After two weeks of continuous sunshine, a promising day had turned misty. In a hundred boarding houses, landladies at breakfast-time had served salty fried bacon to hungry guests and cheerfully delivered the news that a cool sea fret was descending over the town; it was predicted to linger all day.
‘I’d take a warm cardigan with me, if I were you,’ the landladies had advised, briskly. ‘And a mac.’
By nine o’clock, the view from every chilly window was the same: a blank of white, with the odd blob of washed-out colour. In most places, you could barely see to the other side of the road.
‘Can we perhaps stay indoors this morning, Mrs Holdsworth?’ a brave paying guest might have ventured to ask, shivering in anticipation of the cheerless day ahead. ‘We could read our paperbacks quietly in our room.’
‘You can come back at half-past four, Mr Chappell, same as always,’ was the accommodating reply. ‘Personally, I always go to the pictures when I want to keep warm.’
Mrs Groynes might never have heard of the pathetic fallacy, but she certainly recognised the way the weather had altered in the course of a few hours in direct accordance with her mood. At six-thirty this morning, she had left Colchester House with her heart fluttering in her chest and with other less mentionable parts of her body positively a-buzz with joy. At that time, the early sun had glistened on the flat, green-ish water of the sea, and the light breeze whipping inland seemed to whisper ‘Yes!’ and ‘Isn’t it good to be alive?’ (And also, ‘Palmeira Groynes, can you believe what just happened?’) At the station, she had all but solved the Dupont murder case for young Clever Clogs Twitten, she’d been in such a generous and up-beat mood.
But now, as she made her way back to see Captain Hoagland, the sunshine was blotted out. He was in danger! What if she were losing him again? Could she bear it? The day was no longer saying ‘Yes!’: it was saying ‘Are you kidding?’ and ‘What were you thinking?’ and ‘Well, that didn’t last long, did it?’ Some unknown person had written to Lord Melamine, threatening that Hoagy’s whereabouts would be communicated to Joseph Marriott within the day.
‘You came, Mrs Groynes,’ said Lord Melamine, as he opened the door to her. ‘I must apologise. We are in uproar, I’m afraid.’
Behind him in the hall was evidence of packing. Maids were scurrying about, under the sober direction of Mrs Rogers, who appeared to have been crying.
‘Where’s Hoagy?’ said Mrs Groynes. ‘Is he all right?’
‘He’s gone to fetch the car.’
‘I can’t believe this is happening. It’s so bleeding sudden.’
‘I agree.’
She felt sorry for Lord Melamine. He looked quite bewildered.
‘Where will you go?’ she said.
He pulled a face. He had no plan.
‘Not Tristan da Cunha again, I hope?’ she said, trying to lighten the mood. ‘It would hardly be fair to those ostriches.’
Lord Melamine smiled bravely. ‘No, not Tristan again. But I hear that Tierra del Fuego is extremely pleasant at this time of year!’
He showed her into the morning room, to wait for Captain Hoagland. On Melamine’s desk was the letter. She wasted no time snatching it up. It became quickly apparent that Hoagland had not shared with her its entire contents. It was in fact an offer not to inform Joseph Marriott of Hoagland’s whereabouts, in exchange for a payment of thirty thousand pounds in untraceable notes, to be left in a designated spot at a designated time.
When she saw the amount, she gasped. But then perhaps the sender knew that Hoagland was the treasured employee of a generous marquess with umpteen ancestral homes and a very large stash of gold bars.
‘You shouldn’t have seen that, Palmeira. Give it to me.’
It was Hoagy. He looked ashen. ‘Please,’ he said. ‘Give it to me and I’ll destroy it.’
‘No.’
‘Give it to me.’
‘Look, Hoagy. I can’t lose you again.’
‘Well, you can’t really come where I’m going, I’m afraid.’
It was an uncharacteristically blunt thing to say, which made her all the more worried for him as he threw himself into a chair beside the window. The view behind him – usually of blue sky and twinkling sea (not to mention the hustle and bustle of hard-working pimps and pickpockets) – was today nothing but white. Mrs Groynes sat down, too. She was so anxious about Hoagland’s dismal state of mind that she struggled to breathe. What had he meant by you can’t really come where I’m going?
