Kenyon had been amazed how quickly Scotland Yard responded to his request. He had spoken to Arundel, and the detective inspector had given him directions to a park near the south edge of London. They were to meet that afternoon at the parking lot, and proceed from there.
Kenyon returned to the Morgan dealership and rented a car. Strand was right, thought Kenyon, as he drove the Morgan through the streets of London; this car was a hell of a lot of fun to drive. There wasn’t much to it but a big engine, a tough suspension, and a tight steering arc. Except for some discomfort from the bullet wound as he worked the clutch, it was a joy.
Driving on the left wasn’t as difficult as Kenyon thought it would be, except for the roundabouts. The first time the agent headed into one of the circular intersections traveling left, he went completely around the circle, twice. He quickly got the hang of judging when to enter and exit, however, and was soon making good time as he drove south.
Traffic was heavy, but no worse than San Francisco on a Saturday afternoon. The sun was hot and bright, and he was glad that he had packed his shades.
The diesel fumes from an ancient Mercedes sedan ahead of Kenyon poured into the cockpit of the car. A break appeared in the oncoming traffic, and he hit the accelerator. The sports car whipped effortlessly ahead of the lumbering sedan.
Kenyon crossed the Thames and drove past Kew Gardens and Richmond Park. The suburbs, packed with row after row of brown-brick houses, gradually gave way to fields and stretches of forest preserve.
Kenyon soon spotted the North Downs Park sign; the entrance was just ahead. He geared the Morgan down and it responded with a throaty growl. He turned right, across the road, pulling into a graveled car park.
A large man dressed in the dark blue uniform of the Metropolitan Police was standing beside an ancient limousine. It was a 1936 Bentley Sedan in mint condition. The officer was busy polishing the dark blue paint until it gleamed.
Kenyon parked the Morgan beside the Bentley and climbed out of his car. “Excuse me, I’m looking for DI Humphrey Arundel.”
When the officer turned, Kenyon saw he was a large and beefy man. He had small brown eyes and the dark shadow of a beard on his jowls. He glanced Kenyon up and down, then, without a word, turned to the back door of the limousine and opened it.
Intrigued, Kenyon stepped through the wide door. In spite of the heat of the day, the rear passenger compartment of the limousine was cool and dry. The seats were upholstered in burgundy leather, with brass fittings on the door. A sliding glass panel separated the driver’s section from the rear compartment.
The man sitting inside was slight of build and dressed in an expensive, single-breasted suit. He extended a carefully manicured hand. “Detective Inspector Humphrey Arundel, Special Branch,” he said in a languorous accent.
“Special Agent Jack Kenyon, FBI.”
“Simply charming to meet you,” said Arundel. “Please, have a seat.”
A crystal set of brandy snifters tinkled as Kenyon eased himself onto the burgundy upholstery. “Some squad car you have here.”
Arundel pulled out a silver cigarette case and lit up. “We’re not allowed to smoke in police vehicles, so I bring the family car when expeditions arise.” He pointed to the officer standing outside. “In case he didn’t introduce himself, that is Collision Investigation Officer Barker. He was in charge of investigating Lydia’s accident.”
“I’m glad you could meet me on such short notice,” said Kenyon. “I know what a collision officer does, but I’m not familiar with Special Branch.”
Arundel pushed back a patch of lanky blond hair that hung over his forehead. “Oh, you know . . . we handle special situations.”
Arundel’s intonation was very precise, and he had a way of emphasizing every third word that reminded Kenyon of a florist who had a shop near his apartment in San Francisco.
“What do you mean, special situations?” asked Kenyon.
“It’s quite simple: Lydia knew everyone, and everyone knew her,” Arundel explained. “She was very special to us all.”
Kenyon was trying to puzzle that one out, when Arundel continued.
“Oh, by the way, Mater sends her condolences.”
“Mater?”
Arundel lit the cigarette with a malachite-inlaid lighter. “Lady Beatrice, my mother. Lydia helped her acquire an absolutely delightful Renoir statuette last Christmas. She was appalled to hear about her death. So senseless.”
“Did you ever meet Lydia?”
Arundel rolled down his window and blew the cigarette smoke to one side. “Once, at Ascot. She was sitting in our box. Charming woman. Full of life. Just a bit of sadness there, behind the eyes, to make her mysterious. Do you know what I mean?”
“Yeah, she was big on mysterious.” Kenyon glanced up as Barker, his polishing task finished, eased his large bulk into the driver’s seat. “I don’t want to take up too much of your time, but it’s very important to me to see where Lydia’s accident took place.”
“We understand perfectly, and it’s no problem at all,” replied Arundel. He leaned forward and pulled down the partition. “Always ready to help our cousins across the pond, right, Barker?”
