The Lost Empress (22 page)

Chapter Twenty-Seven

Monday, 4 May 1914.

At ten o’clock the following morning Alice Stilwell was sitting in a specially soundproofed telephone kiosk waiting for her long distance, person-to-person call to be connected. She had spent the night in cheap accommodation above a public house in Bootle, not far from the docks, where she had slept for no more than three hours at most. She couldn’t stop thinking about Archie, and neither did she want to. She kept seeing his ghostly face as he sat lifeless in his little yellow motorcar, and she would never know how she managed to leave him there to be discovered by strangers or how she had the strength of will to keep going and not once look back. With every step she took she had wanted to, but she had known if she had that she would have broken down and would never have regained the strength to keep walking. She would never forgive herself for his death, any more than she would forgive those who were ultimately responsible.

She supposed it would not have been long before Archie’s body was discovered. The story was no doubt already on the cover of the local, if not national, newspapers, but Alice had avoided them all. She could imagine well enough the headline concerning the mystery man who had been found dead in his motorcar; a mystery man, for now at least, because she had taken anything she thought could be used to identify Archie, and she thought it would take time to find out who he was from his motorcar registration. Then the people hunting her would realise that Archie had taken her to Liverpool to make her escape, and after that it would not be long before they checked the ships’ registers and knew her destination. They would surely send a telegram to Quebec, and the Canadian authorities would be waiting to arrest her as soon as she stepped off the ship. But they would have no more than a written description of her, and she would have plenty of time on the voyage ahead to alter her appearance and plan how best to disembark unnoticed. She would have to be careful, and she knew it would be dangerous, but what about her life since Holland had not been?

The first thing Alice had done that morning was to purchase a second-class ticket aboard the White Star Line’s RMS
Laurentic
, a triple-screw steamer with a single funnel and twin masts that was leaving that afternoon and was expected to make the journey in thirteen days. It was not a particularly fast crossing, and she had been told that if she cared to wait, there were larger steamers that could make the journey to Quebec in a week, but Alice did not care to wait in Liverpool any longer than she had to. She had thought to use an alias for her departure, but she knew her passport document would give her away if she had to present it.

She heard another crackle in the earpiece she had pressed to her ear as another connection was made further down the line, and she felt suddenly nervous.

‘Hello?’

This was not a telephone call she wanted to make, and certainly not today, but she knew she had no choice. Having lived in America with Henry and the children, she understood that once she crossed the Atlantic Ocean, there would be no opportunity to do so. Henry had often said how he welcomed the day that transatlantic telephone calls were possible and how good it would be for business, but that day had not yet arrived.

Alice heard a further series of clicks in the earpiece, and then the female voice of the distant operator said, ‘I’m connecting you now.’ A few seconds later Frank Saxby came on the line, and hearing his voice again made Alice’s skin crawl.

‘Hello? Alice? Are you there?’

He sounded faint, and knowing they were many miles apart made her feel a little easier about what she had to say.

‘Yes, Mr Saxby. I’m here.’ She could no longer think of him in first name terms, let alone the ‘Uncle’ Frank she had once trusted.

‘Good,’ Saxby said. ‘I was hoping you would get in touch.’

Alice mocked him. ‘Please don’t lie to me, Mr Saxby. I know you sent your Dutch friend after me.’

‘Yes, of course you do,’ Saxby said. ‘How is he?’

‘If he were well, do you suppose I would be talking to you now?’

Saxby didn’t answer.

Alice had had plenty of time to think about the reason Raskin had been sent after her, and she fully believed that since her activities had been discovered by the authorities, the Dutchman had been sent not only to recover Saxby’s notebook but to kill her, and in doing so, guarantee her silence. Her cover was blown, and what further use was she now? She had become too big a risk and was now a threat to their entire operation.

‘Look, where are you?’ Saxby said. ‘Everyone’s worried about you. Won’t you come back, so we can talk about all this before it gets out of hand?’

Alice wanted to scream down the telephone line. ‘As far as I’m concerned this has been out of hand since you had my family kidnapped.’

‘Yes, I suppose it has. Well, I’m sure we can help each other now. You have something I want, and I can get what you want.’

Alice was counting on it. ‘I’m not coming back,’ she said. ‘We’ll do this my way, or I’m taking your notebook straight to the authorities. And you must stay away from my children. Do you understand? I know how to decipher your code. It really wasn’t hard for me to work it out.’

Alice heard an awkward laugh from Saxby then. ‘Come now, Alice. Let’s not be rash, eh? Tell me what you have in mind.’

‘An exchange. My husband for your notebook and my silence.’

