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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Blitz Detective
- Sprache: Englisch
January 1941. When Detective Inspector John Jago is called to a house in London's Bloomsbury, he finds the body of a woman who's been attacked and left to die, her only crime seemingly being her kindness to strangers. She's taken victims of the Blitz and the war that's torn Europe apart and given them refuge in her home, but now she's a victim too - of murder. As Jago tries to find out who killed her and why, he uncovers a tangle of damaged hearts and minds. There may have been envy, resentment, even outright hostility. But who would want to strike down an angel of mercy in her own home?
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Seitenzahl: 469
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2025
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1
THE BLOOMSBURY MURDER
Mike Hollow2
3
For Barbara, faithful and generous of heart
4
5
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
He stopped at the traffic lights and looked up at the sky, one foot on the pedal and the other on the road while he waited for them to change. It was dull and grey, just like the streets around him. It wasn’t so long ago he’d wished he was up there, roaring around in a Spitfire, but the past year had taught him there was a world of difference between what you’d like to be and what you actually were. With this job, when his time came round for being called up they’d probably put him straight into the army as a regimental cook. Not quite the same as a dashing young fighter pilot, but what could you do about that?
Besides, glamour wasn’t everything. Just yesterday he’d heard about a young Spitfire pilot who’d joined the RAF at eighteen a couple of weeks before the war started. He’d fought over France and then over London, got the DFC and all, then last week he got killed, still just nineteen. That wasn’t what Joe fancied, so maybe the army cookhouse would be just fine – at least he might 8come through the war alive. In any case, by the time he was old enough to be called up the war would most likely be over. He might miss the whole thing and still be here working for Old Man Harris.
Harris – Mr Harris to his face, of course – had a butcher’s shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street, and Joe was his delivery boy. Probably everyone in Bloomsbury knew who he worked for, because the space under the crossbar on his bike was filled by a big metal nameplate with ‘N. Harris & Co., High-Class Family Butchers’ painted on it, together with the shop’s address and phone number.
The lights turned to red and amber and then to green, and he stood on the pedals to get the bike going again. It was a Runwell, one of their special ones made for butchers’ and bakers’ deliveries, with a small front wheel to make room for the biggest possible wicker basket on the front. It was the kind of thing Harris would probably call ‘sturdy’, but to Joe it just meant hard graft. No luxuries like gears to make the going easier, and with forty or fifty pounds of meat in the basket he soon worked up a sweat. The only good thing was that it got lighter as you did the round, dropping off packages to the customers’ homes. He was on the last leg of his Monday morning deliveries now, heading back to the shop and hoping Harris might allow him a cup of tea before he got on with the rest of his day’s duties.
He pedalled his way across Brunswick Square and down Grenville Street until he came to a narrow turning on his right, identified by the single word ‘Colonnade’ carved into the stone lintel above it. This was what the old people called Colonnade Mews: a long row of two-9storey buildings behind the houses on Guilford Street, put up in the days when people got around on horses, not bikes or cars. Back then, apparently, they had stables on the ground floor, and upstairs there were flats for the coachmen to live in. Then when motors came along and horses weren’t needed any more they became slums that only very poor people would live in. Now, though, to Joe’s eye at least, they looked quite smart – perhaps they’d been done up.
His bike rattled and bumped its way across the cobbles that formed the narrow lane stretching a couple of hundred yards ahead of him. He’d learnt to be careful here, because the uneven stones could play havoc with his steering, what with the front wheel being so small. His next delivery was about a third of the way along, so he kept his eyes focused on the road immediately ahead.
He didn’t see the cat until it was almost under his wheel. He wobbled, and the startled creature skittered away across the road. From the corner of his left eye he glimpsed the open door from which it had shot, just in time to see a woman staggering out behind it. She was about his mum’s age and had red hair – that was all he had time to notice. It was too late to manoeuvre the heavy bicycle out of her way, and she clattered into him. He stuck his right foot out onto the ground to stop the bike going over and dumping the contents of its basket onto the cobbles, then got off and kicked down the stand over the front wheel so he could make sure the woman wasn’t hurt. She was leaning back against the wall, panting for breath. Her eyes scared him – she was staring straight ahead as though she’d seen a ghost.10
‘You all right, Mrs?’ he said, approaching her cautiously.
She shook her head, her faced etched with fear. ‘No.’
‘What’s happened?’
‘I can’t—’ she blurted out. ‘She’s … She’s in there.’ Her voice dropped to a terrified whisper. ‘I think she’s… dead.’
CHAPTER TWO
‘Yes, sir,’ said Jago.
He rarely found himself in agreement with Detective Superintendent Hardacre, but years of working in hierarchies of rank, first by conscription in the army and then by choice in the police, had taught him that dissent was generally best left unvoiced. Not that he actively sought a quiet life – he wouldn’t be a detective in the Metropolitan Police if he did – but he’d also learnt in those years that wherever possible it was best to fight on your own terms and when the circumstances were most favourable. In Hardacre’s case, Detective Inspector Jago was still finding his way.
The question he’d answered was an apparently simple one, albeit unexpected: ‘Do you know anything about Canadians?’
It seemed prudent, however, to admit that his experience was limited. ‘I met a few in the war, sir,’ he said. ‘They were there at our side and came a long way to fight for the King.’12
‘So they did,’ said Hardacre. ‘And now it looks like one of them’s been murdered – in Bloomsbury.’
‘A soldier?’