‘Look, Palmeira. I can see you’re upset, but I have no words of comfort. I’ve been thinking about this confounded situation, and I’ve made up my mind. His lordship doesn’t know it yet, but I have decided not to run away. Not again.’
‘What do you mean? You’ve got to save yourself.’
‘No. His lordship’s too good a man to abandon me, so I can’t tell him— ah. Oh, blast.’
Lord Melamine, they both suddenly realised, was standing in the doorway.
‘Tell me what, Hoagy?’
‘I’m so sorry, sir. I’ve packed up everything for you, and there’s a van coming soon to take most of the things to Albemarle Street. The gold and so on. But as for me—’
‘Does the vehicle have a reinforced floor, dear?’ interjected Mrs Groynes. She couldn’t help herself. She had visions of all the gold falling through and getting left in a heap on the north-bound carriageway of the London Road.
‘It does, thank you, Palmeira,’ Hoagland replied, with a pained expression.
‘Sorry, Hoagy. You were saying something important to his lordship.’
‘Yes,’ he sighed. ‘Yes, I was. The thing is, sir, I’m afraid you’ll think me very ungrateful after all these years together, and I can’t thank you enough for your kindness, but I just can’t run away any more.’
‘Of course you can,’ insisted Lord M. He sounded stricken. ‘You have to do this, Hoagy.’
‘No. No, I really don’t.’ He shook his head. ‘It’s hard for either of you, I think, to understand quite how little I care for this life, sir. I know we’re not supposed to dwell on that blasted war – ’
‘Oh, Hoagy,’ breathed Mrs Groynes.
‘ – it’s considered bad form, and I agree with that. We should put it behind us. But for some of us, there’s just no choice. When you’ve diced with death day after day; when you feel you’ve all but died a thousand times already; when you’ve seen people – friends – sordidly blown to pieces … ’
Mrs Groynes’s eyes filled with tears. He reached over to pat her hand.
‘I am so pleased that we found each other again, at least, Palmeira.’
She bit her lip. ‘I love you, Hoagy. I always did.’
Hoagland sighed and looked away, shaking his head. Much as she willed him to do it, he couldn’t bring himself to say that he loved her too. She knew why. It was because she had hurt him too badly in that Lyons Corner House of yore, over that damned congealing fried-egg-on-toast.
‘I think we could have been happy once,’ was as far as he would go. ‘But I’m tired of it all, you see. I wish I’d never crawled out of that blasted unfinished house. I wish I’d never survived Borough High Street!’
‘You often mention Borough High Street,’ said Mrs Rogers, gently (she’d been listening quietly from the doorway). ‘What happened there?’
Captain Hoagland’s face contorted at the memory. Lord Melamine answered for him. ‘It was a bomb in January 1941, Mrs Rogers. A bomb with – what was it – two fuses, Hoagy?’
Captain Hoagland sighed. ‘Yes, sir. A seventeen and a fifty. Three men were killed as the device was raised by rope and pulley.’
‘You hadn’t defused it first, then?’ said Mrs Rogers, puzzled.
Hoagland hung his head.
‘As I understand it, this one wasn’t ticking, Mrs Rogers,’ said Lord M. ‘And it had been in the ground for five days, which they believed at that time made it safe. But afterwards they said moving the bomb must have restarted the clock. Is that right, Hoagy?’
‘Yes, sir. The men were raising it. All I knew was a blinding flash, and then I was thrown twenty feet against a wall. I was in hospital – in God knows how many hospitals – for a long while afterwards. I had a long time to think about what had happened.’
‘It wasn’t your fault,’ whispered Mrs Groynes.
‘But it was, my dear. There is simply no escape from that. It really was my fault. And if the time has come for me to pay for it, then let it come. That’s what I say. Let it come.’
A knock at the front door made them all jump. Hoagland stood.
‘That will be the van, sir. I’ll tell them to come to the side entrance.’
Lord Melamine, Mrs Rogers and Mrs Groynes all exchanged looks. Their expressions were as blank and forlorn as the day outside. Hoagland, by contrast, seemed glad to have said his piece.
But he evidently hadn’t changed his mind about facing Marriott. As he was leaving the room, he bent close to Lord Melamine and whispered, ‘Ask Palmeira to stop clutching that note, would you, sir? Honestly, no one can do anything. There’s absolutely nothing to be done.’
