The Adventures of Thadeus Burke Vol 1 E-Book

Terry Minahan

• Herausgeber: M-Y Books ltd
• Kategorie: Krimi
• Serie: Thadeus Burke Series
• Sprache: Englisch
• Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2012

Seitenzahl: 467

Beschreibung

Meet the Honourable Thadeus Burke, son of a lord launching his career running an insurance business at Lloyd's of London. Yet, if Thadeus Burke hoped to find security and a quiet life there, he could not have been more mistaken. For where the stakes are high the cunning is low. The underworld finds its way into underwriting, and Thadeus finds himself drawn into the riddles and rewards of fighting crime. Mystery by mystery Thadeus, his irrepressible sister Freddie and the CID's Inspector Jackson follow cases from the world of horse racing to the world of jazz, from the early days of British fascism to the latest jinks in the lesbian demimonde, from arsenic in stately homes to shootouts in abandoned aerodromes. Written with an eye for historical detail and an understanding of hoods and horseflesh, The Adventures of Thadeus Burke carries the reader into the heart of life in Britain's last elegant decade, the nineteentwenties.

Leseprobe

The Adventures

of

Thadeus Burke

Volume 1

by

Terry Minahan

ISBN 978-1907759-78-9

An M-Y eBookwww.m-yebooks.co.uk

© 2010 Terry Minahan

eBook conversion by David Stockman

CHAPTER 1 THE NEW OFFICE

The Honourable Thadeus Burke met the Chairman of Lloyd’s of London, Mr P G Mackinnon, for the second time on Tuesday the first day of September 1925. Two years earlier they had met when Thadeus became an underwriting member or ‘name’ as they are known on the floor of the famous international insurance market. Several sheets of paper were signed regarding the relationship between the ‘name’ and Lloyd’s and the ‘name’s’ agent. The chairman of Lloyd’s, at that time a Mr A L Sturge, was a personal friend of Thadeus’ father and his eldest brother. His father was a proper lord coming from a long line of aristocracy and land ownership; his brother’s peerage had been bought from the Liberal Party just for the fun of it. Thadeus was the third son and might have been destined for the church had not his mother totally opposed what she termed ‘such a stupid idea’. Fortunately Thadeus had proved far too intelligent for the Church of Ireland and even the Church of England, graduating at Trinity College Dublin and having a year at St John’s College Cambridge. Mathematics and music were his subjects.

He might have become a professional pianist or cellist, but his older brother Jonathan, the middle one, died in an air accident in 1920 and Thadeus moved up the aristocratic ladder, his father quickly deciding that he should become  ‘something in the city’, in particular something within the golden financial square mile. This suited Thadeus for he was keen to engage in the cut and thrust, duck and dive, of the business world – he could play numbers with anyone!

Thadeus was introduced to Lloyd’s in 1923 as a ‘working name’, a device that allowed those who worked within the Lloyd’s community to become underwriting members with lower deposits than the outside names. This saved money for his father and enabled Thadeus to get into the action as a broker. He joined the company of Crawford & Amos, established marine brokers but with a newly formed non-marine department to which Thadeus was attached.

The brokers at that time were mostly gentlemen of breeding and good schooling, though not necessarily well educated. They arrived in the office at about 10.30 am wearing their black top hats and sticks, read the newspapers for an hour, picked up a nominal amount of broking from the clerks and went off to coffee. For the next four hours – including two hours for lunch at the George & Vulture or Simpson’s – they obtained initials on simple endorsements to current policies, or maybe placed a piece of new business. At about 4.30, after tea, they returned to the office, dumped a heap of paper and slips on the clerks and went home to prepare for dinner.

Although equipped with his hat and stick Thadeus shunned this dilettante life and spent a lot of time with the clerks, taking on the servicing of some clients himself and thoroughly learned his trade. However, with regard to appearance Thadeus was strictly conservative, one might even say ‘high church’. He wore his fair hair rather longer than the current fashion; he found this mode a better mount for his top hat, or occasionally his bowler. He tended to model himself on Mr Stevens the underwriter at Syndicate 116; each partnership of underwriting names was styled a syndicate and allocated a trading number by the Committee of Lloyds; this was a gentleman in the finest city tradition – fine habiliment and a fresh rose in his buttonhole every day.  Like Mr Stevens, Thadeus always wore a frock coat in the Room at Lloyd’s. Most brokers at the time wore lounge suits. Thadeus did permit the use of a folded collar, wearing his wings not more than once a week, unless he felt that the business in hand demanded the ‘full regalia’.

Which brings us on to 1 September 1925 when Thadeus was applying to establish his own broking company, Burke & Company. The ‘company’ being twenty per cent his mother and twenty per cent his sister – silent partners, well fairly silent partners. Again family connections worked well and everything went through on the nod.

A few days later Thadeus was looking for premises. He had seen an advertising board outside an office at  3 Gracechurch Street, just round the corner from the Lloyd’s Underwriting Room at the Royal Exchange and right opposite the entrance to Leadenhall Market, where a new Lloyd’s building was proposed on the corner of Leadenhall Street and Lime Street. The new building should be up and running within three years. The Burke family did not need any lessons on choosing locations!

The lease was being handled by solicitors Hargreaves & Simpkin. Thadeus viewed the premises during lunchtime when the present tenant had arranged for the office to be empty. Mr Hargreaves accompanied him. It was a single large office on the second floor, serviced by a lift. Within the room a separate mini office had been built, obviously for the boss, mainly of glass windows so that he had seclusion but a good view of the staff.  There were desks for three workers. The tenant, a Mr Whelan, also a Lloyd’s broker, was retiring and Thadeus was able to complete reasonable terms for the lease and the office furniture.

Mr Whelan was due to leave the following Friday and Thadeus made arrangements to take over the keys and occupation on the Saturday morning. He was to meet a Mr James Pooley, an employee of Mr Whelan.

Thadeus arranged to meet James at The Stray Dog Café in Cullum Street, a scruffy little establishment run by a Russian émigré, but probably the best breakfast in the city.

