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- Herausgeber: Allison & Busby
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Serie: Hotel Mysteries
- Sprache: Englisch
- Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2022
Jim Eldridge, author of the Museum Mysteries, turns his pen to Wartime London's grandest hotels. October 1940. The Blitz bombing raids continue mercilessly, but when the body of a kitchen porter from Claridge's hotel is found, it is clear that he has not been the victim of a blast: he was strangled. Detective Chief Inspector Coburg has to find out exactly who he was, and what he was doing at Claridge's under a false identity. Armed with those facts, he might get an insight into why he was killed, and by whom. But the investigation is complicated by the fact that so many of the hotel's residents are exiled European royalty. Clandestine affairs, furtive goings-on and conspiracies against the government: Coburg must tread very lightly indeed .
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5
MURDER AT CLARIDGE’S
JIM ELDRIDGE
This one, again, for Lynne
CONTENTS
CHAPTER ONE
Tuesday 15th October 1940, London
Henry Kenneth Morton – known as Hooky to his associates – sat at his private table in the saloon bar of his pub, the Dark Horse, in King’s Cross, perusing the heavy ledger open in front of him and comparing some of the figures with a pile of tickets from his tankers. They didn’t add up. According to the tickets, certain amounts of petrol or diesel had been delivered as verified by the vehicles’ meters and the drivers’ dipsticks, but the sums showing in the ledger as payments received from some of them were short.
Someone had been ripping him off and now he knew who that someone was.
He shut the ledger, a grim look on his face. He ought to feel satisfied, the war had been good to him: rationing had meant there was scope for a black market. And his contacts with the tanker drivers of the legit outfits, especially those who were happy to learn how to alter the bypass on their vehicle so that air instead of fuel passed through the meter and get well paid for the extra gallons on their tanker at the end of their rounds, should be putting a smile on his face. But two things were blotting things for him.
One was the fact that he’d just discovered he was being short-changed on the black-market fuel being sold on. And the other was the fact that three times now his boys had gone out on a job, only to find a rival mob had just been there.
Coincidence? No! He was being shafted, and it had to be by someone in his own crew.
Hooky had fingers in many pies. Rationing had offered him a great business opportunity: as well as the black-market fuel there was meat. In the same way that the fuel he sold was stolen, so was the meat, taken wholesale from different butchers. The same was also true of eggs and butter. Whatever was in short supply, and Hooky knew that soon everything was going to be in short supply, Hooky knew a place where it could be got hold of. A sledgehammer breaking open a locked door of a warehouse in the middle of the night, with an empty truck outside waiting to be filled. And there were plenty of isolated farms on the edges of London with fields full of sheep and lambs, and chickens, ready to be shepherded into a truck and be sold to an eager public. And if the farmer came looking to see what all the noise was about, a blast from a shotgun or a pistol usually sent them scurrying back indoors.
But three times in the last month his boys had gone out on a raid, only to find another rival gang had already been there and taken everything. And the raids had taken place just hours before his own men were supposed to be there.
He was being set up. And what was worse, he was being laughed at by the other outfits.
Someone was taking him for a ride.
‘Boss?’
Hooky, jerked out of his reverie, looked up. His lieutenant, Dobbin Edwards, a tall, stringy man, was looking down at him, and Hooky could tell by the awkward look on his face that he had some bad news to tell him. The thing was, he trusted Dobbin. Whatever Dobbin told him would be straight and true, no beating about the bush. Dobbin was worth his weight in gold to Hooky.
Both men were about the same age, Hooky was forty-two, Dobbin forty, and both had grown up in the same part of London, round the back of King’s Cross Station. It had definitely been the school of hard knocks, and Hooky had been just that little bit harder than most others. His adage had been: if you think the other bloke’s going to do something to you, do it to him first. He called it ‘getting your revenge in beforehand’. As a result, he had become feared in the King’s Cross area. One day some local thugs had banded together to bring Hooky down a peg, and it had been Dobbin Edwards who’d turned up and joined in on Hooky’s behalf, wielding a bicycle chain.
That cemented the relationship between them. From that moment on, Dobbin was the one person Hooky really trusted. If there was something he wanted done, or nosed about, it was Dobbin he called on.
Hooky looked enquiringly at Dobbin, who pulled a chair to the table and sat down. He leant forward so he could keep his voice low.
‘You know you asked me to keep an eye open on who might be leaking to the opposition when we’ve got a job on?’
Hooky nodded.
‘Well, Nutty saw Patch Peters coming out of Roly Fitt’s joint in Curzon Street.’
Roly Fitt ran a rival organisation to Hooky around the Mayfair area.
‘What was Nutty doing around Roly Fitt’s place?’ asked Hooky.
‘I asked him to keep an eye on it, see if any of our blokes went in, after I got word that some of Roly’s blokes had been involved in the raids on the places we’d had targeted.’
Hooky nodded thoughtfully.
‘Patch was on all three raids that went pear-shaped, wasn’t he?’ he said.
