Chapter 20

 

Everything about their surroundings spoke of power and class and Brown’s confidence plummeted. He was as out of place here as a Yorkshire farmer in a posh shop on Knightsbridge; in the Army and Navy store, say. His mother had told him to look out for the place. One of her friends, who had been in service and who had embraced the ways of her employers, never stopped talking about it.

He and Inspector Greene stood in a wood-panelled room that gave Brown the feeling of being enclosed in a secure and warm place–a place that shouted out money and power. Though they’d been invited to sit down, neither had. They were waiting to be shown into see Sir Julian Knowles.

As they had passed through reception in the wake of an austere, well-tailored middle-aged receptionist, Brown could almost swear Sir Herbert Samuel had passed them. He’d looked at the inspector to see whether any signs of recognition passed his face, but Inspector Greene hadn’t registered anything, and curious as Brown was,, he didn’t risk asking.

He told himself now not to be over-awed, was annoyed with himself for feeling like a country bumpkin, but couldn’t help it.

The room the woman showed them into was huge and the man behind the desk looked at home here. He stood and came out from behind the desk and shook hands with each of them, indicating two leather chairs, not armchairs exactly, Brown thought they were called carver chairs. Sir Julian went back to his own seat, the desk between them.

The man was in his mid-fifties and was dressed in grey and pinstripe, with a glimpse of dazzling white at the cuffs and collar and Brown wondered just for a second if he had one of those manservants to make sure he left his mansion every morning bandbox neat. That he lived in a mansion, Brown had no doubt.

“Thank you for coming in, Inspector,” he nodded at Brown. “And you, of course, Sergeant.” His voice reminded Brown of one you heard on the Home Service, a voice belonging to an actor or a politician.

“It isn’t that we have a huge file on the deceased.” He indicated a buff folder on the desk in front of him. “But he has come into our sights.”

Greene coughed and when he spoke, his voice sounded strained. Maybe, even he was feeling out of his depth in surroundings like this.

“We’d appreciate any background information on the deceased. There are a few lines of enquiry and we can’t overlook anything in the man’s past that might have some bearing.”

Sir Julian nodded. “I have spoken to Britten of the Met. He filled me in on some of the salient points. Poignant, I thought, being killed with a service revolver, given his exemplary war record. I cannot help feeling that the mode of death was significant.”

Sir Julian drew the folder close to him almost protectively. He touched it with a delicate hand, a long-fingered hand and it was a strange gesture. “But, indeed Inspector, far be it from me to tell you your job. You and your men are best positioned to decide on what is or is not significant.”

Brown was almost mesmerised by the man’s manner of speech and wanted to listen to him all day, something his superior was clearly not feeling.

“Thank you, Sir Julian, of course we appreciate your views. Just for now, though, as I say, we’re pursuing a few different lines of enquiry. The deceased led a complicated life,”

There was a slight nod of the man’s well-groomed head. “Indeed, so Inspector so what exactly can I tell you?”

Greene cleared his throat; he looked disadvantaged, just for a moment before he was back to himself.” “This party or movement or whatever they call themselves? I’ve spoken to Sir Eric Chapman out in Sussex. They must be in your sights for some reason. From what I see, they’re doing nothing wrong, not operating outside of the law. I believe there’s been a few skirmishes, but nothing more than you’d get in the small town stumps up in Yorkshire at election time.”

Sir Hugh folded one hand over the other and placed them under his chin. He narrowed his eyes and looked to be deep in thought. “You’re right, Inspector. At this moment, we have nothing specific to point a finger at with these chaps. If anything, we are keeping a watching brief. There are always elements in the country who are, let us say, dissatisfied with the status quo.”

Greene still looked uneasy and disappointed him when he decided to play the blunt Yorkshire man. “Well, Sir Hugh, it’s all a bit of a mystery to me, I would have thought Giles Etherington and others like him would just be happy to have come home in one piece. They’re in a privileged position compared to many. There’s plenty, goodness knows, with cause to complain.”

“That’s it, my dear man,” Sir Hugh interjected, his voice quite animated now. “You have uttered the mot juste, or, if you prefer, hit the nail on the head. There’s unrest in the country. Amongst the working men who were promised a land fit for heroes and amongst the better off because they despise what they see as the weakness of the national government. Then, there is the Bolshevik threat. Whether you are aware of this in the north country, Inspector, many perceive the communist threat as being much more dangerous than almost all other ills in society. Indeed, this is why these Union chaps are garnering such support as they are…or one of the reasons.”

This was interesting, so much so that he couldn’t wait to be on his own to think about it, talk to his mother about it. She would be fascinated by this conversation, being really interested in politics. He must remember every snippet he could and report it back.

“So, Inspector, harmless politicking or a grave threat to our nation? The jury is still out.” Now, he opened the manila file and drew out several sheets of paper.