He had been impressed with James when they spoke on the telephone and had in mind interviewing him for a post with the new firm. He already had a shorthand typist, Ethel, a very efficient young lady – and he needed a bright right hand man. Perhaps James could fill the post.

‘Tell me about yourself,’ Thadeus ventured as they sat in front of a huge plate of eggs, bacon and tomatoes. Within minutes he had a complete curriculum vitae recited to him. James was nineteen, courting a young lady named Eddie, living with his parents in a house in a place called Nunhead, in South London near Peckham Rye. James and Eddie intended to buy a house in the area. He had attended St Olave’s Grammar School in Tooley Street just across Tower Bridge, passed his Cambridge University entrance exams, but with no intention of going to university he had had an introduction to a company in the city where he intended to build his career. His father was a motor mechanic, started as a bus driver, horses then autobuses, now had his own business under a railway arch in Peckham. James’s forte was bookkeeping; he walked around the city ‘ticking up’ the ledgers between broker and underwriters. He handled the bank account and completed trial balances at the end of every month. He owned a motorcycle, a Royal Enfield 350cc, but also held a full driving licence. This information put them on a slight detour, Thadeus providing details of his Bentley 3-litre short chassis in British racing green, a colour that almost matched James’ face, until it was suggested that he might like to try it out one of these days, at which an eager smile filled his face.

He earned £78 a year from Mr Whelan. He was clean, well dressed, had a bowler hat, was six years younger than Thadeus and stood at five feet ten inches, three inches shorter than Thadeus – an ideal relationship. Thadeus engaged him on the spot, at £104 a year and suggested that he start straight away with a visit to the new office where they could make plans regarding stationery, telephones and the like. They set off for 3 Gracechurch Street. James had three sets of keys: street door, office door and the little office – apparently known to Mr Whelan’s staff as ‘the shed’ – and the wall safe.

Unfortunately they found Mr Whelan still in his office, sitting at his desk, dead from a gunshot to the head.

Within an hour the tiny office was full of policemen and various members of the medical fraternity. The body was removed and Thadeus and James were questioned by an Inspector Jackson, a tall impressive individual about the same height as Thadeus, with dark brown hair cut very neatly in an almost military style. Thadeus noticed that his suit and shoes were of bespoke manufacture. He looked very healthy, physically fit and his face had an outdoors or country hue.

Thadeus knew nothing, never having had the pleasure of Mr Whelan’s company during his lifetime. James supplied full details of Mr Henry James Whelan of an address in Norwood, south of London, with a family of wife and two daughters, and a Morris Oxford Drophead Coupe 1550cc. James could think of no reason why Mr Whelan would commit suicide, he had just sold his business for a substantial sum and planned to retire to Ireland. He had never known him to be involved in any sort of Irish politics, indeed he had shown no interest in politics at all. He did read The Times every day, very thoroughly, over his morning coffee. James had last seen him the previous evening when he had left him in the office and went home at 5.45 pm. Thadeus thought it odd that a man would commit suicide at his desk, equipped with pens, pencils and paper and yet leave no note of explanation. It did not seem to worry Inspector Jackson, however, who appeared to be happy with the medical evidence. Thadeus and James made some brief notes of what needed to be done in the office, but generally decided to make a new start on Monday morning.

On Saturday evening Thadeus was visited for dinner by an old chum from Cambridge, Augustus Downing, no relation to the college or its eminent founder who had also built Downing Street, the home of the prime minister, Mr Stanley Baldwin. This Downing was a wealthy young man from a family in Norfolk who had studied law at St John’s College and was now a practising barrister-at-law at Middle Temple. He was known to his friends as ‘Gussie’; Thadeus and he had roomed on the same staircase. The dinner was a longstanding engagement, honoured by Thadeus without much enthusiasm as he would rather have been planning his new company.

Gussie had recently become a communist and was at Thadeus’ mews house – actually two mews houses knocked into one – near Sloane Square in order to convert Thadeus to the cause. Hilton, Thadeus’ manservant, butler and general dogsbody to ‘his master’s voice’, had prepared a shepherd’s pie with salad. Thadeus always told diners that this dish was made with real shepherds. It was good student grub and the two young men enjoyed it immensely.

The Burke family had long been supporters of the Liberal Party and Gussie attacked them with vigour.

‘Asquith and Lloyd George act as if they were still a power in the land; they do not have enough Members of Parliament to set up a decent rugby team. They think they will be back in government within twelve months, it will just not happen.’ Thadeus added that they might just make a rugby team, but they would not all be wearing the same colour shirts.

Gussie was amused by this reference to the open hostility between the Asquithians and the Lloyd Georgeites and made a note of the quip in his little notebook.

Gussie’s economic arguments rested on the prime factors of production, capital, land and work. Thadeus pointed out to him, on several occasions, that as capital was a result of production it could not be a prime factor in the creation of wealth. Thadeus preached from the gospel of Henry George, the American economist that had influenced the Liberal Party from the turn of the century.

Gussie had no answer to Thadeus’ clear principles, except to say that they were ‘old hat’. ‘We need new ideas, even Lloyd George is thinking about the nationalization of land. With Lenin dead and this new man Stalin starting to organize a true workers’ state in Russia, the world is going to change forever.’

They both agreed that the current crisis in the coal mining industry was not going to be resolved easily or amicably. Mr Baldwin’s subsidy of the miners’ reduced wages could not continue long, and the Trades Union Congress had made it clear that they anticipated full support from other workers. There was talk of a general strike; Gussie anticipated this leading to a full-scale revolution. This was not the sort of scenario that Thadeus wanted for his activities in the city.

Over a glass of port Thadeus threw in the towel, advising Gussie that the problem with politics was that nobody was interested in the truth, the only goal for politicians and public alike was ‘success’. Promise to give the people what they want and get elected. Even the electorate were not interested in economic justice, far from it, they wanted to be better off than their neighbour without working harder.