Dobbin nodded. ‘He was.’
‘So it looks like Patch has been earning himself a few bob by leaking what we’re about to do, and when it’s going to happen, to Roly Fitt,’ mused Hooky grimly.
‘That’s what it looks like,’ said Dobbin.
Hooky nodded to himself, his face grim and also very, very determined.
He couldn’t have this. Being shafted like this without retribution made him look weak. And weak men didn’t survive long in this business, there were too many sharks swimming in the same pond. It was time to show people that he wasn’t to be made a fool of.
So, there were two people to be made an example of. Patch Peters, and that scum at Claridge’s. And he’d deal with both of them personally. That was the only way to keep proper order.
CHAPTER TWO
Wednesday 16th October 1940
It was 5.15 a.m. Janos Mila wheeled the trolley laden with boxes of potatoes, tomatoes, mushrooms and other vegetables, along with sides of bacon and different sorts of sausages through the kitchen at Claridge’s Hotel and left them on the thick wooden tables where the chefs were busy preparing the hundreds of breakfasts. As he did so, he scanned the tables for a spare knife that someone had left unwatched, unguarded. The knives were of different sizes and blades, thin ones for paring apples and pears, thicker ones with well-honed edges for slicing the bacon into thin rashers. He saw one that was perfect for the task ahead of him: a razor-sharp blade that would slice through the carotid artery in the neck, along with a sharp point that would slide easily between muscles and ribs into the heart. At the moment, this particular station where the knife lay was unmanned, the chef being absent. How long would he be absent for, Janos wondered? Chefs were very protective about their knives. If this station was still unmanned in four minutes and the knife still here, he would snaffle it. Hide it in the inside pocket of his kitchen porter’s whites. Everyone here in the kitchens wore whites, from the chef of chefs down through all the levels to the porters.
He put a side of bacon down on the table on top of the knife, obscuring it from view, making sure that no one else would take it before he returned, if the chef didn’t come back soon.
He was moving on to the next table when Alexandru Hagi stopped him. Alexandru was one of two other Romanians who worked in this kitchen. The other was Josef Malic. Janos did not like Malic. He was an immoral man. A man with no honour.
‘There is a man outside in the street who says he needs to talk to you?’ said Alexandru.
Janos frowned. ‘I do not know anyone,’ he said, puzzled. It was true. Janos had come to England just two months before, and all he’d done since his arrival was work here in the kitchen, waiting for instructions. Was the man who was outside calling with a change to those instructions? If so, why?
‘Did he ask for me by name?’ he asked.
‘He did,’ said Alexandru. ‘Please tell Janos Mila I must talk to him.’
Janos shot a concerned glance towards the burly figure of Marcel Devaux, the overall chef in charge who was bellowing in French at some unfortunate minor chef.
‘I will not be long,’ Janos murmured, and he made for the back door that led to the street.
Kill one of the kings currently in residence at the hotel, that was his mission. Do it at 6 a.m., the time when they will be least expecting it. Kill the bodyguard first, then gain entry to the royal suite and cut the throat of the sleeping monarch. He will be alone in his bedroom, Janos had been assured.
Janos pulled open the door and went out into the street. A man was standing there in the shadows of a doorway. Janos approached him and heard the man whisper: ‘Janos Mila?’
‘Yes,’ said Janos.
The next second he felt a movement behind him, then something was dropped over his head and down to his neck. He started to turn, but there was a sudden pain as something sharp bit into the skin of his neck, and as it bit deeper he found himself unable to breathe. He struck out, but it was no good, and he felt himself falling.
Detective Inspector Arnold Lomax of the Metropolitan Police force struggled out of bed as the ringing of the telephone penetrated his sleepy state.
He looked at his wife, Muriel, in bed next to him, who was just starting to stir.
‘What’s that noise?’ she asked.
‘It’s the telephone,’ he said. ‘I’m getting it.’
He pulled on his dressing gown and hurried downstairs. Muriel still hadn’t got used to the telephone. Very few people had their own private phone. He only had one because his superintendent, Jeremy Moffatt, had insisted. ‘Serious crime happens at any time of night or day, Inspector,’ he’d said. And so the telephone had gone in. Muriel still looked at it suspiciously, reluctant to pick it up when it rang. She hadn’t got used to the idea of a disembodied voice at the other end of the line.
He lifted the phone from its cradle and said ‘“Arnold Lomax”.’
‘Sorry to trouble you at this early hour, sir,’ came the voice of his detective sergeant, Joe Potteridge. ‘Only there’s been a murder at Claridge’s Hotel.’
‘One of the guests?’ asked Lomax hopefully. He’d wanted a high-profile murder to investigate for a long time, one with which he could push himself further up the promotion ladder.
‘No, sir. One of the kitchen staff. It looks like he was strangled.’
‘In the kitchen?’
‘No, sir. His body was found in the street by the rear entrance. But he was wearing his kitchen uniform.’