‘No, a middle-aged woman, but Canadian, and that makes it a bit sensitive, what with the Canadian Army coming over here to help us with this war. They were quick off the mark, too – got stuck in as soon as it started. So it doesn’t look good if one of their civilians gets murdered on our patch.’
‘I see what you mean, sir. Those Canadian troops were fearsome men to have with us. Some of our best snipers too.’
‘Yes – damn good fighters, those lads, if my memory serves me right. When a tough job needed doing, they were the men to do it. Remember what they did at Ypres, 1915?’
‘No, sir – before my time. Were you there?’
Jago knew that asking this question was a calculated risk, but he was curious to know how Hardacre would respond. He was not to find out, however, as his superior officer ploughed on as if he hadn’t heard it.
‘The Germans used gas,’ said the detective superintendent, ‘and there was chaos, but the Canadians held the line. An impressive body of men – good generals, and fine foot soldiers who knew how to obey orders. An example to us all.’
‘Absolutely,’ Jago replied, in no doubt that Hardacre saw himself as the general in the room and his subordinates as the foot soldiers.
‘Backbone,’ Hardacre continued, warming to his theme, ‘and dedication, that’s what they had. Not like 13the miserable cheats and layabouts we have to contend with these days.’
He swivelled his eyes in the direction of Cradock, who instantly drew himself up to attention, staring straight ahead and not daring to breathe until the detective superintendent’s gaze returned to Jago.
‘I don’t know what it is about this war,’ he continued, ‘but discipline seems to have gone to pot – everywhere you look there’s grocers fiddling the rations, frauds claiming the dole when they’re getting paid for a job, people conning gullible fools out of their life savings, confidence tricksters round every corner. I tell you, it beggars belief. There’s a bloke living not two miles from me who’s just been tried for bigamy – he was living with a woman he called his wife and had three kids by her, but it turned out he’s been married to someone else since 1919. And on top of that he’d been posing as a copper so he could check up on what his so-called wife was getting up to with some other bloke. These people are shameless.’
‘Was he convicted, sir?’
‘Oh, yes, he was convicted all right – he’s been sent down for eight months for bigamy, which is something, I suppose, and fined ten quid for impersonating a police officer, but I mean, what’s the country coming to? Whatever happened to good old-fashioned honesty?’
Jago suspected that honesty was no rarer today than it was in the rosy past of the detective superintendent’s imagination, but knew by now that expressing an alternative view when Mr Hardacre was in full flood was like trying to calm a runaway horse by stepping into its path. ‘I suppose there’s always going to be wrong ’uns out 14there pretending to be what they’re not so they can trick some mug out of their money,’ he said. ‘We just have to try and nick as many of them as we can to spare the victims. Isn’t that right, sir?’
‘Well said, Jago,’ said Hardacre, looking slightly surprised by such ready agreement. ‘So you just keep your eyes peeled.’
‘Will do, sir. So this Canadian woman who’s been found dead in Bloomsbury – was she some kind of trickster?’
‘Good Lord, no. She was a respectable woman by all accounts, highly thought of – a bit of a do-gooder, apparently. So mind your step. The powers that be don’t want any complications to mess up our relationship with Canada, not now they’ve sent thousands of troops over here to fight for us. So you get over to Bloomsbury double-quick and find out who did it, and try not to tread on anyone’s toes, especially Canadian ones.’
He turned to Cradock. ‘And you, Detective Constable– what do you know about Bloomsbury?’
‘Nothing, sir,’ Cradock blurted out, instinctively taking the path of least resistance.
‘Well, you mark my words – there’s a lot of people there who think they’re very clever. Been to university, friends in high places – people who’ve got ideas.’ He pronounced the last word in a way that sounded to Jago’s ear as though he was saying it with a capital I. ‘Dangerous things, ideas – they can get you into a lot of trouble. Do you know what the sergeant said when I joined the army?’
Cradock twitched his head rapidly from side to side. ‘No, sir.’
‘He said, “If any of you lot’ve got ideas, leave ’em 15behind where they belong. You just do as you’re told and leave the ideas to the officers.”’ He cast a hostile glance in Jago’s direction. ‘And we know where that got us, don’t we? Same with some of those characters in Bloomsbury – intellectuals and the like. Too clever for their own good, some of them. So don’t let any of them run rings round you, Detective Constable. Just remember your job’s not getting tangled up with their fancy ideas – your job’s nicking villains. I don’t want to hear of any tomfoolery by you. Is that understood?’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cradock.
‘I can assure you, sir, you won’t,’ Jago added.
Hardacre peered at him through his wire-rimmed spectacles, as if weighing the meaning of this assurance with a degree of scepticism. ‘Right,’ he said. ‘Just watch your step – both of you.’
‘Yes, sir. And the address?’
‘It’s Guilford Street, near Russell Square – number 85. But you have to go round the back, to a mews sort of alley called Colonnade – there’s a back entrance to the property there, and that’s where it happened. I’ve told the photographer to report to you at the scene, and I’ve left a message at St George’s Hospital for Dr Gibson, asking him to get up there as soon as he can.’
‘Thank you, sir. If that’s all, we’ll get over to Bloomsbury straight away.’
‘Yes.’ Hardacre looked thoughtful for a moment, and then fixed Cradock with a scowl that seemed designed to induce guilt in the young man. ‘And by the way, Constable, those Canadian snipers your guv’nor mentioned – you could learn a thing or two from them. They were good at 16their job – farm boys and hunters, most of ’em, and they’d learnt their business by hard graft. That’s what I want to see from you – hard graft. They didn’t just go over the top, charging in with all guns blazing – they were too valuable for that. No, they were patient, stealthy, focused on their target, waiting for the moment when they had him squarely in their sights, and then bang, they got ’im. If you want to be a half-decent detective one day, think about them. Don’t go in with your blunderbuss, shooting at everything and hitting nothing – bide your time, wait till you’ve got your man in the crosshairs, and then pounce.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cradock, ‘thank you, sir.’