Gussie thought that this was ‘head-in-the-sand’ stuff; get out there and do something he advised.

‘I do,’ replied Thadeus. ‘Myself and my family invest regularly in land; we collect rent and put it in our pockets. The nation does not appear to want it. I shall probably become very rich.’

Strangely this did not appear to worry Gussie, who was beginning to wilt under the weight of consumed claret, and at about 11.15 pm set out for his own house, up the road in Chelsea.

Thadeus, thoroughly depressed by all the politics, prepared for bed.

His mood was changed dramatically by a telephone call from his sister. She was in a hospital just west of London with a broken leg, having driven her car into a ditch. Would Thadeus come and get her in the morning? Her left leg was in plaster from the knee to the ankle, a simple fracture of the fibula. She was equipped with a pair of crutches and thought that she might stay with him in London for a few days: ‘At least until I get the hang of the crutches!’  She gave him the directions and he promised to be there at 10.30 am. ‘Good heavens! What a day!’ thought Thadeus, as he went to sleep. Sunday had to be better.

Thadeus was up studying his AA road map when the telephone rang at five minutes past nine in the morning. It was James Pooley in a call box. Sunday was not going to be any better than Saturday. Thadeus phoned James back at his call box. James had been working on some data in the evening and wondered if it would be possible for them to meet during the day, then he could continue developing the ideas this evening ready for Monday. ‘You can’t keep a good man down – or something like that, ’ thought Thadeus.  ’Yes. Come over at about 1.30, we can have lunch. My sister Freddie will be here. You should meet her. She owns part of the company and is a director. She has had a motor accident and is staying with me for a few days.’

‘Nothing serious I hope,’ said a worried James.

‘No, it was only a bull-nose Morris,’ chuckled Thadeus.

‘I meant your sister…’ started James.

‘I know,’ interrupted Thadeus. ‘She has a broken leg, but as she is a medical student I imagine she is looking forward to the experience.’ He paused. ‘Do you want to bring Eddie?’

‘No, she is away with her mother visiting a sick uncle in Essex.’

They said their goodbyes and Thadeus set off for the Great West Road. By 12.45 pm they were back. Freddie was set up in a sort of throne that Hilton had erected during the morning. The nucleus of the construction was a leather wingback chair, to which had been added several rugs and cushions. It faced an ottoman similarly attired. Hilton always treated ‘Miss Freddie’ as a queen and was therefore in his element; books, magazines, cakes and sweets were all within easy reach.  Game pie with mashed potatoes had been organized for lunch together with a decent bottle of Chateau Latour.

James’s Royal Enfield roared up at exactly 1.30. Introductions were made. James had great difficulty referring to Hilton simply as ‘Hilton’ and perhaps more difficulty with the reciprocal ‘Mr James’. He made a huge mistake addressing Freddie as ‘Ma’am’, a title she felt should be reserved for the old queen alone. He settled for Miss Freddie. He was clearly impressed with Thadeus’ sister; indeed she was a stunning young lady, with strawberry blonde hair, cut short in the modern ‘bob’ cut, possibly a little taller than James.

Thadeus showed James round the house; Hilton did not think that Miss Freddie should be left unattended. James had only seen a kitchen like this one in a hotel where he had worked during school holidays. Apart from the Bentley in the garage, his greatest admiration was reserved for the bathroom, which had a stand-up shower. He explained to Freddie later that at home their bath was a large galvanized contraption that hung on a nail outside the back door and was dragged into the scullery on bath nights.

‘God, how primitive James,’ exclaimed Freddie. ‘I do hope you’re planning better facilities for the new Mrs Pooley?’

‘I had not anticipated a shower, but I think now that it will be essential.  Actually I don’t use the tin bath nowadays; we go to the public baths at Goose Green. The facilities there are excellent.’

James commented on the extravagant amount of plaster on Freddie’s left leg. Freddie explained the rudiments of fracture repair requiring that the broken bone be held still in order that it may grow back to normal and, as in the nature of things, bones were connected to each other, it was necessary to keep practically all the leg still. She also added that the hospital where she had been taken following the accident was the same hospital at which she was completing her final year as a medical student and that her colleagues did get somewhat over-exuberant. Thadeus and James inspected the graffiti that adorned the plaster.

‘Some of this is disgusting!’ exclaimed James.

‘The Latin is even worse,’ offered Freddie

‘It was the Latin that I was reading,’ explained James.

‘Oh God!’ exclaimed Freddie. ‘I’ve got to spend the next three or four weeks with uneducated males.’

Lunch passed uneventfully with Freddie and James exchanging brief life histories. Thadeus was quiet, his sister being twenty-three months older than him, his mind drifted back to his teenage years when Freddie’s friends used to use him for their early sexual experiments. Happy days.

After lunch was cleared away, Thadeus and James engaged in some serious paperwork. Notes were made. Telephone pads for messages, a date stamp for incoming mail. The policy register required lengthy discussion, new column headings being added every minute; it would be the hub of office information. Rough ideas for a renewal system were drafted and a double entry bookkeeping system agreed. They were making a half-hearted attempt at organizing a claims department, when Hilton suggested cocktails. James was of the opinion that motorcycling and drinking were incongruous activities and, as it was time for him to set off to an appointment with Eddie, he said his farewells and rode off in the opposite direction to the sunset.

Freddie had bought her flute with her and during the evening Thadeus accompanied her on the piano, suffering much good-natured abuse.

‘Thadeus, you play very well, but “accompanying” is quite beyond you. Your rallentando waits for no man, and irrespective of where I am in the music, your hands hover like a couple of sea eagles for hours before crashing down on a final cadence.’

It was a pleasant evening and Thadeus retired for the night well contented.

Monday morning, 9.00 am. Thadeus, James and Ethel were sorting out their desks. Ethel was instructed to arrange for the telephone to be switched to the new company and carefully check the telephone number before the letter heading and other documents were printed. James gave Ethel the drafted letter heading and the slip for use at Lloyd’s to be typed up. Their first post that morning confirmed their Lloyd’s broker number – 502. Ethel advised that their telephone number would be Gracechurch 4949.

