Deep in thought, Arnold Box made his way out of Piccadilly Circus and into busy Coventry Street. Colonel Kershaw’s revelations had unsettled him. He had not been surprised to hear that Sophie Lénart was a freelance spy, but the news that Maurice Claygate had been one of the colonel’s agents had come as a bolt from the blue.
When he’d arrived at the Rents that morning, he’d found a brief and not very enlightening account of the autopsy on Maurice Claygate and Sophie Lénart waiting for his attention. The body of Maurice Claygate was to be released for burial that very day. When details of the funeral were finalized, he would attend it as an observer.
It was odd how Colonel Kershaw had mentioned his friend Louise Whittaker. Perhaps it was a hint that he should visit her? Well, he would do so that afternoon, and tell her all about Elizabeth de Beliefort’s ‘delusion’. It was always valuable to get a woman’s slant on things, and in the past his consultations with the lady scholar had proved to be very fruitful.
It looked as though there was more to Alain de Bellefort than met the eye, and it was more than likely that Maurice Claygate had been investigating him. Could De Bellefort himself have committed those two murders? No; the Frenchman had been closeted with Field Marshal and Mrs Claygate at the time when their son Maurice had met his death in Sophie Lénart’s house in Soho.
As Box passed the opening to Rupert Street a big man in an overcoat and black bowler hat emerged from the crowd on the pavement, and pulled him by the sleeve, causing him to stop in surprise. The man had a round, rosy face, with a fleshy, mobile mouth half-hidden by a massive black moustache.
‘Why, Sergeant Petrie,’ said Box, ‘fancy seeing you! Did Pat Driscoll have a word with you in that club of yours on Saturday night? I’m trying to find one of your minor villains—’
‘Yes, sir, I know you are, and I’ve got the answer for you. As a matter of fact, I’ve just left Harry the Greek’s lodgings. But fancy bumping into you like this, Mr Box! It must be Providence, don’t you agree? Can you spare a few minutes to have a glass of bitter with me? It’s just on lunchtime, and it’d be better than talking police business here in the street. It’s more than eighteen months since I last saw you in the flesh, so to speak.’
Box looked at the stout police sergeant with amused resignation. He was a very good, conscientious officer, highly thought of in Finsbury division, but he was a chronic talker: nothing short of violence could stem the flow of Sergeant Petrie’s words.
Petrie preceded Box down an alley smelling of stale rubbish, and pushed open the door of a narrow-fronted ale house, which seemed to consist of a single public bar, crammed with chattering men and women crowding around little tables awash with beer. The air was grey with reeking tobacco smoke. Sergeant Petrie elbowed his way through the press until he reached the bar.
‘Nancy! Nance!’ he bellowed above the din, and a pretty girl in a black dress smiled a greeting.
‘Hello, Mr Petrie,’ she said, ‘what’s your poison today?’
‘Two glasses of bitter, Nance. Bring them over to my friend and me at the table in the corner. Oh, and you’d better put it on the slate.’
The two men made their way to the table in a dark corner of the bar. Box produced his cigar case, and offered the sergeant one of his slim cheroots. It was going to take time getting information from Alex Petrie, but it would be worth the wait. In a moment, Nancy had deposited two glasses of beer in front of them.
‘So, Sergeant Petrie,’ said Box, ‘you were able to find Harry the Greek?’
‘I was, sir,’ said the garrulous sergeant. ‘Or rather, I was able to find where he’d been. It’s a bit of a long story. Incidentally, sir, I was surprised to hear that you’re still billeted in that heap of falling-down ruins in Whitehall Place. What do you call it? The Rents. I thought you’d have gone up to New Scotland Yard by now.’
‘Well, Sergeant,’ said Box, sipping his beer, ‘that’s what we all thought in ’91, when the department moved lock, stock and barrel to that gleaming new fairy palace on the Embankment. But some of us were left behind to hold the fort, as it were. Just for a few months, they said. Well, it’s three years now, and we’re still there. There were a dozen of us original exiles, all taken under the tender wing of Superintendent Mackharness. There are over thirty officers there, now. I reckon we’ll be stuck there for good.’