Back at the station, Twitten came face to face with Inspector Steine for the first time in about a week. It was quite a shock. He had just popped back to collect the holdall. It was like running into someone you assumed was dead.
‘Gosh, sir. Good morning, sir. It’s you.’
‘Of course it’s me. Where is everybody?’ said Steine. ‘Where’s Mrs Groynes? I was hoping for a cup of tea.’
‘I don’t know, sir. She was here earlier.’
Twitten glanced at the holdall on the desk, next to the dossier. He was torn. Did he want to explain what was going on? No, he really didn’t want to do that. But on the other hand, did he have a duty to explain it?
Luckily, there was something else he could say for the time being.
‘Ooh, I have important news for you, sir,’ he said. ‘The Maison du Wax would like you to go and see your model this afternoon. They say their Inspector Steine figurine is a jolly triumph, sir. Although I have to say that Monsieur Tussard might not be the sternest judge of his own work, sir, even though he’s probably only pretending to be blind.’
Twitten stood awkwardly. He was hoping Steine would say ‘Well, carry on’ – but something seemed to be stopping him. He was evidently in a pensive frame of mind.
‘How good are you at making tea?’ said the inspector, waving at the accoutrements in Mrs Groynes’s corner of the office.
‘Bally awful, sir. But I could pop downstairs and ask for instructions, if you like.’
‘No, that’s all right.’
Steine pulled out Brunswick’s chair and sat in it, and waved to Twitten to sit down too. As he sat down at his own desk, he quickly moved the dossier and the holdall to the floor.
‘So how’s the delusion going?’
‘Sorry, sir?’
‘Oh, come on, Twitten. You know what I’m talking about. Do you still believe against all the evidence of your own eyes and ears that our uneducated cockney charwoman is an artful criminal? On a scale of one to ten?’
Twitten frowned. He couldn’t help remembering that the whole Argus operation was the brainchild of Mrs G. And what was it Sergeant Brunswick had said? You’ve got to get over this nonsense about Mrs Groynes. It will ruin your career if you don’t. On the other hand, honesty should always prevail.
‘I’m afraid it’s still ten, sir.’
Steine sighed a weary sigh. ‘Oh, well. And how’s the what-do-you-call-it – the case?’
‘I have reason to believe we’ll have cracked it by the end of the day, sir.’
‘Oh, good. Good old Brunswick.’
This wasn’t the time to tell Steine how useless his sergeant had been. Instead, Twitten decided to face the music regarding the Argus story. ‘Sir, I have to tell you something. I’m afraid that without your permission, sir, I am using a slightly unconventional subterfuge to flush out the murderer—’
But Steine wasn’t listening. ‘Do you realise, Twitten, that if it weren’t for that poor boy’s death, I might never have met my niece, Miss Vine?’
Such an abrupt change of subject was slightly bewildering.
‘Oh.’ Twitten searched for something platitudinous to say. ‘Well, I expect she’d have found her way to you sooner or later, sir.’
At this, Steine seemed satisfied, so it showed particularly bad judgement on Twitten’s part to press on by saying, ‘Sir, are you absolutely certain that Miss Vine is your niece?’
Steine eyed him steadily. ‘Yes, thank you, Twitten. I am perfectly certain.’
‘You don’t think a little caution … ?’
‘As it happens I met with her solicitor just this morning.’
‘What, already?’ Twitten could not disguise his alarm. ‘Oh, cripes, sir!’
‘What on earth do you mean?’
Twitten thought quickly. ‘Nothing, sir.’
‘You said cripes.’
‘Did I?’
‘Yes, you did. It was highly un-policemanlike.’
‘Then I’m very sorry, sir. But I do hope you didn’t sign anything, that’s all!’
Steine frowned. ‘Not that it’s any of your business, Constable, but our meeting concerned matters of inheritance that are highly complicated. I have been informed that it was inconvenient for Miss Vine’s prospects when I turned up in her life, so I needed to do the decent thing and – well, in fact, sign a few papers, yes. As I say, it’s very complicated but at the same time beautifully simple.’
Twitten bit his lip. ‘I’m sure it is, sir. And – and I apologise again for saying “cripes”. It was both unprofessional and a tiny bit blasphemous. Perhaps I should just tell you my news and then go? You see, we’ve planted a story in the Argus—’
Steine accepted the apology with a wave of his hand, but was still not interested in what Twitten had to say. ‘It’s really knocked me for six, all this.’