Thadeus’ office had a large cupboard, which was half full of back-copies of The Times. James informed him that it had been Mr Whelan’s habit to keep at least the last six months’ copies for reference.

‘What for?’ enquired Thadeus.

‘He was a Justice of the Peace, so I assume that he referred to the law reports. He was also quite active on the Stock Exchange, buying and selling stocks and shares. He dabbled in the commodity market as well, metals and coal.’

‘A man of many parts,’ commented Thadeus.

‘Oh yes, he had several little money making enterprises, apart from the Lloyd’s broking. One of his little earners was witnessing documents. Hargreaves & Simpkin used to send people round for him to witness their signatures on leases, or official company documents, because he was a JP, I think. He witnessed wills as well, charged one guinea every time. There were three or four witness sessions every week.’

‘Maybe that is why he was shot,’ ventured Thadeus adding, ‘where is Friday’s copy of The Times? It is not in the cupboard and it was not on Mr Whelan’s desk on Saturday morning. Would you mind going up to Fleet Street and getting a copy in your lunch hour, James?’

James nodded. ‘Certainly, sir.’

During the afternoon James was busy at the stationers buying ledgers, a couple of very smart leather-bound ones for private accounts, and several red leatherette ones that opened out with a key so that new pages could be inserted. One of these latter types, a short but very wide one, was to be used as the company’s policy register. It was so big that it needed its own desk. Ethel was supplied with a card index system for names, addresses and telephone numbers. After consulting with Thadeus, James began heading up the policy register’s several columns, in his best copperplate writing. Thadeus proposed that when they were alone together they would be ‘Thadeus’ and ‘James’; in the company of any third party, they would be ‘Mr Burke’ and ‘Mr Pooley’.

James felt that in private he would be happier calling Thadeus ‘sir’.

‘If you must!’ agreed Thadeus. ‘Yes, sir!’ responded James.

The telephone was working and Thadeus spent most of the afternoon ringing potential clients and advising them of the new arrangements, telling them that a letter setting out the details of the new firm would be posted to them when they had paper back from the printers. Many of these contacts had already been warned over the previous couple of months of Thadeus’ plans, and were pleased to have his new telephone number ready when needed. Nobody actually wanted to insure anything that day, which was just as well as Thadeus did not want to go out into the Lloyd’s market until he was equipped with his own ‘slips’. Blank sheets of paper or phone calls would have worked, but Thadeus wanted everything right.

At 4.00 pm Ethel produced three cups of tea. Thadeus took a break and had a look at last Friday’s Times. The obituaries page revealed that a Colonel Bennet had died in a shotgun accident. Although a distinguished and much decorated soldier Colonel Bennet had been a disaster with shotguns. Some years ago he had shot himself in the leg, and within the last twelve months had managed to shoot a fellow gun in the elbow and a beater in the shoulder. It seemed only a matter of time before he blew his own head off; this final mismatch of man and weapon had occurred last Wednesday. His only remaining relative was a Major Bennet, also with an address in Berkshire.

Thadeus telephoned Inspector Jackson. ‘I think that you will find that our Mr Whelan was shot by a Major Bennet. If you would care to pop round to my office, either this afternoon or tomorrow morning, I will give you the full details.’

‘Do you have any evidence?’ enquired the inspector.

‘No, no, that will be your job. It shouldn’t take long,’ advised Thadeus.

‘I’ll be round in about fifteen minutes,’ said the CID man.

Thadeus pretended to take an interest in the work that James was doing; had a look round Ethel’s desk; asked about post, and generally wasted fifteen minutes. Thadeus had returned to his desk and was trying to look busy. Inspector Jackson appeared right on time.

‘Good afternoon, inspector,’ said Thadeus.

The inspector responded with, ‘I think this is were I say, “Perhaps you would like to start at the beginning”. Does that sound like a good idea?’

‘Right!’ said Thadeus, continuing. ‘Firstly, I am privileged to hold three pieces of information that you do not have. One, Mr Whelan was a Justice of the Peace and quite often acted in that role as a witness to various documents. I understand that these were usually company documents presented by company secretaries, or leases for offices, but occasionally wills. He had his own contacts for this work but often it was referrals made to him by Mr Hargreaves, a solicitor in St Clement’s Lane. Secondly, Mr Whelan took The Times every day and kept the back-copies, for at least about six months, in that cupboard behind you. In there at present are copies going back to May of this year.’

The inspector turned and glanced briefly at the cupboard in question.

‘And, thirdly and most interestingly,’ continued Thadeus, ‘is that in that cupboard there is no copy of The Times for last Friday. And, being the observant policeman that you are you will have seen that there was no copy of Friday’s Times on his desk when we found him on Saturday morning.’ Thadeus paused momentarily, awaiting the inspector’s comments but none were forthcoming.

Inspector Jackson never interrupted a witness in full flow – it was foolish to risk loosing potentially vital information. Experience told him there was more to come.

‘I can confirm that there was no copy of the said newspaper anywhere in this office.’

The inspector stalled for a couple of seconds. ‘So you went out this morning, up to Fleet Street, and obtained the missing evidence,’ he said simply.

‘Actually my assistant James obtained a copy at lunchtime and this is what I found on the obituaries page.’ Thadeus handed the relevant page to Inspector Jackson.

The inspector read through the writing, unhurried and carefully. ‘I think we can say that your accusations made over the telephone are, to say the least, a rather imaginative hypothesis.’

‘True!’ responded Thadeus. ‘But a few simple telephone conversations by you will either dissolve the affair, or lead to a prompt arrest. Here is Mr Hargreaves’ telephone number.’ He handed over a piece of paper, pushing his own telephone across to the inspector’s side of the desk.

A few minutes later and the inspector was put through. ‘Good afternoon Mr Hargreaves, my name is Jackson, I am a police inspector with the Criminal Investigation Department at Scotland Yard.’