‘Why is it called King James’s Rents? What had King James got to do with it?’
‘Well, they say that it got its name from the fact that it had provided lodging for the Scottish courtiers who’d arrived in London with James I in sixteen hundred and something. He was a canny old devil, so they say, and he charged them rent for the privilege of living near his palace in Whitehall.’
‘That’s very interesting sir,’ said Sergeant Petrie. ‘But I expect you want to hear about Harry the Greek – Aristotle Stamfordis. You know that he’s one of Pinky Wiseman’s boys. Well, I went to see Pinky first thing on Sunday morning, to ask him a few questions. Pinky calls himself a dealer, and I suppose that’s true, in a way, because he deals in some very shady commodities.’
‘Where does he live now, Sergeant? He used to have a place near City Road Basin.’
‘He’s not there now, sir. He’s got a scrap-yard near Pentonville Road, and that’s where he pays off his little crowd of petty thieves and confidence men who hole up in various houses he owns, mainly in Shoreditch. They give him a cut of their takings, you see, and he does very nicely out of them.’
‘And Pinky told you where Harry the Greek could be found, did he?’ asked Box. He knew all that he wanted to know about Pinky Wiseman, and was growing impatient with the talkative sergeant’s account of his doings.
‘Well, in a manner of speaking, he did,’ said Sergeant Petrie. ‘He told me that he’d not set eyes on Harry the Greek for over a fortnight. He’d moved from his lodgings in Pentonville to rooms in Saffron Yard, Seven Dials, which is not very far from here, as you’ll appreciate. Pinky said that Harry had dropped him and started to work for some foreign cove. Very vexed, he was. He said that Harry owed him fifteen shillings. Maybe he did.’
‘Did you find Harry the Greek in Saffron Yard?’
‘No, sir. His landlady said that he’d gone out on Monday, and never come back. His things are still there, so I don’t think he’s done a moonlight flit. She thinks he’s going barmy.’
‘Barmy? What did she mean by that?’
‘She said that he’s not been the same since he did a job for this foreign cove on Saturday. She could hear him muttering to himself, and walking about his room in the night. He was staggering around, she said, even though he wasn’t drunk. It doesn’t sound like Aristotle Stamfordis, does it? Quite a smooth talker, he is, very respectable, as befits a man who impersonates indoor servants and then decamps with the silver.’
Arnold Box stood up. He’d had enough of all the chatter and smoke of what was evidently Sergeant Petrie’s favourite public house.
‘I’ll have to be going, now, Sergeant,’ he said. ‘Thanks very much for the drink. If you get on Harry’s trail again, will you let me know straight away? I think he was mixed up in that business at Dorset House on Saturday.’
‘Was he really? Yes, Inspector, I’ll let you know by messenger as soon as ever I get sight or sound of him. Barmy, hey? Somehow, I can’t see Harry the Greek going barmy. But there: you never know with people.’
Arnold Box alighted from the Light Green Atlas omnibus in Church End, Finchley, and made his way along pleasant roads of red brick houses skirting a number of playing fields and open spaces. Turning into a spanking new avenue of modern villas, where the wide grass verges had been planted with hopeful saplings, he knocked at the door of the third house on the right-hand side. It was a severe sort of door, painted a shiny black, and with a diamond-shaped window of obscure glass.
The door opened, and a trim little maid in cap and apron looked enquiringly at him. He could see that she was repressing an inclination to giggle. She knew who he was, but he could tell from her demeanour that it was to be one of those days when they’d both have to play her favourite little game of question and answer.
‘Is Miss Whittaker at home?’ asked Box.
‘Yes, sir. Who shall I say’s calling?’
‘Tell her it’s Inspector Box, from Scotland Yard,’ Box replied, and then burst out laughing. ‘For goodness’ sake, Ethel,’ he said, ‘you know quite well who I am! Just go and tell your missus that I’m here.’
