Thursday, 9th November—Evening.
Veronica and Claire returned to Chesterton Hotel early that evening with the plan fixed. At eight o’clock Forester joined them for dinner in the hotel restaurant. Veronica enjoyed the tales he told of his police career, although she noticed he seemed rather short for breath at times.
He noticed her scrutiny and gave a rueful shake of the head. “I was gassed in the war, Mrs. Nash. Not as badly as some poor beggars, but enough to make me short of breath. I can’t chase after the crooks like I used to.” He cracked a smile. “Luckily, my rank means I don’t have to.”
After dinner, Forester settled the bill, refusing Fielding’s offer to waive it. “We don’t want to be accused of accepting favours, sir.”
Veronica hid a grin at Fielding’s obvious discomfort. The man had been warned that everything should appear as normal, yet he’d still fussed around the restaurant, to the obvious surprise of its manager.
Fielding leaned closer to Forester, gave a quick and manifestly suspicious glance around and lowered his voice. “Everything is ready, Inspector. The live-in staff are otherwise occupied and clear of the staff bedroom corridor.”
“Then let us proceed with the next stage of the plan.”
Veronica could tell from Forester’s expression he was annoyed at Fielding’s behaviour as the latter led the way to the staff wing. Thankfully, the manager’s role in the affair ended at her bedroom door. Veronica let them in and closed the door, locking it behind her.
Forester looked around, and her face burned at the genteel shabbiness the rooms seemed to exude. With some of her less necessary items already packed away for the move, they looked even more threadbare than usual. I’m thankful I’ll be out of the rooms and the hotel altogether come evening tomorrow.
Forester gave her a polite smile. “Very nice, ma’am. Now, I would suggest we sit and wait here until eleven o’clock. It won’t matter if you make a noise at all, but Miss Sibfield-Murray and I had better keep quiet. We don’t want to tip-off our suspect to the fact you’re not alone tonight. At eleven, we’ll go through and sit in your bedroom. At that point, we must be as quiet as church mice. Is that all clear?”
Claire nodded. “Perfectly clear.” She gave him an impish smile. “Two women alone in a room with a man? What a scandal would ensue if we weren’t on police business.”
He gave her a look of remonstrance. “There’ll be no scandals tonight, miss. As you say, we’re about police business. Had I the choice, there’d be a woman police constable with us for the sake of propriety. But unfortunately, the government saw fit to cut women coppers out of the budget.”
Claire snorted. “Short-sighted philistines.”
“On this occasion, I quite agree.” He sat heavily on the bedroom chair. “Now, Mrs. Nash, how about making us all a nice cup of tea?”
She made tea and offered slices of a new fruit cake. It made a distinctively odd meal to sit in silence for so long with two other people in the room. Yet no conversation could occur, through fear of tipping-off the murderer should he—or she—be nearby.
After they’d eaten, Claire read Veronica’s Tommy and Tuppence novel. Forester had brought a newspaper, which he read from cover to cover, borrowing a pencil to do the crossword. Veronica wrote letters to her mother and James, sparing her mother any mention of murders but giving James every detail. Concentrating on writing gave her a headache after a few minutes. The bruise on her forehead throbbed until she fetched a flannel and soaked it in cold water from the ewer. Pressing the flannel to her head offered immediate relief, enabling her to continue writing.
Claire put down the book and watched her in silence for a while, concern written on her face. She got up and fetched a headache powder from her purse, poured it into a glass, and added water. She stirred it, then handed the fizzing mixture to Veronica. In a near whisper, she insisted, “Drink this, old thing. It’ll help.”
Veronica put down the flannel and accepted the glass with a grateful smile. “Thank you.”
Claire put a cool hand to Veronica’s forehead, avoiding direct contact with the bruised area. “Are you able to do this tonight? We can call it off if you don’t feel up to it.”
“I’m fine, really.” Veronica squeezed Claire’s hand. “We’re rather committed now, and I’d prefer to see it through.”
Forester gave her a nod in approval. Claire gave her an if you say so look, then returned to her chair.