‘All right, Sergeant. Come and pick me up. I’ll get dressed and we’ll get along there.’
He went back upstairs.
‘Who was it?’ Muriel asked.
‘Sergeant Potteridge. There’s been a murder at Claridge’s, the big hotel. I’ve got to go.’
‘Anyone important?’
‘No,’ he sighed. ‘Just someone who worked in the kitchens.’
Lomax and Potteridge arrived at Claridge’s accompanied by a uniformed sergeant and a constable and made their way down the two flights of stairs to the kitchen. Lomax recoiled as he pushed open the double doors and they entered what seemed to be a blistering inferno filled with shouting in foreign languages and the rattling of wooden shoes.
‘They’ve all got clogs on,’ said Potteridge, surprised.
Lomax stopped a man who was hurrying past with a box of vegetables and demanded: ‘Who’s in charge here?’
A tall, burly man dressed in chef’s whites, complete with a tall chef’s hat joined them.
‘I am!’ he boomed. ‘Marcel Devaux.’
‘Inspector Lomax from Mayfair police station,’ Lomax informed him. ‘Where’s this dead body?’
‘We have left him in one of the cold rooms.’
‘Is that where he was killed? I was told he was murdered out in the street.’
‘That is where his body was found, but we could not let it lay there for all to see.’
‘Why not?’ thundered Lomax angrily. ‘If that was the murder scene, we need to have examined it.’
‘You can still examine it, but the body had to be brought in,’ said Devaux firmly. ‘Follow me and I will show you.’
As the policemen followed the chef, Lomax muttered angrily: ‘Bloody French. They’ve got no idea of the proper way to do things.’
Devaux opened a door to a room not much bigger than a cupboard. Blocks of ice were on the shelves, along with salad vegetables. On the floor lay the body of a man in kitchen whites. A ring of freshly dried blood ran around his neck.
‘What’s his name?’ asked Lomax.
‘Janos Mila.’
Lomax gestured to the uniformed officers. ‘Drag him out so we can get a look at him.’
The officers pulled the dead man out of the room and into the kitchen. Lomax knelt down beside him.
‘It looks like he was strangled with a piece of wire,’ he said to Potteridge. ‘Thin wire. A garrotte. You don’t see much of that in this country.’ He looked at Devaux. ‘What nationality was he?’
‘Romanian,’ said Devaux.
‘Who found the body?’
‘Another of the kitchen workers. Alexandru Hagi.’
‘Nationality?’
‘Romanian.’
‘Does he speak English?’
‘Yes. He has been in this country for many years,’ said Devaux angrily. There was no mistaking his dislike of Lomax.
‘Get him for me,’ ordered Lomax. He wiped his sleeve across his sweating brow. ‘I can’t work in this heat. It’s like being in an oven. Send this Hagi to me outside in the corridor.’ He looked at the uniformed officers. ‘You two arrange to have the body removed. Take it to Middlesex Hospital. And put it back in that cold room until the ambulance arrives, otherwise it’ll go off in this heat.’
‘Yes, sir,’ said the sergeant. He turned to the constable and said: ‘Put it back in there. I’ll arrange an ambulance to pick it up.’
He left to go up to reception to use the phone to call for transport while Lomax and Potteridge walked through the double doors into the corridor.
‘Thank God for that,’ said Lomax. ‘All that noise and that infernal heat. A man can’t think properly.’
The doors opened and a man in a white jacket peered out nervously at them.
‘Police?’ he asked.
‘Detective Inspector Lomax and Detective Sergeant Potteridge,’ nodded Lomax. ‘You are Alexandru Hagi?’
‘Yes.’
‘You were the one who found the body of this Janos Mila?’
‘Yes.’
‘How?’
‘I told Janos that a man was out in the street asking for him, and Janos went out. When Janos didn’t come back, I went out to see where he was. He was on the ground, not moving. He looked dead.’
‘How did you talk to this man who asked for Janos? Were you out in the street already?’
Hagi shook his head.
‘No. I was near the door and it opened and I heard someone call. I went to the door and looked out, and there was a man there. He said he wanted to speak to Janos Mila.’
‘What did he look like?’
‘I did not see his face. It was dark. And he had a hat pulled down and his coat collar was up. He also had a scarf pulled up over his face.’
‘Didn’t that strike you as suspicious?’
‘No. It is cold outside at that time of the morning.’
‘And when you went out again to look for this Janos, was this man still around?’
‘No. Just Janos lying on the ground.’
‘What did you do?’
‘I told Pierre, and he told M’sieur Devaux.’
‘Who’s Pierre?’
‘He is my boss for my section.’
‘Right,’ said Lomax. ‘Show us exactly where you found the body.’
Lomax and Potteridge followed Hagi through the kitchen and out the door to the street at the back.
‘There,’ said Hagi, pointing.
‘Right,’ said Lomax. ‘That’s all we need for the moment. We’ll talk to you later if we need to.’
‘I can go?’