This opening gambit made Thadeus sit up.

The CID man continued. ‘I am investigating the death of a Mr Whelan, a man that I think you know and may have done business with.’

There was silence in the office while Mr Hargreaves spoke and the inspector listened.

‘Yes that is exactly the situation as I understand it. The question that I particularly want to put to you at the moment is are you aware whether or not Mr Whelan witnessed a will for a Colonel Bennett at any time?’

There was more silence with occasional remarks by Inspector Jackson.

‘I see… Royal Ascot week… Would it be possible for me to speak to the solicitor in Newbury, if I came round to your office straight away? I can be there within three minutes… Fine, thanks.’ Jackson rang off and got to his feet.

‘Jackson!’ almost screamed Thadeus. ‘You cannot just walk out of the office leaving me in limbo!’

The inspector’s voice was calm and controlled. ‘The hour is late and I must speak to another solicitor this evening. I’ll return as soon as possible, probably in about half an hour, and give you all the details. Your hypothesis is looking good.’ And with this remark he left.

It was nearly six o’clock when the inspector returned. Ethel and James had departed for their homes; Thadeus had been genuinely busy checking carefully through James’s draft letter heading and cover note.

‘I suggest we retire to The Lamb for a glass of refreshing ale,’ was all that Jackson said. Thadeus put on his coat, locked the office and followed the inspector into the street and the fifty yards or so to the public house. Not yet a well known watering hole for the Lloyd’s fraternity who were due to arrive virtually next door within three years, but a popular city pub both with the Leadenhall market boys and the business gentlemen.

Thadeus had not yet established himself as a regular, but the inspector was clearly well known to the landlord and they were both escorted to a quiet booth upstairs, equipped with two pints of Young’s bitter.

The inspector supped the first mouthful of his beer. ‘My name is John, known to friends – and enemies – as Johnny, Johnny Jackson. Do you mind if I call you Thadeus?’

‘By all means,’ replied Thadeus.

‘Well, Thadeus, I should disclose that I have two clues to which you are not privilege. The pistol had been the property of a German officer in the war, not what you would expect to find in the position of a confirmed Irish neutral. Also routine enquiries have unearthed a witness who saw a man leave the premises at 3 Gracechurch Street some time about a quarter past six on Friday evening. Apparently the unknown man was “short and of a dapper military appearance”. Also he shut the street door, I quote again, “as if he were the last to leave”.’

‘Nothing like the photograph of the Colonel Bennett that appeared in Friday’s Times,’ observed Thadeus.

‘Indeed not,’ replied Johnny Jackson emphatically. He continued his story. ‘Mr Hargreaves remembers being approached, by telephone, by a solicitor in Newbury about some documents that needed witnessing for a Colonel Bennett. It was during Royal Ascot week and the work had to be done quite late, between six and six thirty in the evening, as apparently the colonel would be at the races, returning to stay in London at about that time. Mr Hargreaves did not want to get involved and gave the telephone number and address of Mr Whelan to the solicitor and suggested that he try him. Mr Hargreaves had no other involvement in the matter, apart from using his excellent memory.’

Thadeus said nothing.

Johnny Jackson supped his beer, and continued. ‘From Mr Hargreaves’ office I spoke to his friend in Newbury, a Mr Pearson, solicitor to both the colonel and his brother the major. He confirmed Mr Hargreaves’ evidence, adding the he had not actually spoken to the colonel about the appointment in London, it had been handled by, I quote, “the colonel’s office”. Mr Pearson played no further part in the drama, except he does remember asking the colonel some weeks later if he got his documents signed in London. The colonel looked a bit puzzled but replied “yes”.’ Jackson supped more beer.

‘You asked him about the colonel’s will?’

Jackson smiled, ‘Yes, indeed! Apparently the colonel’s recent will enacted during Royal Ascot week this year, and witnessed by Mr Whelan and a Lady Frances Downing, with an address in Norfolk, left his entire fortune to his brother the major. The will was discovered in the desk of the colonel after his death. His previous will had bequeathed only 2,000 guineas to his brother and the remainder of the estate to his regiment to establish a fund to assist young officers. The war had apparently left the regiment a bit short of young officers and the colonel had been anxious that the regiment did not get absorbed or amalgamated into another group. His total estate at the time of death is estimated at about 90,000 guineas.’

Thadeus smiled broadly and even more so when Jackson continued.

‘I asked Mr Pearson for a brief description of the major, he said he was a little shorter, and slightly heavier than his brother, and, entirely unprompted by me, I quote again, “a rather dapper little man”.’

‘Gotchyer!’ cried the two men clicking glasses.

‘Actually I know Lady Frances. I had lunch with her son yesterday. If you send someone to interview her, he will need to be on horseback; I have never seen her out of the saddle! She may well have been at Royal Ascot, but I know that she hates London and never goes near the place,’ added Thadeus usefully.

The two men left the pub and went their separate ways home.

It was 10.30 pm when Jackson phoned Thadeus at home. The story was a simple one. The Norfolk Constabulary had interviewed Lady Frances Downing that evening; she had been in the stables. She had not visited London for many years, and had no intention of revisiting the noisy and smelly place again. She had never witnessed a will, as far as she could remember. She had attended all four days at Royal Ascot; on the first day she had backed a young jockey named Gordon Richards riding his first winner at the Royal meeting. She insisted that the Norfolk Constabulary make a note of his name, actually watched carefully as the sergeant wrote the name into his book. On the Wednesday before racing started Lady Frances had attended, and chaired, a meeting of a charity concerned with the welfare of retired cavalry horses. The secretary at the meeting had been a Mrs Bennett, the wife of a Major Bennett, a cavalry officer. Yes, Mrs Bennett had collected up all the papers for the minutes, including documents signed by Lady Frances.