‘Right, off you go, then – and try not to make a fool of yourself.’
Jago was surprised: his private estimation would have put Hardacre’s approach to policing firmly in the blunderbuss category. Perhaps these remarks to Cradock about subtle preparation and patience were more a reflection of how the detective superintendent imagined himself to be than the reality of his character, but even so, it wasn’t bad advice. And a reminder to young Peter not to make a fool of himself was as timely to him as it was to anyone, including, Jago inwardly conceded, himself.
CHAPTER THREE
There was a flurry of snow in the air as the two detectives approached Bloomsbury in Jago’s Riley Lynx. Not the useful kind of snow that might capture criminal boot prints, but the irritating kind that blew down the collar of your overcoat if you didn’t keep it well buttoned up. You couldn’t blame Nature for wanting to snow, of course, but for Jago, one of life’s other minor irritants that definitely could be blamed on someone was the fact that since war broke out, weather forecasts had completely disappeared from the newspapers and the BBC’s airwaves. It was understandable: the traditional forecasts would be of great value to anyone living across the Channel who fancied coming over to bomb you. As a result, like most people, Jago had had to fall back on reading the sky – easy enough to spot the dull grey cloud cover that signalled an impending snowfall, but that didn’t give you as much advance warning as the old forecasts on the wireless used to do.18
Colonnade proved to be too insignificant a lane to be marked on Jago’s A to Z map book, but when they arrived in Guilford Street, a helpful passer-by directed them to the entrance in Grenville Street through which the butcher’s boy had cycled earlier that morning. The car rumbled over the cobblestones as Jago drove in, and he could immediately see a uniformed constable standing guard at a door to their left. He parked the car and got out, followed by Cradock, and identified himself to the officer.
‘Morning, sir,’ said the constable, acknowledging Jago’s rank with a smart salute. ‘The body’s in there, sir, in the sitting room – up the stairs and it’s on your left. The photographer’s just arrived, so he’s gone up to take a photo of it.’
‘And no one’s entered the building since you got here?’
‘No, sir, and I got round here pretty sharpish as soon as it was reported – I’m at Gray’s Inn Road station, so it’s only about ten minutes’ walk from here. We’ve got a man on the front door too.’
‘Who was it who reported the body?’
‘A young lad called Joe Thompson – butcher’s delivery boy. He dialled 999. I’ve told him to wait in the kitchen. That’s upstairs too – it’s an old stable building, you see, with a flat upstairs. The housekeeper says that’s where the deceased lady lived.’
‘The housekeeper?’
‘Yes, sir – a Mrs Annie McCready. She lives on the premises, and it was her who found the body. I’ve told her to wait for you too, but not in the kitchen with the lad, in case you didn’t want them talking to each other before you’d seen them.’19
‘Good – so where do we find her?’
‘She’s got a room in the main house – she says there’s a connecting door at the back of the flat, and her room’s the first on your left after you go through it.’
‘Does she know who the victim is?’
‘Yes, sir. She says it’s Mrs Rosemary Webster – she owns the property and lives in the flat here.’
‘Very good. Right, we’ll go in, but I want you to stay here and keep anyone else out. I’m expecting Dr Gibson to arrive, though – he’s the pathologist – so send him up as soon as he gets here.’
‘Will do, sir.’
Jago left him at his post and entered the building with Cradock. They went to the room at the top of the stairs that the constable had identified as the location of the body, and found Nisbet, the Scotland Yard photographer, already at work. The room was tidy, clean and uncluttered. It was simply furnished, with a pair of comfortable-looking armchairs, a gateleg dining table and two chairs, and a standard lamp. In one corner stood a small desk adorned with some framed photographs, a telephone and a potted plant, and in the opposite corner an equally small table bearing a wireless of modest proportions.
There were no signs of a disturbance, and everything seemed in its place. Everything, that is, except the body of a woman lying conspicuously in the centre of the room, dressed in a pair of dark green slacks and a thick woolly jumper, and sprawled on her back on a carpet stained with blood.
‘See if you can find any useful prints before Dr Gibson gets here,’ he said to Cradock, ‘and I’ll go and tell that lad 20who reported the body to hang on for a bit until we can speak to him.’
‘Will do, sir,’ said Cradock, beginning to unpack his equipment from the murder bag. He still felt a surge of pride to be entrusted with this job, and couldn’t resist setting about it with the kind of flourish that a conjuror might use for a stage performance of a magic trick.
Jago stood back and took in the scene. The blackout curtains at the small window were drawn back, and the remains of a fire in the grate were grey and lifeless. Apart from the body, only one thing looked incongruous in this unremarkable setting: a brass poker of the kind one would expect to find in any living room as part of a fireside companion set, but not standing neatly beside the fireplace. Instead it was lying where dropped or thrown on the floor, and the end of it was stained with what he guessed might be blood. He would leave that for Dr Gibson to deal with.
He left the living room in search of the kitchen, but as he did so he heard energetic footsteps coming up the stairs. He turned round to find the pathologist, who greeted him heartily.
‘Hello,’ said Gibson. ‘I hope I haven’t kept you waiting. I came as quickly as I could, but the windscreen was getting steamed up, and it’s difficult if you haven’t got a passenger in the front who can keep it wiped clear for you. I didn’t want to crash into anything on the way here – it would be too embarrassing to end up as a patient in my own hospital. But anyway, here I am. Where’s the body?’