Lomax nodded. Hagi went back into the kitchen.
‘We need to walk along this street and see if anyone was around who saw anything,’ Lomax told Potteridge. ‘You start that while I go and get this Mila’s address and details about him. I’ll join you in a minute.’ He shook his head in disbelief. ‘Garrotted? Who garrottes people these days?’
CHAPTER THREE
‘Thousands of you in this country have had to leave your homes and be separated from your fathers and mothers. My sister, Margaret Rose, and I feel so much for you as we know from experience what it means to be away from those we love most of all.’
Detective Chief Inspector Edgar Saxe-Coburg came from the bathroom, wiping the excess of shaving cream from his face, and looked at his wife, Rosa, as she sat in their kitchen, listening intently to the voice of the young girl coming from the wireless set.
‘Who’s that?’ he asked, curious.
‘Princess Elizabeth,’ said Rosa. Adding, with her finger to her lips: ‘Ssssh.’
‘The Princess Elizabeth?’ asked Coburg.
He sat down and joined her in listening as the young princess continued: ‘All of us children who are still at home think continually of our friends and relations who have gone overseas – who have travelled thousands of miles to find a wartime home and a kindly welcome in Canada, Australia, New Zealand, South Africa and the United States of America. My sister and I feel we know quite a lot about these countries. Our father and mother have often talked to us of their visits to different parts of the world. So it is not difficult for us to picture the sort of life you are all leading, and to think of all the new sights you must be seeing, and the adventures you must be having.
‘But I am sure that you, too, are often thinking of the Old Country. I know you won’t forget us. It is just because we are not forgetting you that I want, on behalf of all the children at home, to send our love and best wishes – to you and your kind hosts as well.
‘Before I finish, I can truthfully say to you all that we children at home are full of cheerfulness and courage. We are trying to do all we can to help our gallant sailors, soldiers and airmen, and we are trying, too, to bear our own share of the danger and sadness of war. We know, every one of us, that in the end all will be well; for God will care for us and give us victory and peace. And when peace comes, remember it will be for us, the children of today, to make the world of tomorrow a better and happier place.
‘My sister is by my side and we are both going to say goodnight to you. Come on, Margaret.’
Then another girl’s voice was heard, this one much younger, saying: ‘Goodnight, children,’ followed by Princess Elizabeth’s: ‘Goodnight, and good luck to you all.’
There was a brief pause, then an announcer said in formal tones: ‘That was a repeat of last Sunday’s broadcast on Children’s Hour by their majesties, the Princesses Elizabeth and Margaret, to the children of the world.’
When he finished there came an orchestral version of ‘God Save the King’.
‘My God, that was a very professional performance for one so young,’ said Coburg, impressed. ‘How old is she? Fifteen?’
‘Fourteen,’ said Rosa. ‘And her sister’s just ten. They recorded it at Windsor Castle. It’s aimed at all those children from Britain who’ve been sent abroad for their own safety.’
‘But the Princesses haven’t been evacuated.’
‘No,’ said Rosa. ‘The Queen says her family will stay in Britain and share in what the people are having to put up with. However, as they’ve already been bombed twice at Buckingham Palace, I think she considers the girls are safer at Windsor.’
‘Until Windsor gets bombed,’ said Coburg with a rueful sigh.
The ringing of the telephone had him crossing the room and lifting the receiver.
‘Coburg,’ he said.
‘Superintendent Allison here,’ said the clipped voice at the other end. ‘Just checking you’re coming in this morning.’
‘Yes, sir. I’m just about to leave to collect Sergeant Lampson.’
‘Report to me when you arrive,’ said the superintendent. ‘An issue has arisen.’
Rosa looked inquisitively at Coburg as he hung up.
‘That was the boss,’ said Coburg. ‘An issue has arisen.’
‘What sort of issue?’
‘Who knows?’ said Coburg. ‘Perhaps there’ll be something on the news that’ll alert me.’
He turned his attention back to the wireless as the national anthem finished, and the announcer said: ‘This is the BBC Home Service. Here is the news read by Alvar Lidell for Wednesday 16th October.’
They listened to the news headlines, which included a report of a battle between the Royal Navy and Italian ships off the coast of Malta, resulting in a victory for the British. Coburg reflected that the battle would have been a few days ago, because the propaganda ministry was very careful to vet reports to make sure that the morale of the public was kept high, and if the battle had gone the other way and the Italians had been victorious, he doubted if it would have made it to the airwaves.
‘What time are you due at Paddington?’ he asked.
Rosa, as well as being a well-known jazz singer and pianist, also volunteered as an ambulance driver, based at the St John Ambulance depot close to Paddington station.
‘I told them I’d be there at ten,’ she said.
Most of the emergency action didn’t happen until the evening, when the bombing raids were in full swing, but the morning always bought reports of injuries sustained overnight where the casualties had only just been discovered.
‘I’ll drop you off, if you don’t mind being early,’ Coburg offered.