Eventually, eleven o’clock rolled around. Veronica sighed in relief as the persistent headache faded. At Forester’s nod, they retired to Veronica’s bedroom, extinguishing the light in her sitting room, and closing the connecting door until it stood just off the latch.
Forester lowered his voice to the merest whisper. “Remember, we don’t know when this suspect will appear, or even if they’ll appear. Be prepared to move at any moment. Remember also, the hotel is being watched by my men. They’ll be in here quick as a flash the moment I blow my whistle.”
He produced the thick silver police whistle from his pocket and kept it to hand. Veronica felt her pulse mount. From the sparkle in Claire’s eyes, she shared the same excitement.
Veronica turned off the light, leaving only a small oil lamp lit and turned down low. They settled down to wait, the long hours stretching away, punctuated by the chimes of distant clocks.
She must have dozed off, for she came-to with a start to find Forester’s hand over her mouth. He put his lips close to her ear, his voice the barest whisper. “There’s movement outside.”
In the dim light from the lamp, her night-accustomed vision saw he’d drawn his police-issue revolver. Claire sat across from her, wide-eyed, her face pale. Even that glimpse of her companions was short-lived, for Forester extinguished the lamp with a swift twist of the knob. The room plunged into a near-darkness in which the only illumination came from the curtained window.
Veronica heard a stealthy movement at the door to the passageway. The hinges to her entry door usually made a faint creak, and she heard them now as it opened. A pause of several heartbeats followed, and she found herself holding her breath.
Soft footsteps crossed her sitting room and stopped outside her bedroom door. Our nocturnal visitor is listening just outside. Oh gosh! All three of us here are holding our breath. It would be absurd to have no sounds of breathing in a room supposedly holding a sleeper.
Veronica let out a soft snore and felt Forester twitch close by. She took a breath, long and slow, then snored again. The footsteps moved away. A few moments later, Veronica heard the sound of her desk drawer opening.
Forester touched her hand. In the gloom, she saw his bulky figure moving cat-like to the bedroom door. She reached for and caught Claire’s hand in the dark.
The inspector threw open the bedroom door, snapping on his torch as he did so. Pinned in the beam was the weaselly figure of Charlie Mitchell. He’d opened a drawer in her bureau and stood transfixed with his hand inside it.
Forester levelled his revolver. “Hold it right there, you!”
He put his whistle to his lips, but Mitchell moved swiftly. Wrenching the drawer from Veronica’s desk, he hurled it at the policeman. Forester swore and deflected the clumsy missile, dropping his revolver and whistle in the process. Mitchell made for the door.
Veronica dashed through on Forester’s footsteps. She snatched up his revolver, aimed it at the ceiling above Mitchell’s head, and pulled the trigger.
The pistol flash lit the room. The weapon bucked in her hands, almost flying free with the recoil. A loud report crashed in her ears, magnified in the confines of her sitting room. Plaster flew from the wall above the door, a big chunk falling to hit Mitchell on the head as he jerked the door open. He staggered and yelled. “I’m hit!”
Forester’s whistle cut the air and was answered by others outside. The big policeman stuffed the whistle back in his coat pocket and gently took the revolver from Veronica.
“I’ll have that now, madam.” She saw him trying not to smile as he aimed the pistol at Mitchell. “You’re nicked, sunshine!”
“A satisfactory ending to a good night’s work, I think, ladies.” Forester sat back in his office chair with a broad smile.
One of the constables on duty had rustled up mugs of cocoa for the inspector and his guests.
Veronica sipped hers and frowned. “To be honest, I didn’t suspect Mitchell. Has he confessed to killing the captain?”
“Not yet. He won’t admit to anything, but we’ll crack him in the end.” Forester had a gleam in his eye. “These blokes usually do crack when given the choice between the noose and a lifetime in gaol.”
Veronica shied away from the thought of hanging. “I never thought he’d have been capable of killing Captain Brooke in such a way with one arm.”
Forester shrugged. “He’s developed considerable strength in his arm and body to compensate. Regular work heaving suitcases and such all day long would help there I think.”
Claire licked the cocoa from her top lip. “How did Mitchell manage to get into the captain’s room?”