Greene gave a slight shrug of his shoulders, “Was he what you would call a rising man in this Union Party, Sir Hugh? I mean as you have a file on him…”

“We were interested, let me leave it like that for now. As I explained, the Union Party is respectable at the moment–support from the highest quarters in the land–maybe not in massive amounts but significant enough. Lord Beaverbrook to name but one influential person. It might be a nine-day wonder or it might be something more significant in the life of the nation,”

He took a pair of gold-rimmed spectacles from an inside pocket and put them on. “There was a fracas after one of the meetings. You may already know about this?” He peered at them over the gold rims.

“Yes, infiltrated by the other side, a lot of shouting and pushing, didn’t amount to much,” said the inspector.

Sir Hugh smiled, a tight ghost of a smile. “No, indeed. Maybe that is even part of the attraction, the so-called rough and tumble. You have a lot of angry people in the country, I often think. That can lead quickly to a combustible situation. But then, Inspector, that is more your department than mine. There is one other thing.”

The inspector visibly perked up. “Yes, sir?”

“You probably already know this but there was a mistress, a Daphne Sheridan, married to John Sheridan, a criminal barrister in the Inns of Court. A powerful man in his own field of influence.”

Inspector Greene drew in his breath. “We’ve seen Mrs. Sheridan, she claims Giles Etherington was the love of her life. The hysterical type, if you ask me. She was adamant we shouldn’t talk to the husband but in all fairness, I think that’s going to happen whether she likes it or not.”

Sir Hugh glances at a big watch on his wrist. “I’m sorry, gentlemen, but a meeting calls. I’m sorry I couldn’t have been of more help and of course should you think of anything further.”

Brown couldn’t stop thinking about the room in Whitehall, the man they’d spoken to, the manila folder. Had he told him anything, really? They were on the train back to Harrogate and every so often, Brown’s thoughts were swayed by his urge to close his eyes. He could so easily fall asleep.

“I thought I’d cut along to the buffet car, sir. Could I bring you back a drink?

“Coffee, no sugar. You look like you need some yourself, Sergeant.”

Brown tried to ignore the comment and went to fetch the drinks. “Strange life, that chap in Whitehall” he dared to say on his return.

“One way to put it,” Greene said. “We learned that M15 had their eye on Etherington. It’s all very unlikely to be pure coincidence, war record, mistress, shot with his service revolver.”

Greene had closed his eyes. Maybe the warmth and the sound of the train were affecting him too. “Were you in the Herdsman the other night when there was talk about Mrs. Etherington? Sergeant?”

Bill Brown’s heart jumped right up into his throat and he swallowed hard before answering. “I heard something. It was gossip. They were all speculating about the murder, wallowing in the gory details. I didn’t…I wasn’t sure what was chit-chat and what was fact.”

Greene looked at him steadily, and his features tightened in a way that made the feeling in Bill Brown’s throat worse. “So, you took it upon yourself to try to separate the wheat from the chaff? Is that right, Sergeant?”

Brown opened his mouth to reply but thought better of it. They were in a separate carriage. He’d thought it a stroke of luck that they’d found one, got a nice comfortable seat each and a table between them for the cups and the newspapers. Now, it didn’t seem such a good idea. There was nothing to buffer the Inspector’s rage. He’d seen this side of the Inspector before and it wasn’t pleasant.

“If there’s one possible benefit to your drinking in a local pub, something I have advised you against, it’s that you might keep your ears cocked and bring back anything that might help us with the case. I can’t believe that you would keep something like this to yourself.”

Bill Brown held his head erect, though his instinct was to bow it. This knowledge had been smouldering away inside the Inspector’s head for what? Days? His hands tightened together under the table. He wanted to sip his coffee but didn’t trust himself to lift the cup. He knew what was coming.

“So, Sergeant what’s the explanation? Don’t give me the codswallop about not knowing whether or not the talk in the pub was true. We both know that applies to every piece of information we come upon, so saying that’s the reason you kept it to yourself just won’t stand up, I’m afraid, lad.”

Brown scrabbled about in his racing mind for a plausible lie. Nothing came to him. He couldn’t tell the Inspector he had a crush on Julia Etherington. He couldn’t and he wouldn’t. So, he said nothing and prayed to anyone who might be listening that he wouldn’t be put under any more pressure.

“Well, Sergeant Brown?”

He wanted his pound of flesh, then. “I’m sorry, sir. It just seemed like gossip as I said. Nothing that seemed to move things forward for us, I mean.”

“Let me stop you there, lad before you dig yourself any deeper. I don’t think you are anywhere near the point in your career where you decide what will and what will not take us forward in the case. I’m going to say no more about this for now. But it had better not happen again. Is that clear Sergeant?”

“Yes, sir.” Bill Brown felt like he had been pulled back from the edge of a cliff. For whatever reason, Inspector Greene had decided not to pursue his motives for keeping quiet any further. Someone must have been listening to his prayer. Now, he willed the train to go home faster. The thought of sitting, listening to the wireless while his mother knitted one of those toys she sent to the Red Cross seemed like heaven.