‘No, that’d be great,’ said Rosa. ‘I’ll be on hand if anything comes in, and if not, I can always grab a coffee with the crew.’
‘So long as you stay safe,’ said Coburg.
Rosa went to him and held him and kissed him, then whispered: ‘And you stay safe, too.’
After Coburg had delivered Rosa to the St John Ambulance station at Paddington, he headed for Somers Town in north London, where his detective sergeant, Ted Lampson, was waiting for him outside his small terraced house. Coburg shifted over to the passenger seat so that Lampson could slide behind the steering wheel. It was a routine they’d adopted. Even though the vehicle was a police car and not Coburg’s prized Bentley, which had been locked away in a garage as part of the restrictions on the use of private cars to conserve petrol for the war effort, Coburg was glad of this sharing routine. For his part, Lampson loved driving, but with no car of his own he rarely got the chance to engage. From Coburg’s perspective, although he enjoyed motoring on the open road in the countryside, the traffic in London, even with petrol rationing reducing it, was a pain in the neck, and Lampson’s driving them to Scotland Yard in the mornings, and occasionally driving them to a crime scene, meant that Coburg was able to think without worrying about crashing into something or someone because his mind was preoccupied. Right now, he was wondering what sort of ‘issue’ he would be faced with when he met the superintendent.
Lampson looked at the radio telephone that had only recently been installed in their car. Coburg had lowered the volume so there was a general background hum from it, with occasional calls from Control to different vehicles. Coburg’s vehicle had been allocated the call sign Echo Seven.
‘We’re getting very modern,’ grinned Lampson. ‘You wouldn’t have been able to have this in your old Bentley.’
‘True,’ conceded Coburg. ‘At least we’ll be saved from racing all over London on wild goose chases.’
‘Did you hear the Princesses on the wireless this morning?’ asked Lampson.
‘I did,’ said Coburg. ‘I thought they did an excellent job. Or, rather, Princess Elizabeth did a good job, because she was the one doing the talking.’
Lampson chuckled. ‘My old man stood to attention the whole way through it,’ he laughed. ‘He’s such a patriot! I think if he actually met the Royal Family he’d die of fright. It was good, though. With all that’s going on it needed something like that talk to lift people’s spirits. I know the RAF are doing their best, but this constant bombing is wearing me down. And everyone else I know. You never know when it’s gonna be your name on it. Did you hear about the air raid up at the Angel, Islington last night?’
‘No.’
‘A hundred dead, men, women and children all in the basement shelter at a school there. They reckon it was a direct hit. Bastards. And did you see that bus in Balham?’
Coburg nodded. Every newspaper had had the same picture: two days previously a German bomb had exploded on the road by Balham station, creating an enormous crater. That night, during the blackout, a bus had driven into the deep hole, killing sixty-six people.
‘How are you and Terry coping with the air raids?’ asked Coburg.
‘We go to the underground, along with my mum and dad. It’s better now they’ve opened the stations.’ Changing the subject, he asked: ‘Is it Mrs Nicholson today?’
‘Yes,’ said Coburg. ‘I’m sure this will wrap it up. I get the impression she wants to talk.’
Joanne Nicholson, forty-five years old, who’d been battered by her louse of a husband, Eric, for most of the twenty years of their marriage, had been picked up by police on Waterloo Bridge as she stood staring down into the murky waters of the Thames. She’d refused to say who she was or what she was doing there, but a sympathetic police constable had persuaded her to let him look through her handbag, where he found a ration book with her name and address on. Concerned about her mental state, a police car had taken her home to her address in Lambeth, where they discovered the body of Eric Nicholson in the scullery, his head smashed in and a hammer lying beside his body in a pool of blood.
At first, Joanne Nicholson had insisted she’d come home and found his body, and that it must have been an intruder who’d done it. But questions asked of her neighbours had revealed the noise of frequent rows and beatings administered to Joanne by Eric, and on this last occasion Joanne’s screams and yells of pain had been mingled with shouts of alarm from Eric. A medical examination of Joanne had revealed bruises to her body, some very old, some very recent. When the hammer had been examined for fingerprints, those of both Eric and Joanne had been found on the handle. Joanne insisted she’d only used the hammer to break coal for the fire.
‘You talk to her this morning while I go and see the super,’ said Coburg. ‘He says he’s got something he wants to see me about.’
‘Right,’ said Lampson. ‘She did it. And, to be honest, if half the stories we heard about her husband are true, I don’t blame her.’
‘Be sympathetic when you talk to her,’ said Coburg. ‘Don’t pressurise her. Have a WPC sitting with you at the table. If Joanne feels intimidated, she’ll only retreat into silence.’
‘She won’t want to hang. That’ll keep her from admitting she did it.’
‘I’ll see if we can’t arrange for her to have a good lawyer and barrister. Tell her that we’ll do everything we can to look after her. Tell her we believe it was self-defence, that her husband was attacking her with the hammer and she tried to stop him. You know the drill.’
