CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Headquarters, Metropolitan Police Service/New Scotland Yard, Criminal Investigation Department [CID], Victoria Embankment, August 21, 1962

The day was hot and soporific. The large ceiling fans in the London Army and Navy Club were inadequate to the task. The City of London had largely been evacuated, with everyone who could get away heading to the countryside. There were only two members in the exclusive club’s bar that morning, and they were preparing to leave to escape the oppressive mugginess. Major Algernon Donelly nodded briefly at the oldest member of the club—Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell, RA, Ret.—who came to the club every day in his declining years. The major considered the general to be a hero and exemplar, and was, therefore, always carefully respectful whenever he encountered the old gentleman.

The general was slow in getting to his feet and had rather poor equilibrium, but Major Donelly knew better than to embarrass the fine old man by offering to help. He strode to the front door deliberately; so, he could watch the general and see if he might need help. He was about to open the door when an unthinkable event occurred. A man—quite evidently one of the help and dressed in the gray tunic and trousers of the club staff—darted out from behind the bar where he had been polishing ale glasses and rushed towards the general. Almost more quickly than Major Donelly could see—let alone act—the kitchen worker flashed a length of shining metal and pushed his hand against the posterior neck of the general, waited a moment, then allowed him to slump forward as if he had fallen asleep reading the Times.

Major Donelly hurled himself at the attacker and succeeded in enveloping his abdomen with a rear bear hug. The man in gray twisted violently and jabbed the major in his temple with the hard sharp bone of his right elbow. The movement and blow caught the major unawares and rendered him unconscious. When Major Donelly awakened—groggy and disoriented—he found himself alone on the floor beside the stuffed armchair in which Gen. Hill-Brownwell was sitting in unmoving repose. He was alone with the famous general and mildly frightened. At first—as his mind only slowly tried to develop a clear focus on the real world—he felt he had fallen asleep and had had a disturbing violent dream.

His mind cleared, and he worked his way to a standing position—made sure of his equilibrium—then assayed his surroundings. The most striking thing in the room was the handle of a monogramed club ice pick sticking directly in the middle of the back of Lt. Gen. Hill-Brownwell’s neck. Less than half an inch of the bright steel of the pick was visible. The major avoided any disturbance of the room or the general, knowing that the old gentleman was dead. He did not require a doctor’s opinion. His years of combat had offered him sufficient examples of death to allow him a comfortable level of expertise on the subject.

Major Donelly recovered his senses quickly, another benefit of having engaged more than once in hand-to-hand combat. He was short, powerfully built, and agile. He had a considerable amount of male pattern baldness which he partially disguised by keeping his hair clipped to less than an eighth of an inch long. His face was flat, a characteristic accentuated by his having suffered several nasal fractures which led to him having effectively lost the bridge of his nose. That defect was made up by his very prominent Adam’s apple. His teeth were crooked and he was missing several; so, he kept his lips closed by entrenched habit. That made him appear to be perpetually somewhat angry or grumpy. His facial skin was clear of any blemishes, deeply tanned, and—by dint of scrupulous grooming—free of any facial hair, even sideburns. He was dressed in a casual afternoon olive-drab corduroy sports jacket, light tan military shirt, and heavy tweed trousers despite the oppressive heat. He wore riding boots, an affectation borne of his long suppressed desire to have been in the cavalry. He was sweating.

Evidently, no one else had witnessed the heinous act; so, it was up to the major to act and to act appropriately. He strode purposefully to the cord hanging from the ceiling near the doorway which connected the kitchen and the waiters’ lounge to the gentlemen members’ area. He gave two sharp pulls; and, in less than two minutes, a sleepy waiter in his starched club livery moved into the room.

“Brewster, there has been a crime here, my man,” Major Donelly stated authoritatively. “Summon the Old Bills [slang for policemen] immediately.”

He pointed at the obvious murder weapon sticking obscenely out of the back of the fine old veteran’s neck.

Brewster had never seen a civilian murder victim before, and he required a gulp before he could react. He paused long enough for the major to move to get his attention.

“Get yourself together and ring up Whitehall 1212. I will mind the crime scene until the Bills get here.”

Brewster was connected immediately to the dispatch operator at the CID.

“What is the nature of your problem, sir, and how may I direct your call?”

“This is Brewster, the majordomo at the Army and Navy Club. Put me through to the homicide division. We have had a murder here—a murder most foul!”