‘What has? Oh, are we still talking about Miss Vine?’
‘It’s made me think a lot about Mother.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And … Father.’
Twitten had now tried several times to deliver his confession to Inspector Steine. It was time to try a different approach.
‘Look, sir,’ he said, ‘can I take it that you’d rather I didn’t tell you about my slightly unconventional method for flushing out the murderer by planting a false story in the Argus?’
‘Absolutely right, Twitten.’
‘You don’t want me to tell you anything?’
‘Don’t tell me anything.’
‘Not even that it involves planting a story in a newspaper, which might constitute entrapment and thereby compromise any potential subsequent prosecution, sir?’
‘Not even that.’
Twitten jumped up. ‘In that case, may I borrow a few chaps to help with the arrest, sir?’
‘You may.’
That was all Twitten needed to hear. He grabbed the holdall, and started filling it with books to make up the right weight.
‘Thank you, sir,’ he said, cheerfully. ‘And I jolly well hope Miss Vine is your niece and not some beautiful confidence trickster worming her way into your affections and making you sign away your rights to some huge inheritance or other, as would be the obvious supposition, sir, to anyone not acquainted with the parties concerned.’
‘What?’
‘But I did see something jolly interesting about her in the dossier Peter Dupont assembled. I meant to tell you, but it slipped my mind.’
‘Something about Miss Vine?’
‘Yes. Dupont was present, you see, at one of the meetings concerning the formation of the Brighton Belles, and advised on a grammatical point. Apparently it was Adelaide Vine herself who first proposed the idea of the Brighton Belles to the council! Wasn’t that clever of her, sir? Part of the proceedings was to compose a letter of thanks, inviting her to be the first-ever Brighton Belle. That’s interesting, isn’t it, sir? Whether she’s really your niece or not, she’s definitely a very fine and upstanding young lady.’
Half an hour later, at the Argus, men in braces were busily ferrying page proofs in and out of the editor’s office; Ben Oliver was having a cup of muddy tea at his desk; Twitten was poring over the copy Ben had written.
‘This is perfect,’ he said. ‘Not a word untrue. It just omits to say that we know where the bag is, and have already digested its contents. It’s very clever, Mr Oliver. And I particularly appreciate the way you’ve pluralised me as “the tireless men of the Brighton Constabulary”.’
‘Yes, I thought you’d like that.’
The telephone rang on Oliver’s desk. The call was for Twitten.
‘It’s me, son,’ said a familiar voice.
‘Sergeant Brunswick?’ Twitten felt both relief and utter fury. ‘Where on earth have you been, sir?’
‘Where have I been? Where the flaming heck have you been? I’ve telephoned you at the station a dozen times! I finally got the inspector just now, and he suggested you might be at the Argus. What the flip are you doing there?’
‘Why didn’t you just come to the station to report once in a while, sir?’
‘Why didn’t I just come to the police station? Because I’m undercover!’
‘I have needed your bally help, sir!’
‘Look, it’s been frustrating for me too, Twitten. But as I am trying to explain—’
‘Why couldn’t you just change out of the disguise, sir? It’s only a quiff and a pair of shoes!’
‘Because I don’t want the Bensons to suspect anything.’
‘Well, if you’d communicated with me at all, I could have told you that the Bensons already do suspect you, sir.’
‘What? Oh, no.’
‘Yes, sir. But luckily they think you work for Terence Chambers.’
‘What?’
‘And, of course, they’re working for him in some capacity themselves. It’s likely that he killed Uncle Kenneth to keep them in line.’
Ben Oliver, who was pretending not to listen, doodled the word ‘Chambers’ on a piece of paper, added a series of exclamation marks and drew a circle round it. This did not escape Twitten.
‘Look, I can’t really speak here, sir,’ he said. ‘People might overhear. Can we meet?’
‘All right. How about the wax museum? Twenty minutes. In the horrors bit. But who the heck told you that the Bensons think I work for Terence Chambers? And who told you Chambers killed Kenneth Benson?’
‘I’m afraid I can’t say, sir.’
Brunswick’s money was running out, but Twitten shouted over the beeps, ‘But I’m jolly glad to hear your voice, sir!’
