was silent, weighing the implications of his answer, then he said, ‘I’m guessing this information is worth more than five bob.’

  ‘Maybe,’ shrugged Danvers. ‘That depends how good it is.’

  Wilson fell silent again, studying Danvers. Then he said, ‘Let’s see that warrant card.’

  Danvers took out his warrant card and handed it to Wilson, who studied it carefully before returning it.

  ‘What’s he done?’ Wilson asked.

  ‘We don’t know,’ said Danvers. ‘Reports of a man with a gun who comes in here, who we think might be able to help us with our enquiries.’

  Wilson thought it over some more, then said, ‘Another half-crown.’

  ‘How do I know it’ll be worth it?’ asked Danvers. ‘Of course, we could always make this official. You come to the Yard with me.’

  Wilson laughed sarcastically. ‘And do what? You think you’ll get any more out of me playing the heavy? I’ve done nothing wrong, copper, and you doing that could mess up a whole lot of arrangements I’ve got with your blokes.’

  ‘Good point,’ nodded Danvers. He took another half-crown from his pocket and handed it to Wilson. ‘Name?’

  ‘I don’t know his whole name. He’s called Dan. He doesn’t come in here all the time, just sometimes with that crowd from the commie office. When he does, he gets drunk and mouthy, talking about what we ought to do with the toffs. Shoot ’em, he says, like they done in Russia. I always put it down to just talk – that’s all that lot do is talk. But one day he pulls out this pistol. Says he bought it back from the war and he’s gonna make ’em pay. Says him and all the other ex-soldiers is owed big time by them in power. Says they’re scum and vermin, and he’s the man to deal with ’em.’

  ‘What happened? When he pulled out the pistol.’

  ‘The others got alarmed and told him to put it away. He was raging drunk and told ’em there’d be no proper revolution until a few of the toffs was shot dead.’

  ‘When was this?’

  ‘He’s been coming in here with ’em, on and off, for about four months. This was about two weeks ago when he did the business with the gun.’

  ‘And since then?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘He’s been in, but no sign of the gun.’

  ‘Where does he live?’

  Wilson shook his head. ‘No idea. Not round here, that’s for sure, or I’d know. He only came in with that commie crowd.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Like I said, I only picked up his first name. Dan.’ He shook his head. ‘More than that, I don’t know.’

  ‘What’s he look like? How old is he?’

  ‘Mid-twenties, about five feet eight tall. Dark hair, thinning on top. Cheap, worn clothes. A drinker.’ He shrugged. ‘They’ll know who he is at the commie offices, though. He was in very thick with them. As far as I could tell, he was actually a member of their party, not just a hanger-on, from things he said. You could always ask them.’

  EIGHT

  Stark hadn’t really taken much notice of the house the last time he’d been inside it; then his attention had been on the dead body of Lord Amersham lying on the dining table. Now he was in the drawing room, sitting uncomfortably on a settee, facing Lady Amersham who sat bolt upright on a hard-backed chair, clad in stark, unadorned black, her widow’s weeds. If she was suffering heartfelt grief at her loss, Stark saw no sign of it.

  The room itself was oppressive: dark browns and dark green on the walls, heavy brocade curtains. Most of the pictures on the wall were military portraits.

  ‘I’m sorry to trouble you at this difficult time, Lady Amersham,’ began Stark.

  Lady Amersham made no reply, just sat as still as a statue on her chair and fixed the chief inspector with a gimlet stare that did not hide her disapproval of this situation.

  ‘Can you think of anyone who might have borne a grudge against your husband?’ he asked.

  Lady Amersham continued to fix him with her unflinching glare. ‘My husband was one of the most respected men in England,’ she said.

  ‘True,’ nodded Stark. I have to play this one cagily, he thought. This woman is no tear-stained, grieving widow. She is the fierce guardian of her husband’s reputation, and woe betide anyone who dares to try to sully that reputation. ‘But a man such as Lord Amersham does not achieve high office without arousing feelings of resentment or jealousy in others.’

  She sat there, stiff-backed, unmoving, her look the same as she replied coldly, ‘My husband was the exception. Everyone who knew him had the greatest admiration for him. Especially for his charitable work.’

  ‘His charitable work?’ queried Stark.

  Lady Amersham visibly bridled at this. ‘I am surprised you are not aware of the great amount of work he has done for charity, especially for those who fought in the Great War.’

  ‘We are still at the early stage of the investigation—’ began Stark apologetically.

  Lady Amersham interrupted him. ‘He was the President of the Passchendaele Memorial Fund Charitable Commission.’

  I was at Passchendaele, thought Stark bitterly. There was precious little sight of your husband or his cronies in the trenches there when the fighting was at its cruellest.

  Lady Amersham continued listing the different worthy organizations her husband had presided over or sat on the boards of. No mention of housemaids or other servants taken advantage of, or aristocratic wives adulterously bedded, nor his opinions of people whose politics differed from his own – communists, socialists, suffragettes – nor of the Irish or Jews. Stark wondered if Lord Amersham’s charitable work on behalf of fallen soldiers stretched to those troops from far-flung parts of the Empire who had fought and died to protect it – especially those from India and Africa. Somehow he doubted it.

  ‘The nature of the way he died suggests this was not a random killing,’ said Stark carefully. How else do I put it without crossing the bounds of propriety? he considered. Three bullets fired expertly. A skilled assassin, either a profess
ional for hire or a marksman bearing a personal grudge. ‘What we are trying to establish—’

  He was interrupted by a knock at the door and the butler appearing.

  ‘Excuse me, my lady …’ the butler began apologetically, before he was interrupted by the figure of Winston Churchill brushing him aside as he strode into the room.

  ‘Beatrice! My sincere apologies! I was held up or I would have been here sooner!’

  Like a human whirlwind, Churchill handed the butler his hat and then proceeded to pace around on the carpet, addressing Lady Amersham as if she was a world leader to be won over. ‘A tragedy, not just for you but for the country!’

  Lady Amersham said nothing, but watched the pacing Churchill warily.

  She does not trust him either, Stark realized. She worries what he will say, what he will reveal.

  ‘I came once I heard that you were coming here, Chief Inspector,’ said Churchill, turning his attention to Stark. ‘At a time like this, Lady Amersham needs the support of her true friends.’ He shook his head, a scowl on his face. ‘Alastair will be avenged – you have my word on that, Beatrice. Chief Inspector Stark is one of our finest men. Tenacious. And a war hero. He volunteered – not one of your conscripts! Promoted through the ranks, in the field, to become captain. Wounded. Decorated. DSM – that’s right, isn’t it Stark? Distinguished Service Medal.’

  He’s been checking up on me since we last met, thought Stark. ‘Yes, sir,’ he said quietly.

  ‘See, Beatrice! He’s one of ours. That’s why I know we’ll get the swine who did this!’

  ‘I thank you for your solicitations, Winston,’ said Lady Amersham, still tight-lipped. She did not rise to greet him, or take his hands in gratitude as some would have done on such an occasion. But then, she was Lady Amersham. Widow of Lord Amersham, pillar of the establishment, a former officer with the Hussars who’d fought with distinction in the Boer War and other wars in far-flung places, a politician, a member of the government.

  She’s as hard as nails, thought Stark.

  ‘Is there anything else, Stark?’ asked Churchill. ‘We don’t want to upset Lady Amersham any more than is necessary at a time like this.’