‘And what about those photographs you took? I’d like those, too.’

‘No, they’re not part of the bargain,’ Alice said, thinking about Archie again and how she had told him she had no intention of handing the film over. At least that was one promise to him she could keep.

‘Very well,’ Saxby said, ‘but how can I be sure of your silence?’

‘You’ll have to trust me. You know I won’t do anything to endanger my family.’

‘I see. So, if you go to the authorities, my associates or I will come after you and your family. On the other hand, if anything untoward happens to your family, then you will go to the authorities?’

‘Yes, that’s it precisely.’

‘Do you intend to make a copy of my notebook?’

‘I do. And I’m going to make arrangements so that if anything happens to me, either before or after the exchange, it will be sent to the authorities with a letter explaining everything.’

The call went quiet again. All Alice could hear for several seconds was the ever present sound of static on the line. Then Saxby said, ‘Well played, Alice. I really don’t have any choice in the matter, do I?’

‘All I want is my husband back,’ Alice said. ‘And I want my children to be safe.’

There was another pause.

‘Very well,’ Saxby said. ‘An exchange it is. Do you have somewhere in mind?’

‘I’m leaving the country,’ Alice said. She saw no reason not to tell him now. ‘As soon as I’ve made arrangements for my return, I’ll send a telegram stating where and when the exchange is to take place.’

‘Then I shall wait with great anticipation to hear from you again,’ Saxby said.

Alice was about to end the call, but there were questions burning inside her that she had to ask.

‘Why are you doing this? I mean, how could you?’

‘I’m a businessman, Alice, and I’m a survivor. Many people believe a great war is coming, and I thought it was time to choose sides.’

‘So you sold yourself to Germany? What of loyalty?’

‘Loyalty?’ Saxby scoffed. ‘I’m afraid this great country of ours turned its back on us Saxbys a long time ago. My family went to India to help build the British Empire, and what thanks do you suppose they received?’

Alice didn’t answer.

‘They were slaughtered, Alice, all but my father, who was just a small boy then. And all for want of a relief column that was never sent. Where was their country’s loyalty to them when they most needed it?’ Saxby laughed sourly. ‘No, I’m afraid I have very little loyalty in me.’

‘Well, what of friendship? You’ve been a close friend of my family’s since you were a boy. Doesn’t that count for anything?’

‘Like I said, Alice. It was time to choose a side, and some paths once taken are impossible to deviate from. Now I think we’ve chatted long enough. I shudder to think what this telephone call is going to cost you.’

Alice didn’t care what it cost. She had enough money—Archie had seen to that—and this was unquestionably the most important conversation of her life. She was about to ask Saxby why he’d chosen her, and whether it was because of her closeness to Archie, just so that she could use him to get the defence plans they wanted, but as she started to speak, she knew any further questions would have to wait. The call had already ended.

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Present day.

An early start to another bright new day saw Jefferson Tayte at one of his most frequented locales—the churchyard. This particular churchyard belonged to a flint-and red-tiled church of early twelfth-century origin called St Peter’s, which was located in the village of Bredhurst, South Gillingham, no more than two miles from the Ashcroft residence Tayte had visited the day before. He was standing beside a family burial plot in God’s Acre—as he’d been informed this particular churchyard was commonly known—surrounded by trees and encircled by a low wall, the dewy grass at his feet dampening his loafers.

The research he and Davina had conducted at her home the day before, during what had turned into a pleasant evening of good food and good company, had revealed much about Archibald Ashcroft—who, as well as Davina and the lengthy meal she had prepared, had dominated the evening, leaving no time to explore any of the other lines of research he wanted to follow. By the time Tayte went back to his hotel, later than he’d planned to and accordingly ready for his bed, he had discovered all he thought he could hope to about the young naval officer. It had become apparent that Archibald had not died during the First World War as the current Lord Ashcroft had supposed, but had instead died the day after the warrant had been issued for Alice Stilwell’s arrest, which threw the timing of his death into an entirely different light.

Tayte continued to gaze upon the nautically themed burial plot before him, taking in the large stone anchor that formed the cross, and the depiction of a ship’s sail being blown on a heavenly course by a cloud of angels, thinking that although it was good to talk to the family, it was also vital to back things up with hard facts. His eyes drifted back over the faded but legible inscription he’d gone there to see: ‘Archibald Ashcroft. 1889–1914. Died
May 3rd.
Age 25 years.’

This revelation had led Tayte to wonder whether Brendan Ashcroft’s mistake over the year Archibald died had been forced in an attempt to throw him off the scent. Surely Brendan had visited the family burial plot before and knew precisely when Archibald died. Although, Tayte had to concede that this was an old family plot, long since full. If Brendan were even the type to visit his family’s graves with any regularity, he would likely now do so at the crematorium.