The large man nodded solemnly. “Right, sir.” His voice was flat and emotionless.
Arundel finished his cigarette and crushed it into an onyx ashtray mounted on the door. “You don’t mind if we proceed in my sedan, do you?” he offered. “Your car should be safe here until we return.”
Kenyon had no objections, and Barker meshed the car into gear. They rolled out of the parking lot and turned onto the main road.
They drove for several miles past pastureland bordered by hedgerows and wooden fencing. The smell of freshly cut hay reminded Kenyon of his childhood ranch in Montana. “I had no idea London still had farms in it,” said Kenyon.
“We’re actually in Surrey county right now, out of Scotland Yard’s jurisdiction,” replied Arundel. “But there is a sliver of London that extends south, and Lydia happened to cross into it before her accident. We shall arrive there, presently.”
Barker came to a signpost that said “Abbey Lane,” and the stately Bentley turned off the main road. The heavy car began to climb a steep hill, and the pastures gave way to deciduous trees along the slope. Even though he had only driven the Morgan for a short time, Kenyon couldn’t help thinking this would be an excellent test road for the small, powerful sports car.
As they ascended, the asphalt lane narrowed between a steep wall of chalky dirt to the left and a dry ravine bed on the right. About halfway up the hill, they came to a spot shaded by a canopy of oak and yew trees. Barker pulled off the road and parked, and the men got out of the car.
“It happened here,” said the sergeant, as they walked up the road. “A local woman reported an accident around midnight.” He pointed down into the ravine. “This is where we found the car.”
To the right, the road dropped steeply for about fifteen feet. Kenyon could still clearly see where the brush had been crushed. A large tree bore a white scar on its trunk where the bark had been violently peeled off.
“Was the woman a witness?” asked Kenyon.
“No,” said Barker. “She lives just over the rise. She heard the car coming up the hill fast, then heard a crash. She drove down the road, but couldn’t find anyone near the wreck, so she went back and called us.”
“The police arrived about fifteen minutes after the call,” continued Arundel. “They combed the underbrush and found Lydia’s body near the car. She was pronounced dead at the scene and taken to the mortuary.”
“I got here shortly after they discovered Miss Kenyon,” said Barker. “I was assigned to examine the scene and determine the cause of the collision.”
Barker turned and walked down the road, back toward the Bentley. They stopped in front of some gouges in the dirt on the uphill side of road. Rain had fallen since the accident, and the markings were already guttered and worn, but Kenyon could still see that they had been made with some force.
“From what I saw,” Barker said, pointing to the ruts, “I concluded that the driver was traveling up the hill at a high rate of speed when she lost control and swerved to the left, gouging the dirt with her front wheels.” Using his hands and shoulders to mimic the motion of the accident, Barker continued, “her car rose up on a sharp angle, flipped over and slid across the road and dropped into ravine.”
All three men stood silently for a moment, fixing the tragedy in their minds. Kenyon wondered if her life had flashed before her eyes. Did she have time for a short prayer, or had it happened too fast? “What killed her?” he finally asked.
“She wasn’t wearing her seatbelt,” replied Barker. “The pathologist determined that she was flung from the car, then crushed by it. My understanding is that she died quickly.”
Kenyon nodded. “Was she drunk?”
“She had a low level of blood alcohol, consistent with one or two glasses of wine. Drug tests were negative.”
Kenyon took a small comfort in the fact that she hadn’t been impaired. “So, what caused the accident? A mechanical problem?”
Baker shook his head. “We towed the car to the police compound, where I examined it. There was no sign of brake wear, tire problems, or loose steering linkage. The car was in excellent mechanical condition. Most of the damage was consistent with sliding along the roadway, then dropping into the ravine and hitting the trees and bushes.”
“Except for the damage on the back,” said Kenyon.
“Ah, you noticed,” said Barker, becoming animated for the first time. “A car that simply leaves the road suffers patches of damage from trees, rocks, and bushes. On the other hand, a car that is rear-ended off the road will show damage to the bodywork in a straight line, with paint, plastic, or chrome chips embedded in the damage. Just like the crease in the back of Miss Kenyon’s car.”
“I take it you spotted that right away.”
Barker nodded. “It looked like someone had collided with her from behind, which could have caused her to lose control.”
Kenyon was irritated. “So, why did you ignore it?”
If he heard Kenyon’s tone, Barker ignored it. He walked down the road about twenty feet and squatted on his haunches. “First of all, if there had been a collision, there would have been taillight glass or similar debris on the road. We didn’t find anything, not even skid marks. We concluded that this particular damage occurred earlier.”
Kenyon shook his head. “You’re wrong. The mechanic at Lydia’s Morgan dealership told me he serviced the car a week before her death, and he didn’t notice any damage.”