‘Just through here,’ said Jago, leading him into the sitting room. ‘What do you make of it?’
Gibson knelt beside the body and checked for signs 21of life. ‘Well, she’s certainly dead,’ he said. ‘As for how she died, you can probably see there’s a small wound here above her left eye. Judging by that and the presence of the poker on the floor, my initial guess would be that she’s been killed by a blow to her head. But I’ll be able to give you a more considered opinion when I’ve carried out a proper post-mortem examination.’
‘So are we looking at a case of murder?’
‘I’d say it would be unlikely for a sane person to attempt suicide by beating themselves over the head with a poker, and equally unlikely for someone to deal themselves a fatal blow to the head with one accidentally, but one must keep an open mind – anything’s possible, in theory at least.’
‘But you’d agree that it’s most likely someone else who dealt the blow?’
‘On the face of it, yes. But what I can’t tell you is whether such person did so with malice aforethought – you’ll have to come to your own conclusions about that. And then it’s for the court to decide whether it was murder or manslaughter. But for practical purposes I imagine it would be appropriate for you to treat it as suspected murder unless or until your findings persuade you otherwise.’
‘Thanks,’ said Jago. ‘And you’ll let me know your estimate of the time of death?’
‘Certainly – I’ll get onto that straight away.’
Jago judged that now would be a good time for him to have a word with the boy who’d reported the body, so he adjourned to the kitchen. It was a very small room, with basic equipment, much as he would have expected in a flat like this. A youth was wedged into the corner, sitting on a small chair and reading a newspaper.22
‘Joe Thompson?’ said Jago.
‘That’s me,’ the boy replied.
‘I’m Detective Inspector Jago.’
‘Right – the other policeman told me to wait here. He said you’d want to talk to me. It won’t take long, will it? I don’t want to get in trouble with my gaffer, and he doesn’t like me being late.’
‘Don’t worry – we can explain it to him if necessary. I just want you to tell me what happened this morning. I understand you’re a butcher’s delivery boy.’
‘That’s right. I work for Mr Harris – he’s got a shop in Lamb’s Conduit Street, and I do local deliveries for him. I was running a bit late today, on account of the crazy stuff that’s been going on with the rations.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, today’s the day, isn’t it? The meat ration’s been cut from one and tenpence each a week to one and sixpence, so from now on everyone’s going to have to make do with less meat. The Ministry of Food’s said most of the offals are on the ration from today too, so people won’t be able to get as much liver and kidneys and suchlike as they used to. It’s been chaos the last few days – housewives were queuing up to buy what they could before the ration went down, so all the butchers were running short and couldn’t even give them the new ration’s worth. Mr Harris could only let them buy a shilling’s worth, and some of them were getting quite angry.’
Jago recalled seeing something in the newspaper about the impending change to the meat ration but hadn’t paid it much attention. Since being transferred from West Ham on K Division to Scotland Yard, he’d been lodging above 23Rochester Row police station and relying on the canteen for his meals, so buying meat from butchers’ shops wasn’t something he had to do. Meat might well get a bit scarcer in canteens too, he supposed, but apart from that a change in the ration didn’t have much impact on his day-to-day life. For butchers and their customers, however, it had clearly been very significant.
‘Even this morning,’ the boy continued, ‘I had customers asking me what it was all about when I did their delivery, so that made me late, and I’ve got other duties to do back at the shop. I want to get on in the job, see – you can’t be a delivery boy all your life.’
‘You’re hoping to be a butcher one day?’
‘That’s right. At the moment I have to do things like sweeping the shop and putting the fresh sawdust down on the floor, but I’m learning about all the different cuts of meat and how to make sausages too – I like that. And that’s the only bit of good news about the ration changing, by the way – they said sausages still aren’t rationed, so you can buy as many of them as you like if you can find them.’
‘I’m pleased to hear that.’
Thompson leaned a little bit closer. ‘I’m even learning butcher’s back slang.’
‘What’s that?’
‘It’s like a sort of secret language, so the customers don’t know what we’re saying to each other – saying all the words backwards, like “kayrop” instead of pork, and “bemal” instead of lamb. I don’t know it well enough to chat in it yet, though.’
Jago tried to imagine the lad before him as a portly 24middle-aged butcher in a long white apron, knife in hand and a sharpening steel dangling from his waist, ruling over his own shop, and thought the youngster still had a lot to learn. ‘You’d better not give away any more of your trade secrets, then,’ he said. ‘Now, I’ll try not to keep you much longer. I just want you to tell me what happened when you got here this morning. What time was it?’
‘It was about eleven o’clock, and I’d done most of the round, so I was working my way back to the shop. I was riding my bike past here when this woman suddenly ran out in front of me, and I crashed into her. She was in a right state, and she said there was a lady in here, dead.’
‘What did you do?’
‘The first thing that came into my head – I ran off down the road to find a phone box and called 999. Then I rang the shop and told Mr Harris what had happened, in case he was wondering why I was late, and he said I should come back here and see if I was needed as a witness or something. So I came back, and then a policeman turned up in no time at all and took over. He told me to wait here until you came.’
‘Did you go back to the room where the body was?’
‘No – the policeman told me not to touch anything and to stay put here in the kitchen.’
‘Good. Now, this lady who was dead – did you know her?’
‘No – she wasn’t one of our customers, so I’ve never done a delivery here. I was on my way to someone up the other end of the road.’