Over two years had passed since Box had first encountered Miss Louise Whittaker, who had been summoned as an expert witness in a case of literary fraud for dishonest gain. He had been very taken with her, and she had not objected when he had asked permission to visit her from time to time – in a purely professional capacity, of course. He still saw her as a lady, far too good for the likes of him, but their friendship had developed into something rather more than a settled affection. Perhaps, one day….
Ethel stood back to let Box enter the narrow hallway of the semi-detached house, and disappeared into a room on the right, closing the door behind her. Box carefully manoeuvred himself around a lady’s bicycle propped against the hall stand, and waited for Ethel to return. Why did she have to giggle every time he called? It made him feel like a fool. Anyone would think—
What were those two laughing at in there, now? A little round-faced chit of a maid, no more than fourteen, and Miss Louise Whittaker, a lady scholar from London University?
When Ethel returned, her face showed nothing but demure inscrutability.
‘Miss Whittaker will see you now, sir,’ she said. ‘You’re to go on in.’ Ethel hurried away through the kitchen door into the rear quarters of the house.
Box entered the large front room. Louise Whittaker, as serenely beautiful as ever, rose from the table in the wide bay window to greet him. Box admired her grey dress, with its leg-of-mutton sleeves, and the tasteful white cuffs and collar that went with it.
‘So, Mr Box,’ said Louise Whittaker, ‘once again Scotland Yard is baffled! How can the female philologist help you this time?’
Her voice, as always when she presided on her own territory, was amused and musical, carrying its own subtle tone of authority. She closed the book that she had been consulting, and motioned Box to a chair.
‘I see that you’ve refused yet again to abandon your hat and gloves to the tender mercies of Ethel,’ she said. ‘Put them on that little table by the door, Mr Box, and sit down by the fire. It’s just on tea time, so I’ll leave you for a while to give Ethel a hand in the kitchen. Then we can talk. I’ll not be long.’
They had been friends for a long time, Box mused, but there were days – this was one of them – when it seemed as though they had just met for the first time. Perhaps it was something to do with the bright, cheerful day, or with the essential newness of this part of Finchley. Louise belonged to a brighter, cleaner world than the one that he was forced to inhabit.
What was that photograph standing in an ebony frame on the end of the mantelpiece? He’d not seen that before. He left his chair, and picked up the faded image of a man and woman, both wearing the formal clothes of the 1850s. They looked stern, almost grim, but that was because of the slow photography in those days. Perhaps this couple had been Louise’s ma and pa? She’d met his own father more than once, and the two of them had got on well together immediately, but she’d never mentioned her own family.
‘My parents.’
Louise Whittaker had entered the room so swiftly that Box started in surprise. He put the photograph down on the mantelpiece, and resumed his seat.
‘That picture was taken in happier times,’ said Louise, sitting down in the chair opposite. ‘But there: we’ve all got to accustom ourselves to losses in this life.’
‘I’m sorry to hear that, Miss Whittaker – Louise,’ said Box quietly. ‘But I’m sure that your parents, if they were alive now, would be very proud of their daughter’s achievements.’
‘How very sweet of you, Mr Box,’ said Louise, treating him to one of her inscrutable smiles. ‘I shall tell them what you said, next time I see them.’
Damn! She’d made him blush again. Why did she contrive to make him feel like a big, bashful boy? It wasn’t fair.
‘Miss, I’m ever so sorry. I thought—’
‘Don’t be so embarrassed, Mr Box,’ said Louise, laughing. ‘When I referred to losses, I was thinking of my father’s bankruptcy. He was a very prosperous man when he was young, with a law stationery business in Long Acre. Well, all that went when I was five years old, and Father struggled to start again in Brighton. He was successful, too, and never looked back. And that’s where my parents live now, in Brighton, enjoying a very comfortable retirement.’
At that moment Ethel came into the room, propelling a tea trolley. Box noted the shining silver teapot, the set of big willow pattern cups and saucers, the plate of little triangular sandwiches, and the slices of seed cake reposing on a stand. And – yes, there were those little knives with fancy handles to eat the cake with.
When Edith left the room, Louise served them both with tea, and sat back in her own particular chair by the fireplace.