The Norfolk Constabulary had done a very good, low profile job. Now it was time for a slightly heavier and more aggressive visit to the home of Major and Mrs Bennet by the Berkshire Constabulary. They arrived at just after ten o’clock in the evening; two motorcars, two detectives, an inspector and a sergeant, and two of the new WPCs. The end game was brief, confronted by such a mass of information Mrs Bennett quickly broke down and confessed to assisting her husband forge his brother’s will. She knew nothing of any murders. The major tried valiantly to defend himself but eventually yielded to the overwhelming accusations and undeniable facts. He insisted that his brother’s death had been an accident.

At the end of the bulletin Inspector Jackson added, ‘There was a Lloyd’s underwriter, Sir Percy Dennington, committed suicide about six months ago. I was never entirely happy with the result of the inquest. We adjourned it twice but eventually had to go to the jury.  When you’ve got five or ten minutes to spare you might solve that one for me. I’ll give you the details over lunch one of these days.’

‘Right!’ said Thadeus.

Within six weeks Mrs Bennett had been sentenced to twelve years in Holloway Prison, a period that suggested that the judge was not entirely happy with her pleas of ignorance about the deaths of Colonel Bennett and Mr Whelan.

Her husband was hanged.

CHAPTER 2 ASSASSINATION IN THE ROOM

It was just two weeks after Burke & Co had commenced operations that James Pooley had been introduced to the Lloyd’s Underwriting Room. He was authorized to transact business as a ‘substitute’ to Thadeus. Working brokers, not themselves underwriting members, were allowed in the Room on a substitute’s ticket, which James had begun to flourish proudly at the waiters who guarded to entrance to the Underwriting Room. His name appeared on the broker’s list held by the Caller, who stood at the rostrum and called the names of brokers who were required to meet somebody, usually a colleague.

The ‘call’ consisted of the company name followed by the name of the individual required to respond to the call. Thadeus’ was ‘Burke–Burke’, which came out of the Caller’s voice box rather akin to an attack of indigestion.  James’ call had a similar start followed by a ‘Pooley’ that appeared to include at least a dozen ‘o’s.

These exaggerations were necessary in order that the music, as it were, of the Caller’s voice attracted the attention of the required broker above the general hubbub of the Room.

For the most part James had accompanied Thadeus, watching his technique and being introduced to the underwriters that underwrote the Burke & Co account. Occasionally he was let loose with a simple endorsement for an underwriter with whom he was acquainted. On one such occasion he was strolling through the Room when a chap on one of the marine boxes, with which James was not familiar, shouted his name out.

‘Jim Pooley!’ the voice exclaimed.

‘Jimmy Payne!’ responded James, recognizing an old school friend. With red hair, freckles and large spectacles, it was not difficult. He had one of those ‘young’ faces and could have just walked out of the physics lab as a member of class 5A.

J Payne stood up and shook hands with J Pooley.

‘I thought that you were up at Cambridge,’ questioned Pooley.

‘I’ve been up there and come back down,’ responded James Payne. ‘It’s a long story, or a short story, whichever one you want. I’ll tell you all about it over a beer some time.’

‘Oh right!’ said James Pooley, adding, ‘So here you are working at Lloyd’s?’

James Payne smiled. ‘The underwriter is my uncle,’ explaining everything, ‘What are you up to?’

Pooley explained his position with Burke & Co, advising his school chum that the company did not appear to have any business with Payne & Others, as they seemed to be only marine business.

The young Payne challenged this immediately. ‘We write a small incidental non-marine book and - ’ he paused for effect -       ‘I am underwriting a small motor account.’

The two young men had been keen motor vehicle buffs at STOGS – short for St Olave’s Grammar School – following all the new makes and models with the enthusiasm of the train spotters that flood the railway stations.

‘Crikey, that’s exciting!’ exclaimed Pooley.

‘Do you have any motor business?’ questioned Payne.

‘We have only existed for four weeks, but we will have the boss’s Bentley, and his sister’s Morris Cowley when they come up for renewal.  But I do have the boss’s permission to try and establish a motor portfolio, and as you know, if you can remember, my dad has a small garage/workshop.’

‘Oh right! How is he getting on? Because one of the things I am working on is setting up a register of motor repair agents whom we can trust for dealing with claims.’

‘He is still underneath the arches in Peckham,’ replied Pooley, ‘but business is good, and he is looking at some new premises out in North Essex, an old aircraft field with some huts and hangers.’

‘Crikey! That really is expansion.’ exclaimed Payne

‘It is because he may be working on some buses. Putting roofs on “Ks” and “NSs”, fitting pneumatic tyres, and that sort of thing.’ Jim did not need to explain to Jimmy the different types of omnibus. He was sure that the underwriter was familiar with the Bs, the Ks, the recent S-Type and the new NS as they had followed the development of the London General Omnibus Company, and their vehicles, from the time when Sydney Pooley, James’s father, used to drive them to school on the Brown and Cream Special.

At that moment two young brokers arrived at the box to see Jimmy Payne.

‘Crikey!’ he exclaimed, ’I’ve got a queue. What about lunch later today – 1.00 pm at Simpson’s?’

‘Fine, see you there,’ answered James, and he set off to find Thadeus.

James approached the rostrum, to call ‘Burke–Burke’ but before he reached the front of the queue of brokers seeking the caller’s attention, he saw Thadeus’ top hat held high above his head about six boxes away. A ‘box’ is a large desk with a set of benches down each side, rather like a luncheon booth, indeed they are a remnant of the old Lloyd’s coffee room. At these desks sit the underwriter, his deputy – who usually sits opposite the underwriter – and some staff, quite often these are youngsters who enter the lines written by the underwriter or his deputy. At the other end of the box from the underwriter might sit a senior member of the syndicate staff engaged in claims settlement.

As Thadeus was probably the only person in the room wearing a top hat it was easy to spot him.  On this occasion Thadeus had spotted James on his way to the rostrum and had simply raised his hat confident that eventually James would come over to him even though he continued his conversation with an underwriter.

As James approached Thadeus was leaving the box and saying goodbye to the underwriter.