‘Did you see anyone else leaving this property when you were approaching it?’25
‘No – only the woman I told you about.’
‘And did you see or hear anything that might’ve had something to do with what happened here?’
‘No, nothing at all. Is it all right if I go now? It’s just that I’ll be in trouble with Mr Harris if I don’t get all those orders delivered pretty soon. He’ll have my guts for garters.’
Jago smiled at the boy’s inadvertently appropriate choice of phrase. ‘OK. You’d better run along then, and finish that round of yours. But if you think of anything else, just let us know.’
‘Will do,’ said Thompson, and left immediately.
Jago returned to the sitting room. ‘Right, Peter,’ he said, ‘any prints on that poker?’
‘No, sir,’ Cradock replied. ‘I reckon if someone hit the lady on the head with it, either they gave it a wipe afterwards to make sure they hadn’t left any, or more likely they had gloves on – I mean, it’s taters outside, isn’t it?’
‘It is, yes, but if you find yourself giving evidence in court I’d advise you to say it was very cold outside, not taters – unless the magistrate’s a cockney who speaks the same language as you, which is unlikely.’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘And if the assailant was wearing gloves, what else would that suggest to you? Apart from the weather outside being cold, I mean.’
Cradock thought for a moment. ‘Well, I suppose it could mean it was someone who was just popping in for a moment, so didn’t take them off – so maybe it was someone she knew.’
‘Or a stranger who’d called, and she invited them to 26come in out of the cold for a moment out of the kindness of her heart?’
‘I suppose so, if she was that kind of person. But it could’ve been someone who turned up intending to do her in, so deliberately kept their gloves on.’
‘Yes – although again, “harm her” might play better for you in court than “do her in”.’
‘Yes, sir. So you mean it doesn’t really tell us anything?’
‘Not in itself, perhaps, but we must see what else we can turn up. Speaking of which, let’s see how Dr Gibson’s getting on.’
Jago crossed the room to where the pathologist was putting some of the tools of his trade back into his bag. ‘Well, Doctor,’ he said. ‘Do you have that estimated time of death for me?’
‘Yes,’ Gibson replied. ‘You probably know by now that a dead body doesn’t cool at a consistent rate, and a lot depends on the circumstances, but I’ve taken her temperature, and allowing for the fact that it’s cold outside and the fire in here has been out for some time, and that she’s fully dressed, I’d say she probably died between approximately two and four hours ago.’
Jago checked his watch. ‘So between about eight and ten o’clock this morning?’
‘That’s right. And now I suggest that if you have any more questions you pop over to St George’s Hospital later today. I’ve arranged to have the body picked up in a few minutes and taken there, so I’ll head back now and get on with the post-mortem examination immediately.’
‘Thank you,’ said Jago. ‘We’ll see you later, and in the meantime we’ll see what else we can find out here.’27
Once Gibson had departed, Jago turned his attention to the woman’s pockets. These yielded nothing except a handkerchief, but there was a handbag lying on the table. ‘Let’s take a look in here, Peter,’ he said, picking it up.
Jago’s acquaintance with women’s handbags was based more on his experience in the line of duty than on any intimate personal relationship with their owners, but the specimen in his hands seemed in every respect unexceptional. It was of average size, its brown leather was scuffed on one side, and it held a miscellany of everyday items: a purse, a small hairbrush, a comb, a compact, a lipstick, a couple of keys on a ring and other oddments. A Lloyds bank-book recorded the usual small deposits and withdrawals, but no conspicuously large amounts. A national identity card was made out in the name of Rosemary Webster, with her address given as 85 Guilford Street, Bloomsbury, WC1, which bore out the facts they’d already established. It seemed that the dead woman had taken the advice given by the government the previous summer, because when he opened the identity card he found a folded slip of paper on which were handwritten the words ‘Next of kin: Flying Officer J. H. Webster, RAF Northolt’. Jago recalled that the Minister of Home Security had advised everyone to carry such a note in case they became an air raid casualty. Understandably, the minister had not added that this would also be helpful to the police in the event that they were murdered, but it was undoubtedly true.
‘So,’ he said, showing the card to Cradock, ‘we know who her next of kin is and where to find him. It’s a pity these national identity cards only ask for your Christian 28name and surname, so you can’t tell whether a woman’s a Mrs or a Miss, but that constable said she was Mrs Webster, so I suppose this Flying Officer Webster’s either her husband or her son, or failing that her brother-in-law. Not her father-in-law, though – if she’s got one, I doubt whether he’d be young enough to be a junior officer in the RAF. We’ll have to buzz over to Northolt and see if we can find him, assuming he’s not up in the air somewhere.’
‘And assuming he’s alive, don’t you think, sir?’ said Cradock. ‘I mean, we don’t know when she wrote that note, do we, and there’s blokes in the RAF getting killed every day.’
The untroubled expression on the young man’s face suggested an indifference to the violent deaths of men of his own age. Jago couldn’t tell whether this was because the boy had grown callous or whether it was simply the unfeeling response of ignorance. He guessed it was the latter, but still it pained him.
‘Yes, well,’ he replied, ‘let’s hope he’s alive – and you be thankful you’re down here on the ground with me and not up in the sky trying to dodge a Messerschmitt.’
Cradock must have picked up something from the tone of Jago’s voice. ‘Oh, yes, of course, sir. I didn’t mean—’
‘I know you didn’t, Peter – but don’t go saying things like that to this man Webster when we meet him.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said Cradock, looking chastened.