“Oh, dear, my good fellow, I will get the Special Branch right away! Please hold on the line.”

She reached the office of Detective Chief Inspector Lincoln Crandall-White.

“DCI White here.”

“Chief Inspector, do you have the duty this afternoon?”

“I do. Can I presume that you are about to disturb my plans for a comforting and restorative nap?”

“I’m afraid so, sir. I’m sorry to have to report that there has been a murder at the Army and Navy Club. The majordomo is on the line at this moment.”

“This smells like a case that will interest the grand level of the MET divisional superintendent at the least. Lucky me.”

“As they say in the States, ‘Have a nice day, CID Crandall-White.’ Now, I will turn the majordomo over to you.”

“Majordomo Brewster is it?” Crandall-White asked. “May I ask your first name?”

“Clifford, sir.”

“This is CID Crandall-White at this end. Are you in the club?”

“I am. I can see directly into the gentlemen’s bar—the scene of the crime as it were.”

“Is anyone else there, Brewster?”

“Only the major who found the body.”

“Major…?”

“Oh, yes, Major Algernon Donelly, active duty RA.”

“Has anyone disturbed the remains or anything in the room since the deceased was found?”

“No, sir. The major witnessed the murder itself not more than three or four minutes ago. He is minding the room. Nothing has been disturbed, let me assure you.”

“We’ll be there in two shakes of a dead lamb’s tail. Keep up the good work.”

The three CID coppers—DCI Crandall-White, DI Angela Snowden, and DI Anthony Bourden-Clift, arrived fifteen minutes later at 36-39 Pall Mall in St. James Square and parked their vehicle in front of the square box-shaped metal and glass seven-story building, not bothering to use the secure underground car park on the site. The two younger officers were mildly awed by the features of the West End—Mayfair and Covent Gardens, and the many attractions that neither of them could afford. Originally the building was built on number 18 St James’s Square, at the north corner with King Street, with its exterior inspired by the Palazzo Corner in Venice. The latest iteration of the venerable old club was the more prosaic and modern building reconstructed in the 1950s after the war.

The three detectives moved quickly through the front entrance on the west side of St. James’s Square and into the wood-paneled and heavily carpeted bar area. Major Donelly and Brewster stood stiffly to the side of the doorway into the bar to allow the police detectives to pass.

“Majordomo Brewster and Major Donelly, I presume,” DCI Crandall-White said as he shook both men’s hands warmly.

Each of them enjoyed the recognition, which set a friendly tone for the beginning of the interviews.

“No one else here this afternoon, I take it?”

“No, sir, just the two of us.”

“Well, then. We’ll get started. I would like Mr. Brewster to step into the office with me. DI Snowden and DI Bourden-Clift, please take Major Donelly to another room for interviews.”

The office was set off from the members’ area. It had the feel of a man’s office—wood, leather, cigar smoke smell, and clutter. Brewster sat at his desk, and DCI Crandall-White took a seat in a comfortable old leather overstuffed armchair facing the majordomo. The DCI took a moment to observe the man he was about to interrogate—tall, lean, military bearing, and short-cropped haircut. He had an impressively well-sculpted curly dark brown mustache and beard cut in a neat combination of sideburns, muttonchop mustache, and Van-Dyke style beard which left his neck clean shaven. Scalp and facial hair were the same length. Brewster had a lean, lined, and tanned face bespeaking years outside. That and the well-tailored olive-drab, gold button, epaulets at the shoulders, and spit-polished black boots of his uniform spoke loudly of a military background—probably some long ago cavalry experience.

His military experience and the necessities of his duties as the majordomo of a very exclusive and expensive men’s club had developed in Brewster a similar penchant for sizing up a man whom he faced. The DCI was a large, powerful man whose inexpensive civilian suit did not quite disguise the muscularity of his frame or his military bearing. The DCI had a simple mustache, more in the current British style than Brewster’s own. Crandall-White had a full strong face—not handsome, but one that commanded attention. His eyes were keen–nearly cobalt blue–and steady. He was early middle-aged, but his lean athletic figure belied that. He was dressed in a blue serge suit, one of several he owned. His tie matched his suit. His shoes needed a polishing; and his white shirt and his suit needed pressing; but Brewster was quite sure that Crandall-White did not care a whit for such vain interests. He was all business.

