Enter Pale Death Page 3

  “And you want me to tiptoe through the tulips ahead of you?”

  “Not quite as bad as that! In fact, it might be just what you’d enjoy. Two nights of luxury, staying at a very discreet, expensive and well-regarded hotel ‘in the heart of clubland,’ as they advertise themselves—the Castlemaine. Just off St. James’s—do you know it? Invent your own cover story—single woman up in town for the shows, the museums, that sort of thing. Here’s your subject. You’re to keep an eye on this gentleman. A fellow guest.” Joe passed a photograph over the desk.

  “He looks smooth. Powerful.” Lily looked at Joe anxiously. “Sure you know what you’re taking on, Joe?”

  “No. That’s the whole point. I don’t. There are things I need to know—relationships I need to understand. I’ve been having this chap covered by officers from the Branch, with little to show for it. I can’t tell you how bored they were. They report everything ship-shape and Bristol fashion—a man leading an impeccable and busy life. I can come up with no further justification for continuing the surveillance of one exemplary Englishman, and I’ve had to stand the men down. You know how tight my budget is. We need all the men we can muster to get in amongst these Blackshirt clowns who are making our lives a misery.”

  “But a couple of nights at the Castlemaine will make a bit of a hole in your expenses for the month, won’t it?”

  “Yes. And tricky to account for. I shall enter it as ‘specialist consultation fee.’ The formula’s held good so far. And worth every penny to the State!” His voice was warm with pride and encouragement. “I’ve made certain that the people who need to know these things are aware of what you’ve saved the country in embarrassment, hard cash and lives … starting with the Prince himself. Inestimable—that just about sums up your contribution, Lily, to Britannia’s well-being. No one’s going to raise an objection.”

  “But the State—I’m inferring—is so far unaware that it is in need, again, of such service as I can offer?” There was a trace of doubt in Lily’s voice as she foxtrotted jerkily around the subject, then she plunged in and asked, “This isn’t something personal, is it, Joe? You must have enough authorised, official enquiries on the books to keep you busy? All that civil unrest … Communists, Fascists, Hunger Marchers, demanding your attention.”

  “To say nothing of the ‘Mothers for Clean Living League.’ They cause more damage and use up more police time than any political faction. I won’t tell you what they got up to at the Dorchester! But, Lily, I will always investigate the suspicion of murder. I spend a great deal of time sitting on committees and signing forms these days, but I still know which questions should be asked, and I have the energy to nag away until I get an answer.”

  “The ferret still likes to get his paws dirty? You’re not letting this one go, are you?”

  “No. I can’t. What’s more, I know that a clever, well-trained woman can sometimes get further down the rabbit hole than I can. Lily, I want you to stay under the same roof as our gent this weekend and just watch him. That’s all you have to do.”

  “Something special about this weekend?”

  “I think so. It’s an aberration in his schedule. He’s a man who doesn’t take time off. It’s out of character for him to go quietly to earth in this way. He’s booked their best suite. Under a false name. Well, not very false! He’s booked in as ‘Mr. Fitzwilliam.’ He used his mother’s maiden name, would you believe?”

  “Hardly a seasoned conspirator?”

  “You’d say. But that’s all we have.”

  “Is Mrs. Fitzwilliam expected to be joining him?” Lily asked carefully.

  “No sign of a lady. So far. It’s his contacts I’m anxious to identify. I want you to note who meets him, goes to his room, shares a drink with him, passes him a newspaper … lights his cigarette … You know all the tricks.”

  There was concern in Lily’s voice as she pointed out the obvious: “Joe, you must recognise this setup? It’s a divorce case in preparation. I don’t mind mixing it with murderers or spies, and I’d cheerfully knock the stuffing out of a Blackshirt or two, but I won’t be involved with divorce cases. I’m not that sort of agent. You know that. I get enough psychological drama at home.”

  “Divorce is certainly not an aspect of this case, Lily. I say again—murder may well be.”

  Joe’s old officer listened to her briefing, asking a few quick questions, and he nodded in relief when she accepted the task.

  “You never thought I’d say no, did you?”