Jago continued his examination of the handbag’s contents. The purse contained a single pound note and a handful of coins, but nothing else of interest. It was lying, however, on a folded silk scarf, and when he removed that from the bag it revealed something else. ‘Ah,’ he 29said. ‘This might be a bit more interesting.’
Cradock moved closer as Jago took from the bottom of the bag a postcard. It wasn’t the kind with a picture on one side that you might send home from a seaside holiday – it was a plain one, with Rosemary’s name and address and a tuppenny stamp on one side and a message on the other. The handwriting was in pencil, and was smudged here and there, presumably by rain.
‘I can’t make out the date it was posted,’ said Jago, peering at the postmark. ‘But the message says this, “No one’s going to bully me. Best thing is for you to keep quiet. These things have a nasty habit of blowing back in your face, and we don’t want that, do we? I recommend you don’t breathe a word. If you do, you’ll regret it – trust me.”’ He passed the card to Cradock. ‘What do you make of that?’
‘I’m not sure,’ said Cradock, studying it carefully. ‘It depends how you read it.’
‘It’s ambiguous, you mean?’
‘Yes, sir. I mean, “No one’s going to bully me.” That could mean the person who wrote it was being threatened by someone and was trying to reassure Mrs Webster that they wouldn’t succeed. But if you read it with a different kind of voice in mind, they could just as easily be saying “Don’t you dare try to bully me.” And the rest of it too – you could read it as friendly advice in a gentle voice, but it could just as easily be someone making a nasty threat.’
‘That’s very perceptive, Peter – I think you’re right.’
‘Thank you, sir – I wonder what the postman made of it. Or the post lady – we’ve got them too now because of the war, haven’t we?’30
‘Whoever it is, I don’t imagine they have time to read every postcard they deliver. Especially when nine out of ten probably say “Weather fine, nice food, room OK. Wish you were here.” But I do think it’d be interesting to know who wrote this, and why.’
Jago slipped the postcard into his pocket and scanned the rest of the room. It was neat and tidy, and nothing looked as though it had been disturbed during whatever incident had cost Mrs Webster her life. The only sign of activity was a half-empty cup of tea on the table, together with a folded newspaper that looked unopened and a plate on which were half a slice of toast and some crumbs. One chair had been pushed back from the table.
‘What does that little scene say to you, Peter?’ he said, gesturing towards it.
‘It looks like she was having her breakfast, sir, but didn’t finish it. Maybe she was interrupted by a ring at the door and got up to let someone in – and maybe that’s when she was attacked. There’s no way of knowing that’s what actually happened, though, or what time it was if it did – she could’ve fancied a spot of toast any time.’
‘Yes – annoying, isn’t it? But it does at least suggest that something happened to interrupt her.’
‘That newspaper, too – looks like she hadn’t had time to read it.’ Cradock moved towards the table. ‘It’s The Times – that’s what posh people read, isn’t it?’
‘Yes, but it’s also what’s known as a serious newspaper, so it could just mean Mrs Webster took an interest in things like politics and foreign affairs and business.’
‘Oh – yes, right.’ Cradock picked the newspaper up to take a look, but stopped when his eye lighted upon 31what had been lying beneath it. ‘Look, sir – there’s an envelope. It’s got an address written on it, but no stamp.’
‘Let me see,’ said Jago, taking it from him. ‘That’s interesting – it’s addressed to ABC Introductions, Hadleigh Mansions, Museum Street, Bloomsbury. That sounds like what they call a matrimonial agency, doesn’t it?’
‘Do you reckon she was looking for a husband, then, sir?’
‘She wouldn’t be the first widowed woman to look in that direction for solace, would she? Let’s see what’s inside.’ He took a couple of sheets of paper from the envelope. ‘Hmm – looks like she’s written two letters.’ He began to read one, then switched to the other. ‘That’s curious – one starts “Dear Henry” and the other “Dear Brian”, and she’s signed them both at the bottom, but neither of them has her address at the top. Do you suppose that’s because an agency like that sends letters to men who might be interested but holds their addresses back so they can’t make direct contact with the woman?’
‘Don’t know, sir – I’ve never used one. Have you?’
‘Don’t be ridiculous. Let’s see what they say.’ Jago quickly scanned the letters. ‘Curiouser and curiouser, as Alice in Wonderland said. In this one she says “I’m a young widow who longs to find an experienced and responsible man who I can rely on to take care of me. I have independent means but my tastes are simple, and I believe I would make a very loyal and dependable wife for the right man”, and so on. This other one says, “I’m a fun-loving adventurer with my best years ahead of me and am looking for a similarly adventurous man to share 32my energetic life with. I love travelling to warmer climes and fortunately I’m blessed with the money to do it – my favourite destination is the South of France”, and she goes on in the same vein.’
He passed them to Cradock. ‘Have a look for yourself. I don’t know whether either of them’s an accurate description of her, but she can’t be both of these women. I think we need to find out a bit more about this. If she was thinking of linking up with strange men looking for marriage, I’d like to know whether she confided in her housekeeper or that next of kin of hers – or anyone else for that matter.’
CHAPTER FOUR
‘Right,’ said Jago as soon as the body had been removed from the flat, ‘let’s start with the housekeeper and see if she can shed any light on all this.’
The connecting door that the constable had mentioned was shut, but it had a Yale lock on their side, so Jago only had to turn the handle to open it. He found himself looking down a short corridor with a couple of doors on his left. He knocked on the first, since this was where she reportedly had her room, and it was opened by a woman who looked to him in her late forties, with lank red hair and a weary expression, dressed in a heavy skirt and cardigan and what he believed would be described as ‘sensible’ shoes.