Had Archibald’s involvement with Alice—and more importantly, the threat of his own activities coming to light—caused Brendan Ashcroft to take steps to keep the past buried? Tayte wondered whether the notebook mentioned in the telegram Davina had shown him might contain something to implicate Archibald more directly in crimes against his country, but it was a fanciful thought. Protecting the memory of the dead, or the reputation of the living, still seemed to Tayte too weak a motive for murder a hundred years on, although it was a possibility he could not rule out.

The close proximity of these incontrovertible events—of Alice’s attempted arrest and Archibald’s death—had led Tayte and Davina deeper into the circumstances of his demise, and by the end of the evening Tayte had formed a clear picture in his mind, leaving him in no doubt that Archibald had aided and abetted Alice, born as his actions surely were out of their long-standing friendship and, in all probability, his deeply affected love for her.

From various newspaper archives such as
The Times
and the recently defunct
Liverpool Daily Post
, Tayte had learned that Archibald’s body had been found on the outskirts of Liverpool, in a car that later proved to be registered to him. Tayte had read how he had died from blood loss following a stab wound, and much mystery had surrounded the piece for both the newspaper reporter and Tayte. Then Tayte found a later report that connected Archibald’s murder to another murder, discovered that same day in a village not far from where Archibald’s body had been found. This other man had suffered a similar knife wound, thought to have been inflicted by the same weapon, but which was more instantly fatal. He carried no identification papers and was travelling in a car registered to an untraceable alias, which had only served to deepen the mystery further.

Knowing all that Tayte now knew, he saw it as far less of a mystery. It seemed clear to him that Alice and Archibald had been pursued. The fact that this other man was not a policeman or an officer from the Secret Service Bureau—who would have been carrying identification papers if he were—told Tayte that they were being pursued for reasons other than arrest. Their pursuer had clearly caught up with them, for what good it did him, and a fight had ensued. Tayte couldn’t help but wonder whether the reason Alice and Archibald were being pursued at all was because of the notebook he had come to believe Alice was carrying with her when she fled to Quebec.

Details of the final part of Alice’s journey had been provided by the Outbound Passenger Lists for Britain: 1890–1960, which he had searched online towards the end of his evening with Davina. The pertinent record told Tayte that Alice had sailed on the RMS
Laurentic
from Liverpool, having departed for Quebec on the
third of
May, the day after Archibald had died. This left no question in Tayte’s mind that Archie had helped Alice make her escape and had paid the ultimate price for doing so.

Tayte checked his watch and turned away from Archibald’s resting place. He popped a Mr Goodbar miniature into his mouth and made his way back out along the path and through the gate to his car. He had two meetings planned for that morning. DI Bishop had called to say that Dean Saxby wanted to see him, and Bishop thought Tayte might like to go along. The second was a meeting with Lady Vivienne Metcalfe. A highly unexpected phone call the night before had left him with the promise of seeing someone who held a key piece of the puzzle, and she had said to meet him at the Historic Dockyard Chatham at eleven.

It felt to Tayte as though there were twice as many steps in the stairwell to Dean Saxby’s flat as there had been the day before. He was always a few paces behind DI Bishop, and as they neared what he hoped was the top, he had the feeling that Bishop had slowed down for him.

‘What does he want to see you about?’ Tayte asked, panting.

‘He said he had some information that could be useful to my case. Lord knows why he couldn’t have told us yesterday. I expect we’re wasting our time, but you never know.’

They reached another level where the stairwell flattened out, and Tayte was relieved to see the number 9 on the door that led out to the flats on that level. One flight to go.

‘I checked up on him,’ Bishop said. ‘He was arrested for domestic violence last year—put his wife in hospital, but she dropped
the charges.’

‘I guess that explains the divorce.’

Bishop agreed. ‘At least she had the good sense to end their marriage.’

They reached the top floor and left the stairwell, pacing out onto the balconied walkway that looked down over the rooftops of the terraced houses below. Tayte drew a deep breath, filling his lungs with fresh air to clear out the tang of ammonia that was prevalent in the stairwell from countless dried urine stains.

‘Are you telling me that,’ Tayte asked, ‘because you think Dean Saxby’s violent nature has a bearing on the case?’

‘No,’ Bishop said, ‘but my experience won’t let me ignore it. And what if Lionel Scanlon’s murder was nothing more than a burglary attempt gone wrong after all? Whether it’s connected with your assignment or not, if he thought there was money to be made from it, I’d say that Dean Saxby had a pretty strong motive given his impoverished circumstances, and he clearly has a temperament for violence. That said,’ Bishop continued, ‘he does seem to be on the level. I followed up on the sale of that cigar case yesterday afternoon. It checked out.’