‘I am very grateful, sir, for the time that you have allowed me, and the careful attention that you have given to my proposals,’ said Thadeus

‘No luck there then!’ said James as they moved out of hearing range of the box.

‘No.  Damned man will not write any cotton mills.’

James enlightened Thadeus about his fortuitous meeting with young Payne.

Thadeus was delighted, advising James to get a policy wording and, if possible, a set of rates from the underwriter. ‘I think they have different premium rates for each type of vehicle and I think they have different rates for different areas of the country.’ Thadeus continued.  ‘I have a lunch date with that CID inspector. He is entertaining me at the George & Vulture, so I am only a few yards away if you should need me.’

They continued together with their broking work. By 12.50 pm the cotton mill had 70 per cent in written lines, 25 per cent from the leader and three lines of 15 per cent, and 12½ per cent in promised lines, a 7½ per cent and a 5 per cent – a total of 82½ per cent. Thadeus would need at least three or maybe four extra underwriters to finish his slip. It would not be easy and he might end up scrabbling around for 2½ per cent lines. As a last resort one of the 15 per cent lines might increase a bit.

They walked up Cornhill together to their luncheon dates.

Thadeus had not spoken to Inspector Johnny Jackson since the Whelan affair, other than accepting his invitation to lunch.  At the George & Vulture the inspector was inside the doorway checking his table booking. They shook hands and said hello, took their seats and exchanged some general banter with Lucy, their waitress, a bright young thing, wearing the full ceremonial dress of her trade, including the strange, and useless, little white hat.

A decent bottle of red wine was already opened on the table. Both ordered a steak – the sirloin had been recommended by Lucy – with bubble and squeak and cabbage. No starter as they agreed that they would have spotted dick for afters.

‘How is the world of crime?’ asked Thadeus.

‘Nothing serious in the city, but around the country there is much unrest following the strike compromise on “Red Friday”. Many of the militant miners are already being cruelly victimized by the employers and that is leading to violence and theft; a very sad situation.’

‘I agree,‘ replied Thadeus. ’I think that the TUC will just sell off the miners to help the Labour Party.’

‘There certainly appears to be a lot of underhand political shenanigans,’ posited the inspector and, sensing that Thadeus was about to launch himself into an economics debate, wisely changed the subject. ‘So, how is the world of insurance?’

‘Do I detect an unusual leaning towards the left-wing in a policeman?’ asked Thadeus, refusing to be deflected by the new question.

‘No, I would not regard myself as in any way a political animal, but I do have a passionate belief in justice, as I think every policeman should. And I feel that quite often privileged social groups within our country have held on to what they see as economic advantages which act as a catalyst for justifiable reaction. Whereas the greater social and economic justice to all people would be of the greater advantage to all classes of society. Look at the unnecessary suppression of Jews, Catholics and, more recently, women. And, before you comment, I am not going to discuss the Land Question,’ harangued Jackson.

‘You have certainly done your homework on me!’ responded Thadeus with a smile.  ‘Burke & Co are progressing as well as can be expected, as one of the directors might say.’

‘A doctor on the board?’

‘Not quite, my sister is in her final year at Edinburgh, although at present she is working in a hospital down here.’ Then, changing tack Thadeus went on. ‘There are rumours in the Room of one, or maybe more, underwriters leaving some of their figures out of the audit. Are you involved in looking into that?’

‘I have been shown evidence of substantial financial guarantee business that seems to be avoiding the watchful eye of the committee, but it is not a subject for general discussion,’ said Jackson sotto voce.

‘Well, if I can be of any help, let me know,’ said Thadeus.

‘I thought you were busy solving the Sir Percy Dennington case for me.’

‘I’ve made a few enquiries,’ defended Thadeus. ‘I know nothing of the alleged crime, but I now know more about the deceased. The fourth son of Sir Henry Dennington, inherited the baronetcy following the death of all three of his elder brothers in the war. Perhaps there is a crime there? ‘

‘One of the brothers was “missing, believed died in action”,’ corrected Jackson.

‘If he appeared suddenly, he would be ahead of Percy in the title and money stakes anyway, so there is no motive for murder’. I had met Sir Percy in the course of business. He was not a very prominent member of the Manning’s syndicate; ‘third man’ on the box, handling endorsements and some simple underwriting. I had shown him a piece of bloodstock business, and I was aware that he was interested in thoroughbred breeding. I think he personally owned a couple of horses. ‘I understand that he drank a poison. Can you give me more details of that?’

‘Arsenic,’ came the simple reply. ‘Drank it in a glass of Drambuie. Arsenic can taste quite sweet, so a glass of Drambuie would be ideal cover. But for a fatal dose you need quite a large amount. With a small amount you get sick, symptoms vary according to the dose, but generally there is vomiting and diarrhoea. The bottle carried a huge amount and the one, or possibly two, large glasses that he consumed was more than enough to finish him off.’

‘Two large glasses of Drambuie is unusual,’ said Thadeus

‘Yes. Either two glasses or the one glass filled to the brim, according to the pathologist. Sir Percy was drinking from a small brandy balloon. That is what I think swung the verdict towards suicide,’ replied Jackson.

‘I quite often use a small brandy balloon for liqueurs. There is a cocktail drink, popular at the Savoy called a “rusty nail”, Drambuie and Whisky. I drink it sometimes with a knob of ice,’ informed Thadeus.

They had finished their steak and were awaiting the pudding, but when Lucy arrived at the table she advised Jackson that he was required urgently on the telephone.

Meanwhile the two James had been enjoying similar fare just round the corner. Steak and kidney pie, or Kate and Sydney as the South London lads called it, also with bubble and squeak. But it was to be followed by cheese and a glass of port.

Jim avoided any reference to Cambridge, which Jimmy clearly wanted forgotten, and they got down to some serious insurance work. The Payne syndicate would grant Burke & Co a binding authority, allowing them to issue certificates of insurance to motor vehicle owners. The syndicate would supply a pad of these certificates and a set of detailed rates for use all over the country. The commission was not high, just 15 per cent, but the underwriter handled all the claims direct with the insured, and so the broker had no work to do in that field, unless there was a problem of course.