‘Mrs McCready?’ he said. ‘We’re police officers – I’m Detective Inspector Jago and this is Detective Constable Cradock. May we come in?’
‘Of course,’ she said, her voice sounding flat. ‘That young policeman said you’d be wanting to talk to me – 34sit down and make yourselves comfortable. Can I get you anything?’
‘No, thank you very much. We’ll try not to be too long– we just need to ask you a few questions about what happened to Mrs Webster.’
She closed her eyes and bowed her head briefly, then raised it again and faced him with a resolute expression. ‘Yes, I suppose you have to, God rest her soul. Best to get it over with – what do you need to know?’
‘I understand you’re the housekeeper here – is that correct?’
‘Yes. I came here getting on for ten years ago – I saw an advert in the paper. Mrs Webster’s husband had died not long before, and she was looking for a live-in housekeeper for a pound a week. I’d not been long widowed myself – my husband was gassed in the war and struggled on, but it finally caught up with him in 1929. Things weren’t easy for me financially after that, so a job that meant I could live in … well, it was a godsend, really.’
‘So how did you get on?’
‘We got on very well. She didn’t actually advertise for what some of the wealthy ladies call a companion-housekeeper, but I think that’s what she was really looking for – someone who’d be a companion. And that suited me too. So, perhaps it was because we’d both lost a husband, but whatever it was, we became more like friends. She was still my employer, of course, and I was her employee, but she always called me Annie and insisted that I call her Rosemary.’
‘I see,’ said Jago. ‘Now, I’m sorry if this is distressing, but I understand it was you who found her this morning.’35
‘Yes. We’d sometimes have a cup of coffee together, and we’d arranged to today. I’ve always been a big coffee drinker, and I’m very thankful it’s not been rationed yet. So anyway, I came through here just a bit before eleven to get a pot brewing, but when I called out hello there was no answer, and as soon as I went into the sitting room I saw her there, lying on the floor, with blood all over her face, and that poker next to her. At first I couldn’t believe it, but she wasn’t breathing, and I knew she must be dead. I ran out for help, and that’s when I met the butcher’s boy. I expect he’s told you he ran off to fetch some help.’
‘Yes, he has, thank you. So there was no one else in the flat when you arrived?’
‘No – not unless they were hiding very quietly somewhere. They must have fled before I got there.’
‘Do you have any idea who might’ve been responsible for this attack?’
‘No. I can’t imagine anyone wanting to hurt her – she was a friend to everyone. Do you think maybe she was mistaken for someone else? Killed by accident?’
‘We don’t know, I’m afraid. A friend to everyone, you say – can you tell me a bit more about what kind of person Mrs Webster was?’
‘Certainly. I’d say she was someone who always wanted to help other people. She was very involved with Bloomsbury House, for example. Do you know what that is?’
‘No, I don’t.’
‘It’s not far from here. It’s on Bloomsbury Street, at the far side of the British Museum from where we are now. 36It used to be the Palace Hotel, but before this new war started it was turned into a kind of headquarters for about a dozen organisations helping refugees, and they call it the Central Office for Refugees. Rosemary said most of them arrive in this country homeless and penniless, with barely the clothes they stand up in, and Bloomsbury House finds shelter and support for them, mainly with private individuals. She did voluntary work there, and she took some of the refugees into her own home here. I thought it was very kind of her, but I don’t think it went down too well with some of the neighbours. Probably thought it was “not quite the thing” for a respectable neighbourhood, but I don’t suppose she cared too much about that.’
‘She had strong convictions, then?’
‘Oh, yes. That’s why she was living in that flat instead of here in the house.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘Well, it was when the Blitz started and all those poor souls in the East End were being bombed out of their houses. Do you remember that big to-do there was about better-off people in the West End moving out to safer parts of the country and leaving their nice big houses locked up and empty?’
‘I do – and then the government told the borough councils to start requisitioning those places to accommodate them.’
‘Exactly. But Rosemary was one step ahead of all that. She was already taking in refugees, like I said, and she’d offered to let the local council use this place for billeting bombed-out people, so she actually volunteered to have 37it requisitioned. It’s run by the council now.’
‘So she moved out into the flat so they could use the house.’
‘That’s it.’
‘But you’re still her housekeeper?’
‘Well, I suppose I’m not really. The thing is, when the councils take these places over, they put a woman in to run them, and to do communal cooking for the residents. So I’m still the housekeeper, but now I’m paid by the council, not by Rosemary. I still help her out, of course, but that’s what you might call my own bit of voluntary work. It saved her a few bob too, not having to pay me, so that must have been a help.’
‘Did Mrs Webster have any financial problems?’
‘I couldn’t say for sure, but I don’t think she was too flush with money. People probably thought she was, because she had a big house and was generous, but neither of those things necessarily mean you’re well off, do they?’
‘Not necessarily, I suppose, no. So that flat of hers was effectively a separate residence from the rest of the house?’
‘Yes, but all one building, connected by that door you came through. Rosemary once told me that when these houses were built, they all had stables and coach houses joined on at the back, but then the area got run down and the stables ended up as slums for poor people to live in. Eventually most of those bits at the back were knocked down and then rebuilt separate from the house, but this one kept the two connected. So this is all one building, but two homes – the council controls the house, but Rosemary kept the mews part as her own home.’38
‘So that’s why there’s a lock on that connecting door, I suppose.’
‘That’s right. It was just for a bit of privacy. Not that she shut herself away – she wanted to be a friend to all the residents and help them, so she was always in and out of the main house, and they knew they could knock on her door any time and see her.’