“We think he purloined the master keys from the housekeeper’s room whilst she was away that night,” Forester explained. “He’s used to sneaking around. Turns out he was a trench raider during the war. Those lads were trained to be stealthy. Slipping through a hotel he knew well was a piece of cake to him, by night or not.”
Veronica nodded. “He was certainly stealthy enough to avoid waking Alison Lovey. I do hope we can avoid bringing her into court over this. Fielding would sack her on the spot if he knew what she and Mitchell were doing.”
“Yes.” Forester pursed his lips. “I’ll need a statement from her, of course, but I’m sure we can keep her out of the picture. Mitchell was caught dead to rights, both for murder and blackmail. We searched his room, of course. The folder Mr. Chapman’s so keen to recover was hidden in a suitcase under Mitchell’s bed.”
Veronica sighed. “I suspect Mitchell learned of the folder when he was repairing the pumps under the bar at the hotel. The fault in the beer pumping system had put it out of use that evening. Mitchell tried to make repairs. It’s easy enough to be out of sight behind the bar, yet still be within earshot of the nearer tables in the restaurant. I discovered that when a repairman suddenly popped-up after I’d spoken with Chapman there. I think you’ll find Captain Brooke and Chapman sat at that end of the room for the sake of privacy, not suspecting Mitchell was lurking behind the bar.”
“I think you have the right of it, ma’am. We’ll question Mitchell about it later. He won’t wriggle out of this.”
“What will happen to Chapman?” Claire asked. “That rotter should pay for his misdeeds during the war.”
“I discussed the matter with my superintendent, and we’re of a like mind. The German letter and my report went off by special courier to the War Office within an hour of our discussing the options. I think they’ll be having a word with Chapman before long.” Forester scowled. “I don’t like cowards, although I can understand men who break in battle. Even so, Chapman was an officer. They’re supposed to set a good example.”
Veronica sniffed. “He quite let the side down.”
Forester nodded. “He did.”
Claire looked thoughtful. “You might want to talk to Mr. Chapman’s chauffeur, Tom Thurston. He told us he and Chapman served together. Thurston mentioned he’d also been a trench raider.”
“That’s interesting.” Forester jotted a note on his desk blotter. “Thanks for the tip-off. I’ll follow up on that.” He peered up at them. “We’ll need you both to bear witness against Mitchell in court if you can make yourselves available.”
Veronica smiled. “That won’t be any trouble, Inspector. No doubt the legal beagles will be in touch. I’m just glad we can close this chapter and bring some solace to Captain Brooke’s family.”
“Indeed.” He slapped his desktop as if bringing down a gavel on proceedings. “I’ll arrange for a car to drive you home, ladies.” Standing, he went to the door to see them out. “Where will you go once you leave Chesterton Hotel, Mrs. Nash?”
Veronica had thought about that very thing often enough. “Miss Sibfield-Murray has invited me to live with her in London. Once I’ve arranged for my things to be delivered to her home in Chelsea, there’s one thing I must do. Now we’ve established Captain Brooke was murdered, he can receive a decent funeral. I’m going to wire his sister and tell her the good news. Although Brooke was not the man I thought him to be, I think he was more sinned against than sinning. If his sister’s willing, I’ll attend his funeral. I owe Sylvester Brooke that much.”
Chesterton Hotel was besieged by journalists when they got back. Out front, a constable kept the horde at bay, assisted by the doorman. The police car drew up before the entrance, and the driver, a constable, alighted to aid his comrade in keeping the press at bay. Shouted questions filled the air as Veronica and Claire ducked inside.
Roddy lurked in one of the comfortable old leather chairs in the lobby. He stood to greet them as they entered. “What ho, old things!”
Veronica looked at him, askance. “What ho to you, and see how you like it. Wherever have you been hiding?”
He looked shifty. “Oh, here and there.” He made to say something else, but she held up her hand.
“Before you utter another word, you can think out a reason to explain why you were in my rooms the other day.”
Claire gasped.
Roddy blinked. “Ah, that...”
Claire looked at him. “You were in Ronnie’s rooms?”
“I can explain!”
Veronica found herself enjoying his discomfiture. It seems I’ve caught the actor on the hop because his reaction shows the real man. “Please do.”