‘People from Lambeth don’t trust us. The police, that is.’
‘She’ll trust you. And if it looks like she doesn’t, I’ll have a word with her after I’ve seen the super.’
‘You’ve no idea what he wants?’
‘No. An issue, he said.’
‘Could be anything.’
‘It could, but I bet it’s not going to be compliments thrown at us.’
CHAPTER FOUR
Superintendent Edward Allison was a short, thin, wiry man in his fifties. Like Coburg, he’d served in the First War, in his case at Gallipoli, while Coburg had fought, and been seriously wounded, in the trenches in France. The superintendent still maintained his military air: stiff-backed, head held high, a penetrating look in his gimlet eyes. He looked up from his desk as Coburg knocked at his office door and then entered at the call of ‘Come!’
Allison gestured for Coburg to take a seat by his desk and asked. ‘How’s the Nicholson case?’
‘Sergeant Lampson’s just tying everything up at this moment,’ said Coburg.
‘She did it?’
‘She did,’ nodded Coburg. ‘I’m fairly sure she’ll make a full confession.’ He looked inquisitively at the superintendent. ‘On the telephone you mentioned an issue, sir.’
‘Yes, there’s been a murder at Claridge’s. One of their kitchen staff has been found dead, apparently strangled. They’ve requested you take charge.’
‘When you say “they” …?’ asked Coburg.
‘Specifically, the owner of Claridge’s, Rupert D’Oyly Carte,’ said Allison. ‘I’m sorry about this, Edgar, but D’Oyly Carte has the ear of important figures in the government.’
‘One of the kitchen staff, you say.’
‘Yes, and ordinarily it would be a job for a local inspector and his team. But these are not ordinary times. With the war on, most of the exiled kings and queens of Europe have taken up residence at Claridge’s.’ He ticked them off on his fingers. ‘King Haakon of Norway, Queen Wilhelmina of the Netherlands and her son-in-law Prince Bernhard, as well as King Peter II and Queen Alexandra of Yugoslavia. And King George of Greece is registered there as a “Mr Brown”. Tact and diplomacy is called for when dealing with these crowned heads, and that’s why Mr D’Oyly Carte requested you. Whether you like it or not, these people are less likely to complain about police interference in their daily lives and those of their staff if the officer in charge is the Honourable Edgar Walter Septimus Saxe-Coburg. These people still remember when their British cousins, the King and Queen, were called Saxe-Coburg before they changed their name to Windsor.’
‘Saxe-Coburg-Gotha,’ Coburg corrected him.
‘Yes, all right, one hyphen less,’ sighed Allison. ‘But you take my point? Or, rather, the point that Rupert D’Oyly Carte was keen to make.’
‘I am not a member of the Royal Family,’ said Coburg. ‘I do not attend grand dinners and functions at Buckingham Palace or Windsor.’
‘But your brother, the Earl of Dawlish, does. And I understand he is also very close to the prime minister.’
‘Is that another factor in why I’ve been chosen for this investigation?’
‘Whether you like it or not, Chief Inspector, this is a time for politics and who knows whom, and who is to be trusted by those in charge. The Germans are massing on the French coast and prepared to launch an invasion of these shores at any moment. The RAF are valiantly resisting the constant attacks by Germany’s bombers, but there is no guarantee they’ll be able to keep holding off the Luftwaffe. This island is the last place in Europe not under Nazi control and our military are unable to mount effective attacks on the enemy. Not to mention the fact that fifth columnists and German spies seem to be everywhere here undermining our war effort.’
‘And with all that, the strangulation of a kitchen worker at Claridge’s is to be given prominence of investigation,’ said Coburg pointedly.
‘We hope there will come a time when we will need Norway, Greece, the Netherlands and Yugoslavia and the rest of Europe to rebuild stable and democratic societies after the Nazis have been defeated. And it will help if their rulers and heads of governments say: Ah yes, the British were the very personification of tact and diplomacy when a certain incident occurred in London during the war. We can work with them.’
Rosa had barely finished her early morning coffee at the Paddington St John Ambulance station when Chesney Warren, the district supervisor, came in to the crew quarters with a piece of paper, which he handed to her.
‘Two kids playing near a bomb crater fell in. One of them’s got what sounds like a broken leg. Here’s the address.’
Rosa looked at it. ‘Where is it?’ she asked.
‘I’ll go with you,’ offered Derek Peers. ‘I know every street in this area.’ He looked at Warren. ‘Unless you’ve got something else for me.’
‘No, that’d be great, Derek.’
Rosa and Peers headed out towards their ambulance. Rosa had been on a couple of shouts with Derek and liked him. He was in his early fifties, very reliable, and had been with St John Ambulance for at least ten years, from what she could gather. He was handicapped by only having one arm, his left arm ending in a stump just above his elbow, but he didn’t let it stop him doing as much as he could. Although he couldn’t drive, a leather strap with a loop at the end dangled from his shoulder. Tied around his stump, it enabled him to carry a stretcher using his one good hand and the strap. He was also amazingly adept at dealing with bad injuries with just one hand.