The Brighton Belles had less to do when the weather turned misty like this. There was no point promenading in your smart uniforms and little pillbox hats when no one could see you coming. But the council had provided them with a small, gaily painted caravan near the entrance to the West Pier, to which members of the public could come with their enquiries. At ten-thirty a.m. Adelaide and Phyllis had already been on duty for two hours, and had so far directed one person to the post office, and another to the nearest set of public lavatories. Neither enquiry had, disappointingly, necessitated speaking in a language other than plain English.
‘Phyllis, didn’t you say you had some information for the police?’ Adelaide said, suddenly.
‘It’s something I remembered from the day of the murder. I don’t suppose it’s important, but that sweet young constable did ask us to think about it.’
Adelaide narrowed her eyes and said, teasingly, ‘And you’d like any excuse to see him again, am I right?’
‘Addy, don’t say that!’ Phyllis reddened. (She couldn’t deny it.)
‘Well, I’m going in to see Uncle Geoffrey this afternoon. Why don’t you come with me?’
‘All right.’
‘About three o’clock?’
‘That’s perfect.’
Meanwhile, Mrs Groynes and Lord Melamine sat together in the morning room of Colchester House. Hoagland was downstairs with the tearful Mrs Rogers, supervising removals.
‘Look, this note,’ Mrs Groynes whispered. ‘It might not be as bad as we think. Hoagy is assuming the sender knows where Marriott is, knows all about what happened. Perhaps it’s all baloney, though.’
‘I’m afraid it might not be, my dear. Captain Hoagland didn’t want to alarm you, but he spotted the woman the other day. Here in Brighton. The woman Vivienne. He was in J. Sainsbury’s buying bacon and he spotted her in the mirror behind the counter.’
‘Oh, no.’
‘So it’s likely that Marriott is nearby.’
‘Why do you think they’ve asked for so much money? It’s a ridiculous amount.’
‘I expect, like everyone, they think I am rolling in cash! But in fact I’m not. I could certainly raise the sum – and I certainly would, to help Hoagy. He’s one in a million. But within the day? Impossible. These people want the money in just a few hours’ time. What does the note say again?’
From downstairs, they could hear the side door closing, and Captain Hoagland locking it from the inside. He would be back with them soon.
‘It says to leave the readies in a suitcase in the alley at the back here by half-past two. Look, Melamine, just between us, what if I could get the money together?’
He laughed. ‘Oh, my Lord, what a suggestion! I appreciate that you care for Captain Hoagland, but what are you going to do? Rob a bank?’
The Argus published a morning edition, but most people waited for the afternoon before they bought one. On a misty, nasty day like today, the sellers on the street corners had to work harder at shouting the headlines. The seller on the corner of Grenville Street was a man named Phil, who over the years had perfected his shout so that the original message, ‘Get your Evening Argus’, was now abbreviated to a singsong: ‘GIT-your-own-ARSE!’ In the early editions today the main story was about the upcoming beauty contest at the Black Rock swimming pool, to be judged by comedian Arthur Askey. ‘Git your lully gels! Git your own arse! I thank you!’
Members of the Black Cat band passed this man every day, and all of them bought their papers from him. It was part of their cover, to show interest in local news. Only Tommy Drumsticks was a genuine avid reader of the paper. He had a particular interest in the disappearance of Humbug Hastings; since the killing of Dickie George, he had bought virtually every edition, hoping for follow-up news.
The assault had been a terrible thing – swift and brutal. Drumsticks had witnessed it himself, being in the crowd at the time, watching the humbug demonstration, as always. The shock when Dickie appeared behind Hastings’s back, like an apparition! The way he stood there, blinking against the dazzling light of day, and then held out an accusing hand, as if to say, ‘You! Drumsticks! Why did you do this to me?’ And then – struck down, dead.
It was Dickie’s own fault, of course. He had been about to help the girl get away.
I had to do something, Drumsticks told himself. I had to stop her going away with that silly boy.
He bought a paper from Phil, and riffled through it. There was nothing on Hastings. He glanced across the road to the rock shop, closed until further notice. The large roll of striped, malleable humbug mixture that had been abandoned by the master sweet-maker (when Hastings, seeing what he had done, dropped everything and fled the building), had quickly subsided and spread across the table, forming long drips and puddles on the floor. While other people called for the police, Drumsticks had stood there watching as the mixture sank and hardened, thinking it the saddest sight he had ever seen in his life.
