Shadows & Lies (33 page)

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Authors: Marjorie Eccles

Tags: #Mystery, #Historical

BOOK: Shadows & Lies
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“How too ridiculous. Why should that have been necessary?”
“In case her memory returned, and she remembered things which were inconvenient for other people. Such as the fact that she did have a son, who was not only of a normal, sound mind, but also that he was legitimate. In other words, that your brother Harry had married Hannah Osborne. Was that why Rosa was blackmailing you?”
“What do you mean – of sound mind?” she asked, choosing to ignore what else he had said.
“There nothing wrong with the boy. He's suffered a great shock, being involved in such a serious accident, waking up in hospital, injured, suddenly bereft of both parents. It robbed him of speech, but not intelligence.”
 
 
Both accusations had been long shots, born of intuition, but intuition had not played him false: both had hit their mark. That, and the other things he had learned, gave Crockett much food for thought as he made his way back to his office. Once there, he telegraphed to Ned Crowther and received back a reply almost immediately to say that he could not be at Scotland Yard much before lunch time the following day, owing to the Sunday timetables. Crockett, who had been prepared to wait until Monday, smiled at this evidence of his impatience, but he was pleased. Now they could go to St John's Wood to see Hannah Smith the very next day. He was sure he had enough to go on now to persuade those upstairs to give him permission to take up the investigation officially again.
In the meantime, he made a decision to use the time before Crowther arrived to see Montague Chetwynd, at his home, since he did not expect him to be at the Foreign Office on Sunday. He was admitted, although he had made no appointment to see the MP, and was shown immediately into the study, where Chetwynd received him courteously, with a smile and a firm handshake. “What can I do for you, Chief Inspector?” he asked, reseating himself at the desk from which he had risen and indicating a chair opposite, a subtle move guaranteed to put any visitor at a disadvantage, noted Crockett.
Chetwynd had a formidable pile of papers in front of him, which he had evidently been working on, and was formally dressed, as if for a working day at the Foreign Office or in the House, in a suit which Crockett immediately appreciated as being tailored by one of the best tailors in London. His shirt and cuffs were as immaculate as his white, well-shaped hands. His discreet cravat was held in place by an onyx pin, and he wore a heavy, but not ostentatious gold signet ring. Clean-shaven, with his immaculately brushed fair hair, neatly parted and brushed, he looked as fresh and clean as a well-scrubbed schoolboy waiting to don his choir robes. But the light, sandy-lashed eyes were watchful.
He was known as a man of wit and intelligence, and one not without influence. It appeared, from what Crockett had been able to find out, that his career had so far had been distinguished
in a moderate way. In his leisure time, he rode, shot and fished; he supported the arts, and he collected fine porcelain, evidence of which was displayed in various cabinets and on tables around the luxurious room. It was the room of a cultured man with taste and the money to indulge it. Long, embossed dark blue velvet curtains at the windows, fine carpets and grey silk walls, against which hung gold-framed watercolours. The usual family photographs standing on various surfaces; and on the large walnut desk, from where he was sitting, Crockett could see, framed in exquisite enamels, the same photograph of Lady Chetwynd and her elder son which had been in Sebastian's room.
He came straight to the point, looking steadily at Chetwynd. “As you know, I'm working on the enquiry into the death of Rosa Tartaryan. I would be obliged if you could help me by telling me how and why you recommended her to Mrs Sylvia Eustace-Bragge as a housekeeper – which I believe may have led, indirectly, to her death.”
Chetwynd looked startled. “Surely not!”
“I'm afraid so.” He waited.
“Then I'm very sorry I ever did recommend her. And I'd be interested to know how you've come to draw that conclusion about the poor woman's death.”
“If you can spare the time to listen, sir, I'll tell you.” He watched the other man's face closely as the tale was told, not leaving anything out, even the fact of the child being fostered by Sarah Jenkins, and the boy's supposed low intelligence, but as Crockett had fully expected, the man's expression gave nothing away. It remained coolly interested, focused, but unreadable. Nor did he interrupt, until it came to the final revelation, that his nephew, Harry Chetwynd, had married his mistress, Hannah Osborne.
“Good God!” he said softly. “That'll put the cat among the pigeons, as far as Henry's concerned. Not,” he added, registering Crockett's expression, “that my brother won't see the right thing done by the boy, or his mother; on the contrary. But he wouldn't like it to get out. Henry sets great store by the conventions.” He paused. “The boy, of course, could never be allowed to become the heir. Not if he is not in full command of his
senses.
“As I understand it, his intelligence is not in question. He merely needs time to recover from the shock and the loss of his parents.”
Chetwynd steepled his fingers together. “This calls for some tact and negotiation. My brother is of a somewhat – volatile – personality. There's no telling what he might do if he were to hear of this in the wrong way. I'll tell him myself.”
Keeping his steady gaze on Chetwynd's face, Crockett said, “Hardly necessary, sir. Rosa Tartaryan was blackmailing him over this very matter before she died.”
Chetwynd's face was a study. Disbelief, coupled with something very like distaste, as if Crockett had made a social gaffe in speaking such ugly words in this exquisite room, crossed his face. “This is a very serious allegation – are you sure …?”
“I'm making no allegations, sir. Simply stating the facts. You only need to ask your brother yourself.”
“Yes, yes, of course. I'm sorry for doubting you, Chief Inspector. It takes time to get accustomed to such an appalling idea.”
Crockett inclined his head. “But I believe you haven't answered my original question, sir.”
“Which was —? Ah, yes. Recommending Rosa. Well, you know, in my position, it pays to keep a finger in quite a number of pies. The Armenian Liberation Group, though not officially sanctioned, is one in which I – shall I say, take an interest? As a member of the public you understand, not in my official capacity. Anything I can do to help those poor, dispossessed people, I will do. An error of judgement in this case, it seems.”
A true politician's answer. Crockett realised there was little to be gained in pressing him further and after thanking him for his time, made his departure.
 