He climbed into the passenger seat, while Rosa took her place behind the steering wheel.
‘It’s not far,’ said Peers, looking at the address Warren had given them. ‘Honestly, you’d think parents would know better than to let their kids wander around near bomb craters. There could well be an unexploded bomb in it.’
They set off, with Peers navigating Rosa out of the station and heading in the right direction.
‘If it’s a bad break we might have to put the splint on together,’ he said, and gave a rueful sigh. ‘It’s at times like this I really miss having my left hand.’
‘How did you lose your arm?’ asked Rosa.
‘During the last war. In France.’
‘You were in the trenches?’ asked Rosa. ‘My husband was in the trenches in that one. He lost a lung.’
‘No,’ said Derek. ‘I was doing ambulance work. And before you ask, yes, I was a conscientious objector. I’m a Quaker, you see.’ His tone became slightly bitter as he added: ‘Although there were other words used to describe us: coward, softie, traitor, Hun-lover.’
‘That was then,’ said Rosa. ‘Times are different now.’
‘Sadly, they’re not,’ said Derek ruefully. ‘Quaker friends of mine are still being called names and beaten up once people find out they’re a conchie. The war brings out the worst as well as the best in people.’ He patted the stump of his left arm. ‘I was collecting an injured soldier from one of the trenches when a bomb went off right beside us. Blew my mate, another conchie, to bits and took half my arm off. The only one who was untouched by it was the injured soldier in the trench waiting for us to pick him up. The good thing about it was it made me realise what I wanted to do. So after the war I joined St John Ambulance as a volunteer. I knew I wouldn’t be able to drive, but I could learn first aid, even with one arm. And over the years I’ve learnt a lot more. I can do almost everything now to save a life. I’ve often thought I’d like to train as a doctor, but I’m too old for that. And they wouldn’t let me, having only one arm. But this is just as good for me. Going out, saving lives.’ He grinned. ‘Especially with a driver like you. You’d be surprised how bloody awful some of the drivers are. Downright dangerous. Trouble is, drivers are in short supply, what with the war.’
In the interview room in the basement of Scotland Yard, Lampson sat at a bare wooden table. Joanne Nicholson sat on the other side, facing him. Next to her sat a woman police constable, WPC Wendy Merton, in her mid-twenties. In front of Lampson lay a writing pad and a fountain pen.
‘Mrs Nicholson – first: may I call you Joanne?’ asked Lampson gently.
Nicholson hesitated, then nodded.
‘Joanne, I know you’re worried about being here, but I want to reassure you that this is all just procedure. It’s what happens when someone dies unexpectedly, and in this case the evidence found at your home raises questions. But it doesn’t mean we think you murdered your husband. In fact, the opposite. From the evidence, the picture we’ve got is that your husband, Eric, attacked you with a hammer in your scullery. Is that what happened?’
Nicholson didn’t answer, just looked at him, then dropped her eyes to the table.
‘Our guess is that he accidentally dropped the hammer on the floor, and he bent down to pick it up to continue his assault on you. It’s possible he picked it up, but somehow you managed to defend yourself from his attack and you found the hammer in your hand. You were in a state of panic and fear, you were afraid of what he’d do to you with it, so you struck out with it to try to scare him off, and he was knocked to the ground.
‘Because you knew the sort of man your husband was, violent and dangerous, you were terrified that, if he got up, he’d batter you to death. So you struck him once more in an attempt to stop that happening.’ He paused, then asked gently: ‘Was that what happened?’
Again, she didn’t answer, just looked at him, then looked away.
‘Again, you panicked,’ Lampson continued, ‘so you struck him again to stop him getting up, and then once more. That wasn’t murder, Joanne. Murder is premeditated, planned in advance. This was self-defence. The prosecution may claim it was manslaughter, but manslaughter isn’t murder. People don’t get hanged for manslaughter. And a death caused as a result of self-defence, when you were in fear of your life …’ Lampson left the sentence unfinished.
‘That’s the evidence we shall give, if called for,’ Lampson continued. ‘And Chief Inspector Coburg has told me to tell you we’ll arrange for the very best defence for you: a top barrister. If everything goes as we hope, there shouldn’t be any time in prison, except the time you spend on remand waiting for a trial. If there is one. It may not even come to that. But the court, if there is a trial, will need to hear your side of the story. About how Eric used to attack you. What you suffered for all those years. And how the hammer came to be in the scullery.’ He tapped the writing pad in front of him. ‘We need to put it down, Joanne. We need what you have to say.’
She looked directly at him, and her lips moved but no sound came from them.
‘I need to hear what you have to say,’ said Lampson gently.
‘The Angel of Death is upon me,’ she said softly.
And then she stopped speaking, her eyes still fixed on him.
CHAPTER FIVE
Inspector Lomax stared at Superintendent Moffatt, his boss at Mayfair police station, shocked.