As midday struck, many things were happening simultaneously (as they generally are). At the Argus, page proofs of the story were being checked by printers. At the railway station, Ben Oliver was briefing Ted. At the wax museum, Brunswick (minus quiff ) was lurking behind an ill-lit and dusty display of the Princes in the Tower being strangled by professional murderers whose faces had (at a guess) originally been modelled to represent Henry Irving and Ellen Terry. In the fog, Henry Hastings hid, shivering, behind a pillar underneath the West Pier. At Colchester House, Captain Hoagland was securing shutters and patting Mrs Rogers on the shoulder. And at the police station, Mrs Groynes was unlocking her secret cupboard in the office, with the intention of removing cash to the value of thirty thousand pounds.
The telephone rang. It was Dupont’s bothersome aunt, calling from Eastbourne. Could she please leave a message for Constable Twitten? It might have a bearing on poor Peter’s death. With a sigh, Mrs Groynes picked up a pencil and asked her to proceed.
The meeting between Brunswick and Twitten was a trifle one-sided, when considered from the exchange-of-information point of view. Besides seeing Mrs Groynes enjoying a kiss with an unknown man in Grenville Street yesterday afternoon, Brunswick had virtually nothing to report. He had heard Frank Benson shout in a threatening manner at a few staff members, but by and large the fabulous vantage point he was supposed to have gained by being onstage at the Black Cat every night had benefited their investigations very little. He hadn’t even known that Deirdre had run away. On the plus side, he was getting more solos than ever – but from the warning look in Twitten’s eye, Brunswick thought this might not be the right time to dwell on his moments of transcendent performance.
‘Look, sir. There is one thing you could do for me,’ said Twitten. ‘Dupont gave Deirdre one of those record-your-own-voice discs; he mentions in his notebooks that he wishes he’d done it better, but he was feeling scared; he was sure he was being followed. Now, what Mrs Groynes thinks—’
He stopped himself. What a slip!
‘Sorry, what I think, rather, is that the killer is someone who was “soft” on Deirdre – jealous because Peter Dupont was taking her away. And it’s my hope that this record might tell us something. Do you think you could search for it, sir? In Deirdre’s room? It’s possible she took it with her, of course; but it’s also possible that she wouldn’t know its significance, you see.’
As he meekly took these orders from Twitten (and saw the state he was in), the sergeant realised for the first time how totally and dismally worthless he had been to the investigation. He experienced a wave of shame. Leaving the whole case in the hands of a raw twenty-two-year-old constable? What had he been thinking?
‘You’ve done very well, son,’ he said, generously.
‘Really, sir? That’s very kind of you but I’m afraid I can’t agree. I feel the whole thing has been completely out of my grasp! I had a complete breakdown this morning in the office. Mrs Groynes was very kind.’
‘Well, good. I’m glad to hear you’re getting on better with her. I suppose the inspector hasn’t been much help?’
‘Oh, he’s too bally obsessed with the idea of Adelaide Vine being his niece.’
‘What? Why should he think that?’
‘Because—’ Twitten paused. ‘We really don’t have time, sir.’
‘Look, I can pull out of the Black Cat, son, if you like. It’s not fair.’
‘No. I think we’ve got enough chaps now for the stake-out at the railway station this afternoon. Do try to find that record, though, sir. I sometimes feel as if the identity of this killer is being shouted and shouted at me, but I just can’t hear the name!’
An hour later, at the Argus office, the page proof containing Oliver’s story was given its last reading in the newsroom, then a messenger boy carried it down the corridor towards the rackety, smelly realm of the compositors, known as the stone. Oliver and Twitten followed the boy until he reached the thick leather flaps that marked the transition from journalism to hot metal: there they stopped and watched the lad shoulder his way through. The page had gone to press. It could not be changed now. Within the hour the first copies would hit the streets of Brighton, and be read by thousands of people. But the gamble was that one man – one unknown murdering man, either a hardened criminal, or a man with commando-type training – would read the story, panic, and head for the railway station with his Left Luggage ticket clutched in his sweaty hand.
Twitten and Oliver went straight to Brighton Station. The ‘chaps’ Twitten had recruited were allocated their positions. The hands on the big station clock showed ten-past-one. But if you looked at them intently enough (as Twitten did), you could watch the minute slowly pass.