They reached the door to Dean Saxby’s flat, and a moment later they were invited in. No refreshments were offered this time.

‘So what did you want to tell me?’ Bishop asked him. ‘You said you had some information about the Scanlon case.’

‘That’s right.’ Dean paused. His eyes flitted back and forth between Bishop and Tayte. ‘Before I tell you’—he stopped again, as if he was having difficulty with what he wanted to say—‘I read about a reward.’

‘Did you now?’ Bishop said, throwing Tayte a cynical glance. ‘When was that?’

‘How do you mean?’

‘I mean, when did you read that a reward had been offered.’

‘Yesterday, after you left. I thought I’d look into the murder some more. Amazing what you can find on the Web. Why does it matter when I read about it?’

Bishop smiled to himself. ‘It just strikes me as an odd coincidence that you—a man who’s obviously short of money—should suddenly have something to offer my case less than twenty-four hours after reading about the reward. Why didn’t you say what you had to say yesterday?’

‘It didn’t come to me at the time—not until after you left.’

‘No, of course not,’ Bishop said, and Tayte noted the sarcasm in his tone, even if Dean Saxby didn’t.

‘So, if what I’m about to tell you leads anywhere,’ Dean said. ‘I’ll get the reward, right?’

‘Possibly, yes. If it leads to a conviction.’

Dean smiled to himself. ‘Great,’ he said. ‘Lionel Scanlon was in the middle of a phone call when I went to see him. The door wasn’t locked, so I went in. He was standing behind his desk in his overalls, talking on one of those old-fashioned phones with the curly wire. He put his hand up to stop me approaching, which I did, but I could hear most of what he said. He said he couldn’t find it, whatever “it” was, and that he needed more time. The conversation must have become heated then, because Scanlon couldn’t seem to get a word in edgeways, and I could hear the other voice in the speaker for the first time, not that I could make anything out. Before the call ended, though, I did hear the name “Metcalfe.” ’

‘Metcalfe?’ Tayte repeated, unable to stop himself.

Dean nodded. ‘That’s right.’

‘Did you hear a first name?’

‘No, that’s it.’

‘And there was no mention of what Mr Scanlon couldn’t find?’ Bishop asked.

‘I just said that’s all I heard. Maybe it’s not much, but it could lead somewhere, right?’

Tayte thought it certainly tied in with the idea that Lionel Scanlon’s killer was looking for something.
Metcalfe . . .
The name offered several candidates, and foremost in Tayte’s mind was Raife, but he still couldn’t discount Lord Reginald Metcalfe either.

‘Well, thank you for the information,’ Bishop said. He made for the door, and Tayte followed him.

‘So, you’ll let me know about the reward?’ Dean called after them.

They paused in the cramped hallway, and Bishop turned back and said, ‘Of course, but I wouldn’t hold your breath.’ He had a foot outside when he turned back again and asked, ‘Just for the record, could you tell me where you were on Tuesday last, up until lunchtime? That was only two days ago. I’m sure you can remember.’

Tayte thought back and quickly realised that was when Davina’s house and apartment were broken into.

‘Here we go again,’ Dean said. ‘I’ve just helped you out, and you’re still getting at me. Why do you want to know this time? Someone else murdered, was there?’

‘Just tell me where you were, Mr Saxby, and we’ll be on
our way.’

‘I told you yesterday. I’ve got no work on. I made a few phone calls to see if I could get any, as I do most mornings, and then I played some Xbox and watched the telly.’

‘Thank you,’ Bishop said, forcing a smile. ‘That’s all I wanted to know.’

HM Dockyard Chatham, as the dockyard was once called, had served the Royal Navy for more than four centuries before the last hammer fell in 1984. In its heyday it provided jobs for ten thousand workers across a four-hundred-acre site. Now known as the Historic Dockyard Chatham, it was an eighty-four-acre Georgian maritime museum, home to three historic warships and an important trove of British naval history.

As he stepped out into the late morning sunshine, Tayte had his head down in the information leaflet he’d been given along with his admittance ticket. He was looking at the map that had thoughtfully been printed on the back of the leaflet, searching for the Wheelwrights’ restaurant. That was where Lady Metcalfe had said she would meet him, adding that the dockyard would be easy for him to find and that she didn’t think it was a good idea for him to return to Hamberley. Tayte suspected the reason was also because Lady Metcalfe didn’t want her husband to know she was talking to him.