He looked around. No one hovered near. Although the three of them were getting a lot of odd looks from both staff and guests, no one wanted to intrude upon them.
Roddy sighed. “Very well, here’s how it is. What my uncle got up to during the war is something of a mystery. My family respected his wishes and didn’t quiz him on his experiences. We just left sleeping dogs to lie, don’t you know.
“Then one day, before Halloween, I was around his place for luncheon with my aunt when Uncle stormed into the room in a frightful mood. He didn’t see me there and railed to my poor aunt about some chap called Brooke who’d made threats against him. He’d mentioned a folder full of stuff about my uncle which would get him into a lot of hot water, should the facts it contained be revealed.
“Naturally, I wanted to help out.” He looked sheepish. “I admit it wasn’t entirely out of the goodness of my heart. I saw an advantage to myself in the situation. My reasoning was, should I find and recover the folder for the old boy, my name would be golden, and my brow crowned with laurels as far as he was concerned.
“I booked a room here, although my shortage of cash made it rather a tight thing to do. Come the Halloween bash at Beatrice’s place, I took the chance to slip away and head back to Norwich in my Citroën.”
Claire cocked her head. “So you didn’t sleep with my auntie after all?”
“Um, no. I wanted to.” He regarded Claire with a look of earnestness and turned a deep shade of red. “Er, that is to say...”
Veronica shook her head. “Just go on, Roddy.” She fixed him with a steely look. “We’re not interested in whom you did or did not sleep with, understand?”
“Ah, yes. Anyway.” He swallowed. “I came here and found out which room this chap Brooke was staying in. It was easy enough to do. The night manager fellow left the desk on some errand as I came up to the lobby door. I was able to get a glance at the register. After that, I made my way to Brooke’s room—and found him dead.”
Claire blanched. “Oh, God, Roddy!”
“Yes, quite. I’m not happy about it either, old thing. I saw at a glance things had gone far beyond mere blackmail. This was something else entirely.
“I wiped my fingerprints from the door handle and departed the scene for my own room. I laid low there until the morning when the uproar began over the discovery of his body.” Roddy gave Veronica a soulful look. “I’m awfully sorry you saw that.”
“So am I.” Something occurred to her. “How did you gain entrance to Sylvester’s room?”
“With a lock-pick.” When they both looked at him, Roddy spread his hands. “Look, an actor acquires all kinds of odd little skills during his career, don’t you know. Picking locks was something I had to learn for a play I was in.” He ventured a smile. “Actually, I became rather good at it.”
Veronica rolled her eyes. “So why were you in my rooms, Roddy?”
“No one mentioned finding a folder when Brooke’s room was searched, and Uncle Bob was going spare. I knew you’d found the poor fellow’s body and deduced you might also have found the folder and recognised it for what it was.” He spread his hands. “You’re not well-off, Ronnie. You might have had blackmail in mind.”
She glared at him. Any residual tender feelings I held for you, Roddy Bascombe, have just died a quiet death. “I may be poor, but I am not a criminal!”
“Well, look here, I didn’t mean—”
“I’m sure you didn’t.” Veronica linked arms with Claire. “Goodbye, Mr. Bascombe.”
They walked away.
Roddy pursued, stepping in front of them to bar their path. “But dash it all! I really am fearfully sorry.” He made as if to touch Veronica’s shoulder, but she shrugged away. He let his hand drop, and his expression turned hangdog. “What will you do now?”
Veronica looked at Claire, who smiled back. “I’ll be staying with my old school chum here for a few weeks until I sort out what to do. Hopefully, our lives will be a lot quieter for a while. As for you, I think you’d better avoid coming anywhere near us in future. Cheerio!”
Veronica was glad she didn’t have to face sleeping in her rooms one last night. She fetched her night things, noticing as she packed a small valise, how the musty air in her rooms still reeked of cordite. Her alarm clock showed a scant few hours left until Chesterton Hotel woke again for another day. Not that I need concern myself with any of that ever again.
She spent the night in Claire’s suite, using the bed in the adjoining room intended for a personal maid. After all the excitement of the night, they slept soundly.