Authors: Laura Wilson
Stratton's War (64 page)
The brandy, she thought suddenly. Something in the brandy. It hadn’t tasted odd, but they’d been very insistent that she drink it. She could still hear the voices from the hall, though not the actual words. She took off her muddy shoes, tiptoed over to a pot plant, poured the remainder of the drink into it, and returned to her chair.
A few minutes later, F-J returned alone and sat down behind his desk. ‘Apse,’ he said. ‘Tell me.’
‘He’s dead,’ said Diana, flinching at the memory of his purple, violated face. ‘Hanging from the fire escape. There weren’t any documents.’
‘I see.’ You knew, thought Diana, staring at him. You already knew. ‘I suppose I should have guessed something of the sort might happen,’ he continued, dispassionately. ‘I’m sorry you had to be the one who found him. Did you have a chance to search the flat before . . . ?’
‘Only the office,’ said Diana. ‘I was going to the bedroom when I noticed the door to the fire escape was open, and that was when—’
F-J held up a hand. ‘That’s all right. You don’t need to say anymore. We’ll sort it all out.’
That’s where Dr Pyke has gone, thought Diana. Gone to work his magic . . . She was beginning to feel woozy. ‘The police,’ she began, then halted, struggling to make a sentence. The words wouldn’t seem to get into order. ‘They’ll want to know what happened, and my handbag . . .’ She stopped. Judging by the look on F-J’s face, it wasn’t coming out as intended.
‘Try again,’ said F-J.
Diana groped for the right words. ‘Police,’ she said, finally. ‘Handbag.’
‘We’ll deal with that. And . . .’ F-J’s voice seemed to be fading away. His words weren’t reaching her, and the ones that did seemed to be coming out at the wrong speed. Julia . . . Julia Someone . . . the words seemed to jab into her as if someone was prodding her with a finger, but she couldn’t think why they were significant. She was aware of her body against the soft cushions of the armchair, of the hardness of the glass in her hand, slipping away from her fingers ... There was a dull thunk from somewhere by her feet, then F-J was bending over her, his face softened to a blur, and then . . . nothing at all.
SEVENTY-FOUR
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.
SEVENTY-FIVE
Stratton was, on the whole, happy to be back at Great Marlborough Street. It was nice - last week’s meeting with poor Mrs Symmonds aside - to return to something like the old routine. He’d had a word with Johnny, who seemed, temporarily at least, sobered by his experience, and Reg was giving every indication of having forgotten his outburst. Jenny, who’d been greatly cheered up by the funny letters they’d received from Monica and Pete, had guessed that Reg would act as if the incident had never happened, and so far she’d been right. When Stratton had, with some misgivings, agreed to return the camel sword, Reg had received it as if it had merely been left behind.
He’d worried, afterwards, about his reckless parting shot to Forbes-James and the effect it might have on his report, but clearly the man thought he was far beyond threats, or rather, intimations of threats, from such an insignificant being as himself. And judging by DCI Lamb’s grudging praise at the Scotland Yard debriefing yesterday, it must have been a bloody good write-up.
In the ten days that had passed since he left Forbes-James’s office, Stratton’s thoughts had circled round and round the subject of Sir Neville’s death, crossing and re-crossing the same territory, never coming to any conclusions. The problem was that it wasn’t just a matter of what had happened, it was also a matter of what he wanted to
think
had happened. He was painfully aware that these two things might be contradictory, although he didn’t know whether he would be able to articulate - with, say, a gun to his head - exactly what it was that he did want to think.
think
had happened. He was painfully aware that these two things might be contradictory, although he didn’t know whether he would be able to articulate - with, say, a gun to his head - exactly what it was that he did want to think.
Nothing would, or could, be proved about Sir Neville’s suicide and, Stratton thought, it might well have been exactly that, given the man’s predicament. That he hadn’t left a note didn’t necessarily mean anything; some people didn’t. Sir Neville had known that they were closing in on him, and known, too, how much he had to lose. Not that there would have been any public disgrace - the Forbes-Jameses of this world didn’t allow that to happen to their own kind if they could possibly help it - but his loss of status, the accompanying rumours and a gradual but remorseless inching out would have been just as impossible to bear. So perhaps he had chosen, in order to make it easier on his family, to take the quickest way out . . .
But there were odd things - Forbes-James’s manner, for one. Mind you, as Stratton had often thought over the last couple of months, that might be due to the fact that Forbes-James worked in a place where the culture of secrecy was so strong that people didn’t tell you things even when you actually needed to know them. Of course, he hadn’t expected the man to be flinging himself about in hysterics, but all the same . . . And then there was the convenient presence of the doctor, another old school chum, presumably. And the telephone call to Ventriss before they went to Great Marlborough Street to see Wallace, and the ‘couple of things’ Forbes-James had said he needed to see to before they spoke to Abie Marks, and his telling Abie a) that Sir Neville wouldn’t help him, and b) that he’d made a full confession. Not to mention the fact that Forbes-James wouldn’t answer Stratton when he’d asked later if that were true . . .
Forbes-James had said that Diana found Sir Neville’s body at ‘about ten o’clock’ - after he’d returned from Soho. But supposing she’d found it before, and Forbes-James hadn’t mentioned it? Stratton could understand why he didn’t want Abie to know, but why not tell
him
? Or . . . Had Forbes-James known that it was going to happen? Had he, perhaps, spoken to Sir Neville, or had Ventriss been entrusted with the job of ensuring that Sir Neville took the gentleman’s way out? Helped him, even? It wasn’t impossible.
him
? Or . . . Had Forbes-James known that it was going to happen? Had he, perhaps, spoken to Sir Neville, or had Ventriss been entrusted with the job of ensuring that Sir Neville took the gentleman’s way out? Helped him, even? It wasn’t impossible.
But then, why arrange matters so that Diana was the one to find the body? Why not ‘discover’ it himself? If he’d sent her over to Frobisher House deliberately, making an excuse about collecting some document or other . . . Forbes-James seemed genuinely fond of Diana. Would he really have done anything quite so callous?
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