Stratton stopped at the corner of Aylesford Street and blew his nose. Hoping he wasn’t coming down with anything, he turned up his collar against the wind. Across Grosvenor Road, the Thames was the colour of khaki, and the sunless November sky made the buildings look forlorn and shabby. Tired, he thought. We’re all tired, even the bricks. Jenny had reminded him, over breakfast – mainly, he thought, in an effort to talk about something unconnected to Reg and Johnny – that Sunday was Armistice Day. Well, the last war had been futile … was this one really going to be any different? Our Glorious Dead – brother Tom – all for nothing. God, it had better be worth it, this time.
As he climbed the stairs to Forbes-James’s flat, the thing he’d been trying very hard not to think of all morning – what Donald had said afterwards – came back to him. That was the trouble with people like Reg: feeling sorry for them made you despise them more, not less, than you did already, and that, in turn, made you feel a complete and utter shit. Caught suddenly by a wave of self-disgust, he stopped in his tracks and stood for a moment before – not entirely successfully – shrugging it off and continuing upwards. At least, he reflected, the events of last night had stopped him worrying too much about what might happen this morning.
The minute Miss Mentmore answered the door, he knew that something had happened. The telephonist’s manner, though just as pleasant and friendly as on previous occasions, had a tightness about it, and her normally brisk knock on the office door was, he thought, distinctly tentative.
Forbes-James was seated behind his desk as usual, but there was none of his normal preamble of burrowing fruitlessly amongst his papers for his lighter or grumbling about his office harem moving
his things. Instead, he said, ‘You’re here. Good. Sit down.’ Stratton did so. ‘Bit of bad news, I’m afraid. Sir Neville Apse has committed suicide.’
Allowing this to sink in, Stratton found himself not entirely surprised, and wondered if he had, subconsciously, been expecting something of the sort. Unable to voice any of this, he said, ‘I see.’
‘It happened last night,’ said Forbes-James, ‘In his flat. I’ve made the necessary arrangements. The body will be sent home, and I shall travel up to see his wife this afternoon.’
‘What makes you sure it was suicide?’ asked Stratton. ‘Surely, a postmortem will—’
‘Apse hanged himself,’ said Forbes-James. ‘My neighbour, Dr Pyke, has performed the necessary inspection. Under the circumstances, we naturally wish to spare Lady Violet further distress.’
‘I see,’ said Stratton, again. ‘Who found him?’
‘Unfortunately, it was Mrs Calthrop. She was extremely upset.’ I’m not bloody surprised, thought Stratton. ‘I blame myself for that,’ continued Forbes-James. ‘It was my understanding that Apse had gone home for a few days, and I sent her over there to collect some papers. There was no reason to think … With hindsight, I should have gone myself. I realised what must have happened as soon as I saw her face.’
‘What time did she find him, sir?’ They hadn’t left Soho until around nine o’clock, and Forbes-James’s last words suggested that she’d made the discovery and come straight to him with the news.
‘About ten o’clock. She’d been working late.’
‘Where is she now?’
‘Here. Asleep, I hope. Dr Pyke gave her a sedative. Fortunate that he was here.’
Yes, thought Stratton, wasn’t it just? ‘Did Sir Neville leave a note?’ he asked.
‘If he did, we haven’t found it yet. It’s possible that he may have put something in the post for Lady Violet, of course, but I doubt it.’
‘What will you tell her?’
‘I certainly shan’t go into details,’ Forbes James replied. ‘Strain. War nerves. That sort of thing. Could happen to anyone.’ He shook his head. ‘Bad business.’ Or maybe not such a bad business, thought Stratton, depending which way you looked at it.
‘Of course,’ Forbes-James continued, ‘It does mean that we may safely conclude our investigation. I shall, of course, be making a full report, and your co-operation will be noted.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘On the matter of your nephew, who I am told will be released this morning without charge, the police at Tottenham are not – unless the lad has told them himself, of course – aware of the family connection, and neither are your superiors at Great Marlborough Street. I am sure you would not wish them to be apprised of it, and I can see no reason why they should be.’ Forbes-James looked intently at Stratton before adding, ‘All things being equal, that is.’
‘I understand, sir.’
‘Good. I hardly need remind you that you are a public servant, and that confidentiality is vital, especially at the moment. As I say, your co-operation has been noted, and I shall give a favourable account of your work to your superiors. However, you must be clear that in the event of any … dispute, shall we say, over the facts of the case, my word would, of course, be accepted in preference to …’ He made an open handed that’s-just-how-things-are gesture. ‘I’m sure you understand this.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Just as you also understand that there is no question of charging Mr Marks, Mr Wallace or Mr Curran with anything connected to our recent activities. We cannot risk any part of this matter coming to public attention. Mr Duke’s body must, of necessity, remain unidentified. After all,’ – here, the corners of Forbes-James’s mouth turned up slightly in what might or might not have been a smile – ‘a funeral service has already been conducted for his benefit, if not for his corpse.’
‘What about Mrs Symmonds?’ asked Stratton.
‘Mrs … ? Oh, you mean the woman who claimed to be his wife. I’m afraid you’ll have to tell her that the identification – which in any case had not been officially made when you spoke to her – proved to be incorrect. I don’t imagine she’ll make any trouble.’
No, thought Stratton, remembering the pathetic room, the torn coat and the corn plaster, the wretched woman will simply go on hoping that one day her man will turn up and marry her.
‘Miss Morgan’s unfortunate demise has been officially pronounced upon, so there’s no difficulty there. If Marks or Wallace
show any inclination to complain about the treatment they have received, which I rather doubt, you may refer the matter to me, but otherwise I think we can safely say that our business is concluded.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘Have you any questions about what I have said?’
None that can be answered, thought Stratton, you’ve just made quite sure of that. Forbes-James, he was certain, would be entirely ruthless about protecting his own reputation as well as Sir Neville’s, and one toe out of line would see his own reputation, such as it was, go up in smoke, taking his career along with it. But a desire to salvage something of his pride, however small – to let Forbes-James know that two could play at this game – made him look the man in the eye and say, ‘No, sir. You need have no concerns about my ability to remain discreet,’ before turning his head for a moment to gaze at the Henry Scott-Whatsit painting of the naked boy bather, and adding, ‘I fully understand the delicacy of the situation.’
Forbes-James’s eyes widened very slightly, but otherwise his expression did not alter. ‘Splendid,’ he said, heartily, and rose from his chair to shake Stratton’s hand.