‘What excess do you have?’ asked Jim.

‘A standard £5 excess each and every loss for material damage, but no excess on the third party section in respect of bodily injury. That seems to be the market norm. However clients can reduce the premium by carrying an increased excess amount,’ was the reply.

‘Unlimited liability under the Road Traffic Act?’

‘Yes.’

‘What about motorcycles? I ride a Royal Enfield 350cc.’

‘Yes, I write motorcycles, and can do a special deal for your one.’

‘Do you have a bike, or a car?’ enquired James Pooley of his friend.

‘Nothing at the present time. But I have been promised a bonus at the end of the underwriting year, and I intend to get something sporty at that time,’ informed James Payne.

Pooley returned to business. ‘How about horse boxes? Mr Burke is particularly interested in establishing a book of bloodstock business and that might be useful as part of his presentations.’

‘I do not see a problem with that. The only worry would be the loss of tack and rugs at shows or the racecourse, when the box is left unattended. More particularly they drive off and leave a bucket full of brushes, mane-combs and the like behind, or a horse-rug that they had been using to sit on the grass. Then later they report it as stolen.’ Jimmy knew his underwriting!

‘We could probably insert a large excess; say £25.’

‘That would suffice, for a start, but I’ll tell you now that I would keep a close eye on that section of the policy.’

‘What about liability for horses, the property of a third party, killed or injured in an accident? Say a maximum of £500 any one horse.’

‘We could try that. I would prefer half of that limit. And I will need to think about the premium required.’

They selected their cheese from the trolley and ordered two large glasses of the Warre.

‘When could we start?’ asked Jim

‘This afternoon if you like. Uncle Charles will have no problem with Mr Burke; he is a name on our syndicate. It is a pity that you went to STOGS with me rather than Harrow or Eton, but I expect I’ll swing that one,’ Jimmy chuckled.

‘Mr Burke will need to read all the papers and it will be his signature on the documents. Can I pick up a set of this paperwork when we get back to the Room?’

‘No problem!’ advised Jimmy Payne. ‘Now, what about some paperwork for your dad to do some claims work for us?’

‘I think that he will be very interest in the idea. He has had an apprentice working with him for about a year, but he has just recently taken on an experienced man. The new chap worked on bus engines at Camberwell Garage, so I expect that his expenditure has increased. He could probably use any extra income. I’ll talk to Dad at the weekend,’ said Jim Pooley.

Jackson came back to the table, but did not sit down. ‘On your feet, sleuth,’ he said, addressing Thadeus. ‘A Lloyd’s underwriter has just been shot dead in the Room.’

They hurried along the south side of Cornhill, crossed the road and went into the Royal Exchange building. As they bustled along Jackson explained that the dead man was Edward Thomas Thurlow, deputy underwriter to his brother George Thomas Thurlow, and Thadeus was just able to confirm that he knew both of the men and had placed bloodstock business with them.

‘Shot by a communist apparently!’ advised a sceptical Jackson.

‘At what time?’ questioned Thadeus

‘Ten minutes past two – that’s about five minutes ago,’ was the reply.

‘Odd,’ said Thadeus

They walked into the building and up to the ‘barrier’, an archway manned by a waiter at the entrance to the Underwriting Room proper.

A group of people were gathered around the body. Two uniformed police officers, a man and a woman kneeling beside the dead man, two uniformed Lloyd’s waiters in serious discussion with what looked like staff from the Superintendent of the Room’s office, and a handful of curious watchers.

The police sergeant recognized Jackson and saluted, with a smart ‘sir’, Jackson nodded an acknowledgement. The two kneelers rose and the sergeant introduced Drs Bryce and Ellington. They had been at a meeting with an accident underwriter, who was there in the crowd somewhere, explained the lady.

‘Two shots, both straight through the heart, by the look of it. Death would have been instantaneous,’ she explained.

‘Thanks,’ said Jackson. ‘We’ll need a full statement from each of you, I am afraid. Perhaps you would be good enough to give the constable your names, addresses and telephone numbers. The police doctor will be here in a short time and I would be obliged if you could wait and have a quick word with him. You did not see the actual shooting?’

The younger male doctor spoke. ‘No, we heard the shots as we came down the stairs, but when we reached the scene it was all over “bar the shoutin’” as they say, and there was a lot of that.’ His voice tailed off under a withering look from his more senior colleague.

‘We will wait over there,’ she said, pointing to a column a few feet away. Just next to where Thadeus was standing writing something into a pocket notebook.

Jackson turned to the sergeant who had the waiter ready and waiting.

‘This is Mr Malcolm, he was the waiter on duty at the time,’ explained the sergeant efficiently.

‘I would like the whole story, from the top,’ instructed Jackson.

Thadeus came over and stood in an adjacent position.

Mr Malcolm started his tale. ‘It was just after two o’clock, sir, when Mr Edward Thurlow came up to the barrier from inside the room. He stood for a moment or two deciding which direction he was going to take. Took a couple of steps towards the Bank of England exit, then “Bang!” he was shot by the communist.’

‘How do you know he was a communist?’ asked Jackson.

‘He shouted out, sir, if you will excuse the words used, “You capitalist bastard! Up the workers!” and he threw a red flag over the body.’

Jackson stuck his tongue into his cheek in order to hold back

a smile, Thadeus needed to turn his face away. Definitely a communist, they both thought.

‘Can you describe him?’ questioned Jackson.

‘He was an Orthodox Jew,’ stated Malcolm. Jackson waited for more and Malcolm, realizing this, continued. ‘He wore a long black coat, had a bushy black beard and a black hat,’ he explained, adding, ‘and he wore glasses.’

Again Jackson struggled to hold back a grin, and again Thadeus needed to turn his face away.

Definitely an Orthodox Jew, they both thought.

‘How did he manage to escape?’ Another question from Jackson.