DCI Crandall-White waited a full minute before speaking, then he went directly to the heart of the matter as Brewster expected that he would, “Who were Gen. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s enemies, Brewster?”

“I have been waiting for that question, Chief Inspector. I did not know the man personally to any degree, but I have had the opportunity to observe him and his interactions with the other members for more than a decade. He was a regular here. He served on the western front in the first war, and I recall one member who confronted him some years back for his behind-the-lines service. The gist of the heated conversation was that the lieutenant general was quick to order men to charge out of their trenches to what he must have known were near-suicidal and futile attacks, and the men serving under him despised him. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s response was a counter accusation—essentially that the man confronting him might well be one of the cowards who had conspired to assassinate him as the commander. The staff had to come between the two. Sir Hill-Brownwell’s position in the club was of such an elevated nature that his accuser was forced to resign.”

“Name?”

“I can’t bring it to mind at the moment, but I will do some research and get back to you on that, if that would be acceptable, sir.”

“I would appreciate it. Any other confrontations or enemies?”

“Not directly. However–like any senior officer–there were petty jealousies and perceived slights by his junior officers. I have sat in pubs and listened to bits and pieces of conversations among the enlisted who served under him—enough to know that he was a highly unpopular officer in both wars. Again, the gist was that he enjoyed his comforts in the safety of his command post while keeping well out of harm’s way, if you get my drift.

“He was deemed to be an extremely harsh disciplinarian, even an unfair one by many officers and enlisted alike.

“His areas of service might well have generated enemies as well. I don’t know if you are aware, but Sir Hill-Brownwell served as head of the military police department in the British sector of Berlin at the close of the last war. Many officers—I understand—bore him ill-will for the ruination of their reputations and careers owing to his penchant for rushing to judgment and for his dictatorial style which did not allow for what the men considered an adequate defense which might take in extenuating circumstances or even opposing testimony. Several complaints were filed against him during that period.”

“You seem to be quite well-versed in the general’s career, Brewster. I have to ask: were you one of those men who was treated shabbily by the general during or after the war?”

For the first time there was a moment of emotion that showed in his face, but it passed like a distant rain cloud.

There was a very brief but telling pause before Brewster responded.

“Well, since you bring it up, I did have a black mark placed on my record as a result of decisions made by the general during that period. You may check the records yourself, Inspector, but basically this is what happened: Sir Hill-Brownwell had a specially selected team of investigators and enforcers whose task was to monitor and to control the German POWs returning to the British sector after their release from military prisons. The general hated the Nazis passionately, and went well out of his way to find ways to make the transition back into civilian life for the Germans as difficult as possible. The records are sealed, and few people in the general public are aware of just how brutal and unjust the occupying forces were throughout Germany up to the end of the occupation. I served under the general in a more-or-less mundane roll as a military policeman. I saw a great deal of brutality—even murder—of former POWs, and I made the personal mistake of reporting such improper actions up the chain of command.

“In my own defense, there is developing documentation that something on the order of a million Germans were killed—most murdered—by Allied occupiers, and that was a fact that the officers in charge were determined to keep secret until well after their own deaths sometime in the far distant future. My report came to the attention of Lieutenant-General Sir Cyril Goeffrey Robert Hill-Brownwell.”

His voice cracked slightly with what was obviously long pent-up emotion.

“I was never brought up on charges nor had a chance to defend myself in the commanding officer’s summary hearing. I was not informed of such a hearing and certainly had no opportunity of having the services of a judge advocate general’s attorney. No, indeed. I simply was given a formal written reprimand, demoted one rank, and transferred back to the ranks serving at Sandhurst—well away from the occupied territories. Within a year, I was informed that I was to be discharged from the service. A young officer informed me that it would be most imprudent to protest because that would result in me receiving a bad conduct discharge. I tucked my tail between my legs and found work in the private sector, namely in the Army and Navy Club. It was real test of my mettle to keep quiet day after day when I was obliged to serve and to be obsequious and deferential to the man I so despised.”

“Were you the man who stabbed Sir Hill-Brownwell and fought off Major Donelly, Brewster?”

“I was not, much as I would have enjoyed doing so.”

DCI Crandall-White allowed an awkward silence to descend on the interrogation. Both men locked eyes, and neither blinked.

“Did you and Major Donelly join forces to murder the man?”

“No. The murder took place just as the major described.”

“How do you know that, Brewster? Were you an actual witness?”