  “You miss the work still, Lily? Oh, I know you’re happily in the married state, but I do note the sparkle in your eye when you catch the scent of the fox! By the way, Bacchus doesn’t know anything about this.”

  Lily gave him a pitying look. “Bet he does! That husband of mine knows everything about everybody. Including you, including me. Start from there. It can be frightening, but that’s how it is. You’ve conveniently sent him off to Berlin, sniffing out British Nazi sympathisers—or so I’m guessing … Bacchus tells me nothing—leaving the little wife to get up to all kinds of naughtiness.”

  “The children, Lily? Can I offer …?”

  “Taken care of. Aunty Phyl’s always glad to ride to the rescue and is well backed up by our Emma, who can always sleep over. Dick and Hattie send their love and wonder when they’re going to see their godfather again.”

  Joe smiled broadly. “Summer holidays coming up next month! I’m planning a children’s party—or at least, my sister’s planning a party—down in Surrey. Swimming, camping, tree-climbing, cakes and ice cream … that sort of thing. They must come.”

  “They’re very fond of you, Joe.” Lily looked at him with affection and concern. “You’re used to my bluntness, so I’ll say it: time you had kids of your own. Anyone on the horizon who might oblige?” She knew she was the only one who had ever been close enough to Joe to ask searching personal questions. His sister, Lydia, was very dear to him, but she received only edited and optimistic summaries of his London life. Lily, on the other hand, had never suffered from upper-class delicacy, and she reckoned that if you never asked, you never found out. He’d saved her from a nasty end in a swirling Thames whirlpool early on in their acquaintance and that had put him, paradoxically, forever in her debt. A life you’ve saved is doubly precious, and she knew he would grant her any favours. She would do the same for him and hoped he understood that—he would never have allowed her to speak the words.

  She was puzzled to see that a frown and a long silence preceded the smile as he replied cheerfully enough: “Oh, yes there is. The unlucky girl is Dorcas Joliffe. She’s well on this side of the horizon, in fact. Sailing into port, you might say. I don’t believe you’ve ever met her, though I’m sure you’ve heard me speak of her?”

  Eyes wide with astonishment, Lily could only nod.

  “Yes! That Joliffe!” he said, answering her thought. “And before you ask—she’s twenty-one these days, soon to be twenty-two. I tell people she’s the daughter of a neighbour and dear friend of mine, which she is. She’s also by way of being my sister’s ward. She’s been away … I mean, out of my life for seven years and only came back into it again in January. We were last together in … April, I suppose it was. The Easter break before she went back up to college for her final term. She’ll be wanting to tell us all how well or otherwise she did in her finals. She’s been trying to call me with her news for the last two days, but …” His voice trailed away as he heard himself turning querulous. “You know how it is.”

  “Good lord! Well, I never!” And, doubtfully, “Are you sure?”

  “Well, there you have it, Lily. No, I’m not sure. I mean about the future. She loves me, I love her. Always have. We’re having a very happy time and it’s all going to end eventually in marriage. But, but …”

  “You haven’t asked her yet, have you?” Lily said shrewdly.

  “Hole in one! No, I haven’t.”

  “Why on earth not? It’s not like you to be reticent. You can ta
lk your way into or out of anything.” Struck by a sudden thought, she added: “Have you two …? I mean …” Lily failed, for once, to summon up words acceptable enough to disguise her intrusive question. “Er … plighted your troth?” she finished with an awkward attempt at humour.

  “Troth well and truly plighted, I’m glad to say,” Joe replied comfortably, picking up and running with the euphemism. “Though Dorcas would fail to recognise the phrase—she’s a very modern young lady. She’s not your average English Miss, Lily. Something of a free-thinker. In fact, ‘bohemian’ is probably the kindest word that comes to mind to describe her style.”

  “Then I can’t see what’s holding you up.”