This time, Barker did seem irked by Kenyon’s tone. He stood and advanced, his eyes fixed on the agent.
Arundel stepped between the two men, smiling. “Let me assure you, Mr. Kenyon, that Scotland Yard did a full and thorough investigation.” He pointed vaguely south. “I personally went to Ingoldsby Estate. Witnesses at the auction the night of your aunt’s death confirm that she damaged her car while pulling out of the parking area. There was no mysterious collision.”
Kenyon still wasn’t convinced. “If it wasn’t drinking, and it wasn’t mechanical, and it wasn’t a collision, what was it?”
“Loss of attention, most likely,” said Arundel.
“What?”
“You know, fussing with a cigarette, tuning the radio. It just takes a split second of inattention.”
“Bullshit,” replied Kenyon. “She didn’t smoke, there’s no radio in the car, and she was an excellent driver.”
“Not according to the District Licence Centre,” countered Barker. “She had several speeding tickets and a seatbelt violation.”
“Something stinks,” said Kenyon. “I just can’t believe she was killed by a split second of inattention.”
Barker crossed his arms. “I’ve been investigating collisions for seventeen years. If you think I’ve missed something, you tell me what it is.”
Kenyon stared straight at the big man. “How do you sign a wrecked car out of the police compound?”
Barker looked puzzled. “You don’t, strictly speaking. The compound is actually a local garage contracted to remove cars from the scene of an accident and store them until the investigation is finished. After we’ve examined the car, we call the next of kin, and if they still want it, they have a tow truck pick it up.”
“Why do you ask?” queried Arundel.
“Somebody signed Lydia’s car out on the sly.” Kenyon explained how the Morgan mysteriously arrived at the dealership. “They must have walked into a tow-truck office, paid cash, and told them where to pick up the car.”
“Why would anyone bother with a wreck?” asked Arundel.
“Maybe they were looking for something,” said Kenyon.
“What, pray tell?”
Kenyon stared up the road, at the place where Lydia had died. “I don’t know.”
Arundel sighed. “You make it sound like some nefarious conspiracy. It could simply have been a bureaucratic foul-up at the insurance company.”
Kenyon stared silently down at the crumpled brush littering the site where Lydia died, saying nothing.
Arundel continued. “I understand this is important to you, but you’re not the first person to feel that there is more to someone’s death than senseless tragedy. We do understand, and we sympathize.”
Kenyon looked up at Arundel, then at Barker. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to suggest you didn’t do a good job.”
Barker nodded, satisfied, and began to walk back to the sedan. Arundel took Kenyon by the arm and escorted him back. “Why don’t you relax and enjoy your stay in London. There are some excellent mysteries playing in the West End right now. Just your cup of tea, I should think.”
Kenyon stopped in the middle of the road. “There is something I’d like to do. Do you know how to get to Ingoldsby Estate from here?
Just then, two women on horses emerged from the forest. They glanced at the men, then crossed the road and continued up a dirt path.
“Well, if you had a horse, you could ride down this bridle path a quarter mile or so,” said Arundel. “Otherwise, it’s about five miles by road.” The DI held his chin in one hand. “But why would you wish to go there?”
“I want to meet the family.”
Arundel rolled his eyes. “Well, don’t we have strange tastes.”
“What do you mean?” asked Kenyon.
“They’re terribly gothic, if you know what I mean.”
“I don’t. Tell me.”
Arundel lowered his voice. “You must understand, I’m not one to gossip, but they are quite a colorful tribe, especially the old man.”
“Who?”
“Sir Rupert, Ilsa’s father. Nasty old tiger, he is. Always on the prowl.”
“What’s his game?”
“Military contracts. Secret Service during the war, you know. Very hush-hush. Knows all the high and mighty.”
“Quite a player behind the scenes, is he?”
Arundel nodded. “He certainly was.”
“Was? What happened to him?”
“Had a stroke last winter. Drools out of the side of his mouth now.”
“He’s retired?”
“Pretty much. His daughter Ilsa handles the business end of the family.”
“What’s she like?” asked Kenyon.
Arundel lit a cigarette. “Mater tells me she’s the Francis Drake of the charity scene. The Ladies who Lunch flee in terror when she appears on the horizon, ready to pillage and plunder their trust accounts in the name of a good cause.”
“How about her husband, Legrand?” asked Kenyon. “Is he involved in the business?”
“As little as possible, from what I’ve heard. He’s in what you Yanks call ‘the doghouse’ with his wife.”
Kenyon narrowed his eyes. “Over what?”
“Can’t you guess? He is a Frenchman, after all.”
Kenyon stared blankly at the DI. “I haven’t a clue.”
Arundel blew a smoke ring. “Word has it, she caught him with another woman, old boy.”