‘Was the door locked when you called in this morning?’
‘Yes, it was.’
‘But you have a key?’
‘That’s correct.’
‘Of course. Do any of the residents have a key?’
‘No.’
‘But if any of them had knocked and she was in, she’d have opened the door?’
‘Yes – she always wanted to be available if they needed anything.’
‘And the back entrance – you have a key for that too?’
‘I do, yes.’
‘But not the residents, I assume.’
‘That’s right – they’ve no need for one.’
‘Thank you, that’s very helpful. Now, could you tell me who the other residents of the house are? We’ll need to speak to all of them.’
‘By all means. There’s four of them. There’s a lady called Ida Griggs – she was bombed out, over in the East End. Then there’s Valerie Palmer – she’s a volunteer ambulance driver with the London Auxiliary Ambulance Service at their station in Russell Court. That’s in Woburn Place, not far from here. She was bombed out too, in Wapping. We’ve got a refugee – he’s called Albert Nadelmann, and 39he’s some sort of German professor. And then there’s one more man, Charles Buckleby – he’s a businessman, but I think he had a spot of bother and lost his money. He was already a lodger here when the council took the house over, so they’ve let him stay on. The two women are on the next floor up, and the men are on the top floor. Shall I tell them you’re wanting to speak to them?’
Jago glanced at his watch. ‘Yes, please, but it’ll probably have to be tomorrow – we need to see Mrs Webster’s next of kin first. We found a slip of paper in her identity card that gave his name as Flying Officer J. H. Webster. He’s a relative, I assume?’
‘Yes, that’ll be Jack – he’s her son. She only had the one child, as far as I know.’
‘The note said “RAF Northolt” after his name. Do you know whether he’s still stationed there?’
‘Yes. That’s where he was the last I heard – he was shot down, you see, and injured, and he’s been recuperating there. It was very worrying for Mrs Webster, of course, but at least Northolt’s not far away, so she’s been able to visit him.’ She paused, looking down at the floor as if distracted by the memory. ‘And now she’ll never see him again.’ She pulled her shoulders back and returned her gaze to Jago. ‘Anyway, you’ll be breaking the news to him, will you?’
‘Yes, we will.’
‘Thank you – I’m glad it won’t be me. I think he’ll be OK, though – he’s a strong young man, and Mrs Webster told me he was making a good recovery. She said it’s very frustrating for him not to be flying, though – he can’t wait to be back up in the air. Apparently the RAF’s got him working on “special duties” now, whatever that means. 40She didn’t know either, but it sounds rather important, doesn’t it? He said he wasn’t allowed to tell her anything about it, so I suppose it must be.’
Jago noted the fact but said nothing. ‘Did Mrs Webster have any other relatives?’
‘She did, yes – she’s got a brother. He’s called Bowman – Gordon Bowman, and he’s Canadian. Did you know Rosemary was Canadian?’
‘Yes, I was told this morning. Do you happen to know how long she’d been over here?’
‘In England, you mean? That would be since 1931, because it was later that year that I started working for her. Her husband had died, you see – in 1930, I think – so she decided to move to London. Jack came with her, of course – he was just a boy then – and she bought this place to live in.’
‘Rather a large house for two people?’
‘Her husband was some kind of successful businessman, and I think he’d told her property was the best investment, so I guess when she moved over here she was probably looking for financial security. But she always seemed to like having people round her and wanted to help anyone in need, so perhaps even then she was thinking about opening up her home to other people.’
‘And why did she choose London?’
‘She wanted to explore her roots. You know she was born here, don’t you?’
Jago was beginning to wish Detective Superintendent Hardacre had briefed them in more detail. ‘No, I didn’t,’ he said. ‘When you say “here”, do you mean in Britain, or in Bloomsbury?’41
‘Bloomsbury, I think.’
‘So how did she end up in Canada?’
‘Well, I don’t know much myself. All I know really is that she was sent out to Canada as a child and adopted by a family there.’
‘Sent out by whom?’
‘By the local Board of Guardians.’
‘Do you know why?’
‘No, she never said, and I thought it wasn’t my place to ask – I would’ve felt too much of a nosey parker. But there was a lady who came to see her once, and I think she’d been a member of the Board of Guardians back then. She’d probably know more about it, and I suppose if you’re the police then it’s your job to ask.’
‘Do you recall her name?’
‘I do. She was Mrs Cordingley – Mrs Pamela Cordingley, I think. I remember the name because there was a Mr Cordingley who owned a woollen mill in the town I grew up in. No relation, though, as far as I know. I think she lived somewhere round here – I don’t know where, but she was quite a posh lady, so she’s probably got a telephone. You might find her in the phone book.’
‘Yes – thank you. Now, just to go back to what I was asking about relatives – you mentioned Mrs Webster had a Canadian brother, Mr Bowman. Was he a blood relation, or was he part of the family who adopted her?’
‘He was the son of the Canadian family, so I suppose you’d call him her brother by adoption.’
‘Did she have any other relatives?’
‘Just her brother’s family, I think.’
‘Do you have an address for them?’42
‘Sorry, no, I don’t, but I expect Rosemary’s son will.’
‘And can you tell me about the neighbours? I’m wondering whether any of them might’ve seen someone coming or going this morning.’
‘That depends on where whoever it was came to – I mean, if they came to the front door someone might have seen them, but if they came to the back door, like you did, I don’t think there’d have been anyone to see them.’
‘So who are the neighbours at the front?’