Captain Hoagland had a lot to say about Palmeira coming up with the money for the extortionists, but the main thing he said was an angry ‘no’.
Meanwhile the main thing Lord Melamine said was an astonished, ‘But I thought you had a job as a charwoman!’
‘It’s a long story, dear,’ said Mrs G. ‘I’ve got the money, that’s the main thing.’
Together, they all looked at the wheelable trunk she had just breathlessly arrived with.
‘But where … ?’
‘Just don’t ask. And don’t tell that housekeeper of yours, either, for gawd’s sake. You’ve let her get much too close, Lord M; you’ve both told her far too much about yourselves. Hasn’t it occurred to you that she might have written that letter?’
‘What, Mrs Rogers?’ laughed Hoagland.
‘Look, let me do this, Hoagy. I want to. I have to.’
‘But you don’t, my dear,’ he argued, calmly. ‘That’s where you’re wrong. You seem to be under some illusion that you owe me something, but it wasn’t your fault I fell in with those awful people. It had nothing to do with you. It wasn’t your fault that I failed to notice a bomb near London Bridge had started ticking again either.’
‘We haven’t got time for this, my darling,’ she said. ‘The money needs to be put in position, and soon.’
Hoagland shook his head.
‘If you won’t take it, I’ll bleeding well go and put the money there myself.’ She indicated the trunk that had, interestingly, been recently used for a very similar purpose – when the thirty thousand had been removed from the basement of a bank in North Street.
‘No, you won’t.’
‘Just watch me.’
She started lugging it towards the stairs to the side door.
‘Oh, please take it from her, Hoagy,’ said Melamine. ‘I don’t quite understand what’s going on here, but surely we should never knowingly let a woman put herself in the way of danger?’
Captain Hoagland shot her an accusing look.
‘This really offends me, Palmeira,’ he said, coolly.
‘Oh, just take it,’ said Melamine. ‘Please.’
And so Captain Hoagland, furious, disappeared down the staircase, heaving the trunk behind him.
‘I’ll help,’ called Melamine. Then he turned to Mrs Groynes and said, ‘You wait there, promise me?’
‘I promise.’
Mrs Groynes watched them both struggle with the trunk to the bottom of the short flight of stairs, where they opened the door and went outside.
‘Take care, Hoagy!’ she called. ‘Please take care!’
And then she heard a car engine start, and two car doors slam, and a jubilant cry of ‘We did it!’ as the car drove quickly off.
Brunswick had rarely been inside the Black Cat during daylight hours, but Ma Benson accepted his story that he needed to get something from the dressing room; believing him to be an employee of Terence Chambers, she felt she’d better not stand in his way.
‘The boys are out, Kevin,’ she said. ‘We’ve – we’ve had a bit of trouble. My daughter Deirdre seems to have run away.’
‘So I heard,’ said Brunswick. It was very strange to realise that Ma Benson was partly afraid of him. It was also very strange to look at her and see a woman worried out of her mind. She was puffing away on her churchwarden pipe like nobody’s business.
‘Look, Kevin. It’s not you, is it, that took Deirdre? Do you know where she is?’
‘No, I’m sorry. But I’ll gladly help you find her.’
‘Tell me what you’re looking for.’
‘A record,’ he said. A few minutes ago, the idea of telling Ma Benson why he was here would have been unthinkable. But now it just seemed the quickest way to achieve results.
‘Come with me,’ she said, and led him up to Deirdre’s bedroom. On the way, he explained that the record had been made by young Peter Dupont in the Voice-o-Graph on the Palace Pier.
‘Really? In one of those machines?’ She pulled a face. ‘You’d think Brighton Rock would have put paid to those completely, wouldn’t you?’
‘I know,’ laughed Brunswick. ‘That’s what I said.’
In the Lilley & Skinner shoebox under the bed, there it was.
‘We’d better play it,’ said Ma Benson. And downstairs to the club they went, record in hand.