When Crockett had left him, Monty stood looking out of the window into the bare winter garden: a paved and walled area he found rather more attractive in winter than in summer, without the roses and other plants cluttering its clean, formal lines, when the winter elegance of the trees could be better appreciated; as different from the excesses of his brother's gardens in
Shropshire as it was possible to be.
He was a good judge of men, and in Crockett's case, he had seen beyond the dandified figure with traces of Cockney in his voice to someone quick-witted and tenacious enough to upset the equilibrium. It was not often Montague Chetwynd regretted any decision he made, since they almost always involved careful thought, but this – the matter of Rosa Tartaryan – was the exception that proved the rule. He had a network of spies, and contacts with the louche underworld of foreign agents, all of which was necessary to keep a finger on the pulse of what was happening abroad. If it became known that he had put himself under an obligation – or had been doing favours to – the Balkan immigrant community, when European affairs were at such a highly volatile stage and certain delicate negotiations were in progress in which he was playing a major part, not only his judgement, but his loyalty, would be in question. This was not to be borne.
He had in the first place agreed to supply Sylvia – who had told him what now seemed to have been a little less than the truth about the affair — with someone discreet, not likely to gossip, because he thought it was, if only temporarily, an alternative to presenting Henry with the problem of an illegitimate grandchild. Henry was the sort of man who needed time to accustom himself to any unpleasant facts, and there was no knowing how he might react if faced with a situation to which he had to make an instant response. Monty had agreed to Sylvia's request, believing that things could be restored to the status quo without much difficulty, should the necessity arise …if the mother should recover her memory, in the face of all predictions to the contrary. He had foreseen that if such a thing were to happen she might well cause trouble now that Harry had died, but he had decided to deal with that problem if and when it arose. In the meantime, he had acknowledged that someone trustworthy was needed to keep an eye on the situation. It was instinctive to choose someone who, like himself, had habits of secrecy and discretion, and he had therefore provided Rosa. Clever, keeping her own counsel, but fanatical, it had turned out, over-zealous in the matter of finding funds for her cause. The whole thing had been the gravest mistake.
Sylvia had acted foolishly, precipitately, her only thought to get the boy out of the way, and her motives were muddled and suspect, influenced by her emotions. Monty sighed, but could not blame her, or not very much. He sometimes acted impulsively himself, a regrettable trait which he deplored and did his best to control – although the very nature of impulse was that one was only aware of it when it was too late. A fatal Chetwynd inheritance, perhaps.
He remembered as if it were yesterday the shock of that telephone call from Henry. A call from him always heralded trouble; he never quite trusted ‘that damned instrument', convinced that it could not work without the assistance of human lungs, stretched to their utmost, and only used it under duress.
 
Sir Henry, too, was at that very moment thinking about that same conversation. Not surprisingly, since it had, in fact, recurred to him almost daily ever since he had made it, and on each occasion it worried him more.
He had seen, too late, that he should have sought Monty's advice right from the first. Monty had always been resourceful, knowing even as a boy how to get out of scrapes, but Henry had kept his troubles to himself, out of an inborn need for secrecy and a desire to keep such things within his own immediate family. It had come to the point, however, where it had gone beyond that. He'd known that he had to come out of the long grass and tell Monty everything, however disgraceful. He had telephoned his brother, determined to speak plainly and waste no words. “I've had some letters, from a woman.”
“What sort of letters, Henry? What woman?”
“A damned woman who writes to say she works for someone who was Harry's mistress, that there's a child.” The line had gone silent. “What? Monty? You there?”
He did not for a moment imagine that Monty's failure to reply was due to shock (few people in his experience, especially Monty, would find such a fact either surprising or difficult to accept, as long as it was discreetly covered up) and he repeated what he'd just said, raising his voice.
“All right, Henry, I heard you the first time. There's no need to panic. There have been by-blows before, without any bones
broken.”
“Panic? Not panicking at all. I simply want to know how to get this pesky female off my back before Adele learns of it, or the woman makes it public as she threatens and —”
“Who is this letter-writer?”
“Some blasted foreigner. She says it's her mistress who needs the money, for herself and the child, but she's too proud to ask. So this woman is writing on her behalf.”
“What did you say her name was?”
“I didn't. It's Tartaryan – God knows what nationality that is. T-A-R-T —”
“It's Armenian, as a matter of fact.”
Monty's voice had sounded very odd and Henry's heart sank even further. Armenian? Good God, what the devil had Harry got himself involved with? Armenians in Henry's mind spelled anarchists, trouble-makers and Turks (as one assumed they must now be regarded), and the only good thing ever to come out of Turkey was their carpets. Henry did not relish the idea of a bastard grandson lurking in the background, but even less did he like the idea of one who was linked with infidels.
“This is very unfortunate, Henry.”
“Unfortunate! It's a piece of damned impertinence!”
“Keep calm.”
Henry breathed deeply. It was a warning he was accustomed to hearing. No one who was familiar with his dark temper liked to risk rousing it, and it must be evident, even over the cracklings and distortions of the telephone lines, that it was rising.
“You haven't by any chance done as she asks and given her anything?” Monty went on.
Foolishly, naively as he now saw, thinking he had been honourably discharging his responsibilities towards this woman Harry had got in the family way, he had indeed sent a remittance – though he wasn't about to confess the extent of it to Monty – hoping it would draw a line under the matter. He cleared his throat. “As a matter of fact, I – er – did send her a trifle —”

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