‘Now, Mr Box,’ she said, ‘there’s plenty there to satisfy the inner man. What can I do to help you?’
‘Miss Whittaker,’ said Box, ‘I want to share a small problem with you, and listen to what comments you care to make about it. I’m currently investigating the murders of Maurice Claygate and Sophie Lénart in Lexington Place, Soho, and what I’m going to tell you may or may not have a direct bearing on the matter.’
Box gave her a careful account of the mission entrusted to him by Sir Charles Napier, and his consequent visit to Dorset House on 6 September. He told her the gist of his conversations with members of the family and household, and of his interview with Alain de Bellefort. As he narrated the evening’s events, and the drama of the firework display and its aftermath, he saw Louise Whittaker’s face become grave. Her bantering mood had been put aside, and she was giving him her total attention.
‘Well, miss,’ Box continued, ‘the fireworks came to an end with an almighty bang and an echo, and folk began to disperse. Suddenly, I heard a commotion coming from somewhere beyond the great reception room – the saloon, they call it. This was followed by a woman’s scream, a regular blood-curdling scream it was. I went to investigate, and found a young lady with her arms stretched out across the door to what’s called the garden passage, trying to prevent anyone from entering it. “There’s nothing there!” she cried. “The passage is empty”. She became more and more hysterical, gave one final shriek, and fainted quite away.’
Box stopped speaking, and the two friends listened to the quiet ticking of the clock on the mantelpiece. The iron tyres of a milk-cart rumbled over the macadam in the road outside. Louise cradled her empty cup in her hands, and looked at the flames of the small fire in the grate. Then, she spoke.
‘Who was this young woman?’ she asked. ‘Did you know who she was before you saw her trying to bar entrance to that passage?’
‘I’d seen her several times during the evening, but did not know who she was until she told me. She said she was Mademoiselle de Bellefort, a guest in Sir John Claygate’s house. That was true. She was a Frenchwoman, and a lady.’
‘Will you describe her for me again?’ asked Louise. ‘Describe her as you saw her when you first came upon the scene. Try to be as accurate as possible.’
‘Miss de Bellefort was a beautiful young lady with fair hair. When I came upon her she was very pale, and I could see that she was trembling. She was wearing a green silk evening dress of that shimmering kind of stuff – what do they call it? Watered silk. And she had a very costly diamond necklace around her neck. She stood with her back to the door of the garden passage, as it’s called, and when I approached her I saw her stiffen with fear—’
‘Fear of what, Mr Box? Surely she was not afraid that you would harm her? Tell me more about this fear.’
‘There had been a particularly loud explosion from one of the fireworks,’ said Box, ‘which prompted me to ask her whether she’d heard a shot. That’s when I saw her whole body stiffen. I can only describe her as being frozen with fear. I looked into her eyes, and what I saw there, miss, was desperate panic.’
‘Desperate panic…. Have you ever seen that expression before, in your professional capacity?’
‘Yes, I have. You’ll see it when a murderer suddenly realizes that you’ve seen through all his lies, and that you’ve come to arrest him. It wells up in their eyes, you know, when they see the shadow of the gallows looming…. And that’s how Miss de Bellefort looked.’
‘You say she fainted. What happened just before that? I’m beginning to form a very clear picture of what might have been in this wretched woman’s mind.’
‘She kept telling me that the garden passage was empty, but those very words convinced me at the time that she was lying. Why defend an empty passage? I stretched out my arms towards her, meaning to move her gently aside, upon which she screamed again, as though she was suffering all the tortures of the damned, and flattened herself against the door. She cried out for her brother, but he wasn’t there. Next moment, Maurice Claygate’s elder brother, Major Edwin Claygate, appeared from the crowd, upon which Miss de Bellefort gave a final terrifying shriek, and fainted.’
‘What did you find behind the door?’
‘There was nothing behind the door. I considered various possibilities, Miss Whittaker. First, I wondered whether the young lady had drunk too much champagne. Then I considered that she had suffered an hallucination. Later, I learned from the late Mr Maurice Claygate’s sister-in-law, Mrs Edwin Claygate, that Miss de Bellefort might have been reliving a terrifying childhood experience.’