Brewster paused briefly.

“Well, technically, no, I did not actually witness the killing. I did not see the man Major Donelly described. I assumed that the major is a man of honor and upright British character and had no reason to lie.”

“That remains to be seen, I suppose. What do you know about the major? Do you have any knowledge of ill-will between him and the general?”

“I have only seen entirely proper and courteous interchanges between the two men, Chief Inspector. In my recollection, such encounters were few and far between since the major was an infrequent guest on the premises. I would say that the men passed only most limited and casual greetings—polite but neither cordial nor inhospitable.”

“Um hmmh. Please tell me your impression of the major. Is he a man prone to anger? Has he expressed grudges, especially such ill feelings toward the general?”

“Major Donelly tends to keep to himself. Not very talkative to anyone. I have never heard him express any kind of ill-will towards any individual. He, too, was involved in the occupation forces at the end of the war. As I understand it, he was an officer in charge of the interim camps where returning German POWs were processed after returning from the Soviet prison camps. The only thing I ever recall him saying about that is that those men were deserving of the harsh lives they had endured under the Soviet gulag system, and they would not be men ever to be allowed to occupy significant positions in the new Germany being created by the Allies. Donelly was a captain at that time, as I recall.”

“It’s time for a spot of lunch,” the DCI said, and the three coppers left for Charlie Brown’s Railway Tavern on West India Dock Road.

Charlie Brown’s lived up to its designation as a public house, a true pub. The place was a world apart from cafés, bars, bierkellers, and even brewpubs. It had a sort of museum—a collection of curiousities patrons had brought in from all around the world. Its windows were made of smoked glass to obscure the clientele from looky-loos on the street. It was a decidedly decadent working class joint with bare board floors covered with sawdust to absorb the spitting and regular spillages—so, it was one of the ‘spit and sawdust’ pubs the gentry would never admit to patronizing. However, the place was always full of gents and coppers despite the hard uncomfortable seating accomodations. They got a laugh out of the place. Charlie Brown’s was a gastro-pub, one of the best in the city for all of its seediness and apparent lack of sanitation.

The three detective inspectors ordered family-style plates of corned beef and sausage with mustard and pretzels, goat cheese and roasted tomato with sourdough bread and olive oil, and crispy pig’s ears served with lime, kosher salt, and chili. They splurged by ordering bakewell tart with heavy clotted cream for dessert, and took a few turns at trap shooting before settling down for their meal and beer.

English Recipes

Bakewell Tart—Serves Three or Four

Ingredients

-For shortcrust pastry—6 oz white flour, 2½ oz chilled butter, 2–3 tbsp cold water.

-For the filling—1 tbsp raspberry jam, 4½ oz butter, 4½ oz caster sugar, 4½ oz ground almonds, 1 beaten egg, ½ tsp almond extract, 1¾ oz flaked almonds.

-For the icing—2¾ oz icing sugar, 2½ tsp cold water

Preparation

-Pastry—put flour into a bowl and rib in butter with fingertips until the mixture is the texture of fine bread crumbs. Add water, mixing to form a soft dough. Roll out the dough on a lightly floured work surface and use to line an 8 in flan tin. Chill in the fridge for 30 mins.

-Preheat the oven to 400° F.

-Line the pastry case with aluminum foil and fill with baking beans. Bake blind~15 mins., then remove the beans and foil and cook for a further five mins. to dry out the base.

-Filling—spread the base of the flan generously with raspberry jam.

-Melt the butter in a pan, take off the heat, and then stir in the sugar. Add ground almonds, egg, and almond extract. Pour into the flan tin and sprinkle over the flaked almonds.

-Bake about 35 mins. If the almonds brown too quickly, cover the tart loosely with foil to prevent burning.

-Icing—Sift icing sugar into a separate bowl. Stir in cold water and transfer to a piping bag when ready. Remove tart from the oven, pipe the icing over the top in a zigzag design.

-Devonshire cream—Pour 2 pts heavy, lightly pasturized cream into a heavy-bottomed oven-safe pot. For extra richness, may add ¼ cube whipped butter. Fill to 1–3 ins. Cover pot and place in oven at 180^° F for at least 8 hrs. It is done when a thick yellowish skin forms above the cream. That skin is the clotted cream. Cool pot at room temperature then in fridge for another 8 hrs. Apply liberally to the pastry at time of serving.