  “The problem’s not with me. It’s difficult. She’s quite the academic, you know. She won’t let me use the word ‘bluestocking’ but that’s what she is these days. She was a late starter on the degree business but took to learning like a duck to water. Most girls her age are either married or snatching desperately at the few good men left standing, but Dorcas doesn’t seem to care much about domesticity. She speaks scathingly about friends she’s made at the university, girls with good brains who work away for three years and then give it all up because they’ve met and got engaged to another undergraduate with wonderful prospects, or none. Dorcas has made it plain that’s not for her. She’s planning a few more years of research into her subject. And this is where the problems arise. Now—if she were fiddling about writing a thesis on, oh, the disputed authorship of Titus Andronicus, I’d tell her to put her pen down and let it remain a mystery, but it’s not ivory tower stuff she’s involved with. It’s scientific enquiry which could benefit mankind, she tells me. It’s difficult to set one’s unworthy self up against the Good of Mankind.”

  Lily sighed. “Oh, dear! I can understand why you haven’t fallen to your knees yet then. Might as well ask Marie Curie to stop stirring that filthy pitchblend and go and put the cabbage soup on. Poor Joe. Poor Dorcas. There’s no entirely happy solution. I didn’t find it.” More hesitantly, she added, “Though I think you ought at least to put a proposal before her. Perhaps she’s just waiting for you to come out with it? You know—putting on a show of couldn’t-care-less independence in case the offer’s not forthcoming. That was my situation exactly with Bacchus.”

  Joe grinned. “Was I the last one to twig that you were conducting an illicit affair for two years with my top Branchman right under my nose?”

  “Yes. And the only one to object to him making an honest woman of me. ‘Over my dead body,’ I remember you said.”

  “No—over Bacchus’s dead body—you misremember! Reducing my two best agents to one at the peal of a church bell was never going to please me.”

  “It wasn’t easy. We knew we loved each other but he knew I loved my job just as much. That’s why he held off asking me to marry him. James is a thug—I can’t say you didn’t warn me. He’ll beat a man senseless, put a bullet through him if he has to, but he’s not entirely insensitive. He could see I was having a ripping time and thought I might choose to stick with the police force and reject him—choose danger over domesticity. Because that would have been his own choice if he’d had to make one. His own masculine choice. He couldn’t grasp that I might be willing to give up all this”—she rolled her eyes with humour around his office—“for a lifetime of cooking and cleaning. But I loved him,” she finished as though that were explanation enough.

  “How did he get around to … er …?”

  “He never did ask me. Oh, he intended to! He took me out for a romantic dinner at the Savoy and all the signs were there that he was working up to saying something important. But he dropped me off on my doorstep at the end of the evening with not a word spoken. He kissed me good night and turned to go. I lost my rag. I grabbed him by the ears and said some very unpleasant things. ‘Cowardly stinker … Conscienceless seducer … What a waste of an evening …’ That sort of thing. I finished with an ultimatum. He had twenty-four hours to ask me to marry him, or I was off to Paris to manage Aunty Phyl’s new dress shop on the Rue St. Honoré.”

  “Seems to have worked.”

  “Not then and there. He still couldn’t find the words. A bloke fluent in half a dozen languages, and he couldn’t come up with the four little words I wanted to hear in any of them! In the end, he had to get a little help from Dickens. I got a note pushed through the door next morning. It said: ‘Bacchus is willing.’ ”

  Joe snorted with laughter. “You were lucky you got a joke in English! It might have been something pithy from Pushkin. Now, what was his contribution to the Sighing Suitor’s Manual? Habit makes the heart grow fonder. That always clinches it for me!”

  “Anyway—do it properly, Joe. You don’t want to overhear Dorcas telling an unflattering story like that in years to come. Give her something to look back on with pleasure. Some romantic tale to thrill or amuse her friends with. There’s three things that’ll fix a proposal in any girl’s memory: A special place, an unexpected gift, some silver words.” Lily gave him a sideways glance of mock assessment. “A bloke like you, living in London in June, not without a bob or two, with a tongue that can charm birds out of trees … There shouldn’t be a problem. But do it straight away. When are you seeing her again?”

  “Very soon. She’s been away, but she’ll be back home in Surrey this coming weekend when her term ends. My sister’s laying on a family welcome-home knees-up. I’ll be sure to make time at some stage of the junketing to come out with something memorable. ‘Sandilands is certain,’ I shall say. Or: ‘How about it, old gel?’ Which do you advise?”