At ten to three, Tommy Drumsticks bought the Argus and read the story about the missing dossier. So did Henry Hastings and Frank Benson, along with hundreds of holiday-makers and railway passengers alighting from the trains. From Twitten’s hiding place behind the W. H. Smith bookstall, he watched as the paper dispersed in a hundred directions. It was like a News Cinema ‘Look at Life’ on how the newspaper industry worked. He signalled to Ben Oliver, who was leaning against the fruit stall, pretending to peel an orange. They grinned at each other. This really was thrilling. Every time a new person went into the Left Luggage office, they held their breath. Twitten had a moment of confusion when he thought he saw Mrs Groynes going in – but then he decided it must have been his own tiredness tricking him, as the woman didn’t come out again.
Everyone had been briefed about the holdall. The moment they saw the man emerge with it, they were to pounce. More papers flowed from the news-stand in the station.
‘Git yor own arse!’ yelled vendors from street corners all over town. ‘Git yor own arse!’
People were reading it in deck-chairs, in the library, in pubs, in Luigi’s ice-cream parlour and at the police station. On their way to see Inspector Steine, Phyllis and Adelaide bought a copy, which made them quicken their step.
Brunswick and Ma Benson were listening together to Peter Dupont’s record in the bar-room of the Black Cat. They were both in tears.
‘What a sweet boy!’ Ma Benson sobbed.
‘He does sound very nice, yes!’ sniffed Brunswick. ‘And so scared!’
They had listened as Peter said how much he loved Deirdre and how he was anxious about whether he was old enough to cope with everything that was happening: the outrageous bribing of the council officials not to investigate problems with the drains (Ma Benson looked a bit worried that he knew about that), and prising Deirdre away from her scary relations (Ma Benson looked shifty). But then, when he started talking about how he’d been threatened and nearly run over, Ma Benson looked simply confused – and then Peter spotted the man in the crowd watching them both as he made the record.
There’s a man watching us now, Deirdre, even as I’m saying this. He’s been following us about. He’s wearing dark glasses and a doorman’s uniform with medals on, like you see on the men opening the door for people at the Grand and the Metropole. And he’s a bit bent over. I keep thinking, it can’t be Captain Hoagland, can it? But he walks like Captain Hoagland, he’s got the same limp. But now the light’s flashing and I have to stop—
‘So who’s this Hoagland?’ said Ma. But Brunswick was already heading for the door.
‘I have to be somewhere, I’m afraid,’ he called back. ‘But thank you.’
At the police station, Adelaide and Phyllis, clutching their Argus, ran up the stairs to Uncle Geoffrey’s office.
‘Phyllis has remembered something, Uncle Geoffrey,’ panted Adelaide, as they burst in. ‘Is your Constable Twitten here? She needs to tell him something.’
‘Could she tell me instead?’
Phyllis, leaning against the wall while she got her breath back, was clearly disappointed to be dealing with the monkey instead of the organ-grinder.
‘We thought Constable Twitten was in charge of the case,’ explained Adelaide, confused.
‘Look, young lady,’ said Steine, ‘if you’ve got information—’
‘It was when we were going down the steps from the promenade!’ panted Phyllis. ‘A man pushed past me, and I didn’t think anything of it at the time. It was a man in a doorman’s uniform, and he had a very distinctive limp!’
At the railway station, Twitten watched as two businessmen, a secretary, a conscripted soldier and a limping hotel doorman entered the Left Luggage office together in a group. He had been in position for less than an hour but was already finding the tension unbearable. A dozen questions passed through his mind. Might the murderer not come in person? Might he send the doorman from his hotel? Might it be a woman, after all? The only thing they had to go on was the holdall. Wait for that holdall! Wait for the holdall!
And then Sergeant Brunswick appeared in view, evidently puffed out from running, and looking round for Twitten.
‘Over here!’ he called.
‘It’s someone called Hoagland,’ panted Brunswick. ‘The man who followed Dupont.’
‘But why would Captain Hoagland—?’
Twitten never got to finish his question. From the Left Luggage office came the sound of a kerfuffle: raised voices, then a bang and a scream. The swing doors burst open with several women running out, shouting, ‘A gun! A gun!’ – among them the woman who reminded Twitten of Mrs Groynes. Staff and passengers on the concourse scattered and hid, and there was a further bang from outside the station, followed by more screams.
Immediately, all the chaps on lookout abandoned their positions and ran to the Left Luggage office where they found poor old Ted, pointing down to an unmoving figure on the ground. It was dressed as a doorman, and in its deathly grip was the canvas holdall. It was Captain Philip Hoagland, formerly of the 35th Bomb Disposal Company. And he was dead.