Box told Louise the story of Elizabeth de Bellefort’s heroic defence of her brother against a gang of brigands, an event that had left her with mental scars that had not yet healed. Watching his friend’s uncharacteristically sardonic smile, he felt compelled to add, ‘Maurice Claygate’s fiancée, Miss Julia Maltravers, knew that story, and told me that she considered it to be a fairy-tale.’
‘I should like to meet Miss Julia Maltravers,’ said Louise. ‘She sounds to me like a woman of discernment. But come, Mr Box, you’re not eating anything. Have a sandwich, and some of that cake, while I pour us out some more tea. After that, I’ll tell you what I think about this business of Mademoiselle de Bellefort.’
A little while later, Louise Whittaker put her empty cup down on the table, folded her hands in her lap, and began to deliver a quiet lecture on the topic of the female psyche.
‘I want you to imagine a young woman, Mr Box,’ she began, ‘a member of an old Norman family, who prepares herself to attend a grand reception in the home of a distinguished British soldier, whose name is known and revered throughout the Empire. She dresses herself in a fine silk evening gown, and wears a brilliant diamond necklace. For an hour or so she mingles with the company, behaving as a young lady should. And then, apparently without reason, she chooses to make a vulgar spectacle of herself. She howls and cries like a – like a banshee, spreads herself in very undignified fashion across a door, does some more shrieking, and then faints in a heap on the floor.
‘And for what? To guard a passageway which, you tell me, was quite empty. That, I think, is what is leading you astray in the matter of Elizabeth de Bellefort. There was nothing there, and so she must have been either inebriated or hallucinating. Later, her behaviour is explained away by the concocting of a tale about a childhood experience. I don’t suppose the young lady stayed for you to question her further?’
‘No, miss, she left with her brother for Normandy the next day.’
‘Very convenient for them both, Mr Box. Now, from the way you told your story, I assume that you did not actually see Miss de Bellefort arrive at the door? No, I thought not. So, here is my suggestion. When that frantic young woman threw discretion to the winds and behaved like a lunatic, it was because she knew that there was something behind that door; and she knew that, because she had just come through that door herself!’
‘But Louise – Miss Whittaker – there was nothing behind the door. The passage was empty. What could she have been doing in it?’
Louise Whittaker shook her head, and looked at her friend with a kind of vexed amusement.
‘It may have been empty when you looked at it, Arnold, but it doesn’t follow that the passage was empty when Elizabeth de Bellefort came out of it, and all but fell into your arms. You thought that she was trying to prevent your finding a dead body there, didn’t you? What if that had been true? You arrived at the inopportune moment, and your arrival caused her to panic.’
‘But—’
‘What else, other than a knowledge that a murder had just been committed, could have made an aristocratic lady collapse into blind terror? At least think about what I’ve said, Mr Box. I think the view that I’ve taken is a valid one, given the circumstances.’
‘I am considering your view of the matter, miss. It’s a view that would explain the rapid departure of the brother and sister the next day. It could perhaps account for the presence there that night of a petty criminal known to me who’s since gone to earth. And there was motive, too: Maurice Claygate had abandoned her for another woman. Murder? Could she have lured him away from his guests and into that passage in order to shoot him dead?’
‘These are questions that only you and your colleagues can answer, Arnold,’ said Louise. ‘All I will add is to suggest that this petty criminal you mention was accompanied by others of his kind that night. Perhaps some arrangement had been made to remove the poor man’s dead body elsewhere. With sufficient men in place, I don’t suppose it would take long to spirit a body away, if you knew your way around the house.’
Arnold Box stood up. His legs, he found, felt rather shaky, and the blood seemed to be throbbing in his veins. Why had he not thought to consider the obvious? Even as he stammered his thanks to Louise Whittaker for her analysis of the incident, countless facts were beginning to crowd into his mind to furnish him with a solution to the mystery of Maurice Claygate’s death. It was time to leave the quiet haven of Louise Whittaker’s house and get back with all speed to King James’s Rents.