  Lily smiled her approval. “That’s settled, then. I shall think about you on Saturday night while I’m sipping my Sancerre in solitary state, one beady eye on this exemplary Englishman of yours, watching him toy with his lobster.”

  Joe was suddenly concerned. “Hang on a minute! Not quite sure I like the scene you’re conjuring up. You’re a very attractive woman, Lily, to be out and about in the West End by yourself. A potential target. I think I’d better arrange for back-up.”

  “A police chaperone? Not on your nellie! Not unless the lovely sergeant on reception happens to be free. He had a bit of a twinkle, I thought. But quite unnecessary. What could go wrong? You are worried about this, aren’t you?”

  “It occurs to me—belatedly—that Englishmen, even pillars of society, have been known to crumble under the influence of wine and the allure of a smile across a candlelit room. If you add in the sense of security a discreet establishment offers—well—a powerful fellow like this, with all the good looks and wealth you could wish for, might just throw caution to the winds.”

  Lily raised her eyebrows, exasperated as always by his delicate circumlocutions. The only concession he made to her sex.

  “I mean, in a state of unbuttoned ease, he might just be minded to offer himself a little well-earned distraction,” Joe elaborated.

  “It’ll make a nice change from fending off the plumber then. Joe, you know how I deal with drunken chancers … or, as you’d put it, an excitable bloke with designs on my virtue.”

  “You seize him by the ears and demand marriage, evidently,” Joe said. “Sorry, Lily! It irritates you, I know, but I can’t help fretting about your safety. And that reminds me … Look here.” He reached into the top drawer of his desk and took out a small, neat handgun. “Just in case you come across any excitable blokes this weekend. It’s your old Beretta. Licenses all up to date and in order, but I wouldn’t want things to get to the point where someone had to check.”

  “Nor would I. I’ll take it in the spirit in which it’s offered,” Lily said, unbuckling her satchel. “Spare ammo with that? Thanks. I’ll get some practice done before we kick off. Just the weight of it in there is reassuring. Let’s hope they don’t spring awake and think of frisking me as I try to make my way out of here. I’m sure I won’t need to use it. The setup you describe doesn’t bring to mind either of the two things that have me reaching for my gun: villainy
or politics.” She pursed her lips and frowned. “Now, the best suite at the Castlemaine … that’ll have a luxurious bathroom attached, two double beds, a sitting room, possibly a study … room enough for an orgy, in fact, if he were so minded. No, it’s pretty clear your subject’s looking forward to a weekend of steaming romance. Perhaps with someone as shy of being recognised as he is himself. Now—which heartthrob can we think of who’s in London at the moment? Lolita Benevente? Marlene Dietrich? Ivor Novello?”

  And, with the gurgle of amused irreverence that had always lifted his heart, “Perhaps if Noël Coward’s in town too, we’ll find we’ve uncovered an after-the-show get-together of the Naughty Set? A spot of sinning in St. James’s? I’m going to enjoy this one, Joe!”

  CHAPTER 2

  Ten minutes after Lily left, the reception officer was greeted by a gentleman requiring an immediate audience with the Assistant Commissioner. The officer, unimpressed by the urgency of the man’s manner, checked and rechecked his duty log.

  “May I ask if you have an appointment, sir? Assistant Commissioner Sandilands appears to have no further appointments scheduled for this morning.”

  “No, I haven’t, but if he’s in the building, he’ll see me,” the gent told him confidently and passed his card over.

  Sir James Truelove, it announced, giving a home address in Suffolk and a town address in Albany, Piccadilly.

  The desk officer was an inspector working light duties while recovering from an injury. He was experienced and aware enough to fill in other details for himself. Truelove. Minister for Reform and Education. Generally expected, in the course of his ascent to the highest office in the land, to become the next Home Secretary with overall responsibility for the Forces of Law and Order. Police, Special Branch, Secret Services, the keys to the Tower of London, all in his hands. Sandilands’ future boss? His own future boss? The inspector’s voice took on a more respectful tone.