‘DCI Coburg has taken it off me!’ he burst out, outraged. ‘Again!’
‘He hasn’t taken it off you, Inspector,’ said Moffatt. ‘The Top Brass have decided, due to the delicate nature of the clientele who are staying at Claridge’s who may well need to be questioned—’
‘This happened before!’ raged Lomax. ‘When there was that titled bloke killed at the Savoy. I caught the initial shout, and they took it off me and gave it to Coburg. Just because of who he is!’
‘It’s politics,’ said Moffatt, trying to smooth the situation. ‘The commissioner feels—’
‘The commissioner feels that because I’m just an ordinary bloke who didn’t go to Eton and doesn’t hobnob with royalty …’ chuntered Lomax angrily.
‘It’s not that at all,’ said Moffatt.
‘What is it, then, sir?’
‘It’s about diplomacy with all these foreign kings and queens staying at Claridge’s.’
‘Because he’s one of them,’ scowled Lomax.
‘I’m sorry, Inspector, but that’s the way it is,’ said Moffatt stiffly. ‘As I said, it’s politics. It’s not a reflection on you.’
Oh, yes it is, thought Lomax angrily as he returned to his office where Sergeant Potteridge was waiting for him.
‘What’s up, boss?’ asked Potteridge, recognising the anger on Lomax’s face.
‘We’ve been taken off the Claridge’s job. The murder of that kitchen bloke.’
‘Taken off? Why?’
‘Because it’s been given to DCI Saxe-bloody-Coburg! His toffee-nosed friends in high places want him there.’
‘Rather him than us in that place,’ said Potteridge sagely. ‘All that heat. All that noise. All shouting at one another in French.’
‘That’s not the point!’ exclaimed Lomax. ‘I’m a detective inspector, not just some tinpot constable. I should have been a DCI by now. I’ve had the same amount of experience in the police as Coburg. My arrest record shows I’m as good as him. But as soon as there’s a job in a plum location, a palace or a top hotel or a top West End jewellers, who gets it? Not me! Even though I was first on the scene and by right and protocol it should be mine. No, it gets handed on a plate to High and Mighty snob-face Saxe-bloody-Coburg. That’s what being born with a silver spoon in your mouth is all about, Sergeant. Getting the plum jobs. The ones that get in the papers and get their name bandied about so that when there are honours and promotions being thrown about, people like Coburg get them.’ He slammed his fist down on his desk in fury. ‘Well one day I’m gonna get him, Sergeant. Mess him up. Show him up for the clown he is. Then we’ll see how many of his so-called social class still think he’s so good.’
Coburg was happy for Lampson to drive them to Claridge’s, but he could tell from the grim expression on his sergeant’s face that the interview with Joanne Nicholson hadn’t gone well.
‘She didn’t speak,’ said Lampson, frustrated. ‘Except to say: “The Angel of Death is upon me.”’
‘Religious?’ asked Coburg.
‘I don’t know,’ said Lampson. ‘I don’t think so. I gave her every opportunity. I let her know we were on her side and that we weren’t looking at her for murder; that it was self-defence. But she wouldn’t speak up. How did you get on with the superintendent? What did he want?’
Coburg let out a groan, then said: ‘I’m thinking of changing my name to Smith.’
‘Why?’
‘Then I wouldn’t keep being roped in for these cases involving foreign royalty. They hear the name Saxe-Coburg and jump to the wrong conclusion.’
‘It means they talk to you, which they wouldn’t if you were just Chief Inspector Smith. Face it, guv, the name opens doors that would otherwise remain firmly shut to us.’
They arrived at Claridge’s and were greeted at reception by the tall, imposing figure of Georges LeGrosse, Claridge’s hall porter, resplendent in his uniform of a royal blue tailcoat adorned with gold braid.
‘Mr Coburg!’ he greeted them with obvious relief. ‘Thank heavens! Mr D’Oyly Carte said you would be coming. This is a dreadful situation.’
‘One of your kitchen staff has been strangled, I believe,’ said Coburg.
‘Janos Mila, one of the kitchen porters. His body was found outside in the street by the back door of the kitchens.’
‘Where is the body now? Is it still in the kitchen or has it been moved?’
‘It’s been taken away,’ said LeGrosse. ‘The first inspector on the scene arranged it.’
Coburg and Lampson exchanged concerned glances. Superintendent Allison hadn’t said anything about the case being allocated to anyone else.
‘Who was the first inspector who arrived?’ he asked.
‘An Inspector Lomax from Mayfair police station.’
‘Mayfair? Not the Strand?’
‘No, although he did say that he used to be based at the Strand, and had been involved with an investigation at our sister hotel, the Savoy.’
Coburg’s heart sank. Not Lomax again! For some reason, Lomax viewed Coburg as his sworn enemy, convinced that he’d only been denied promotion to chief inspector because Coburg had been given all the best cases, and that preferment was the result of what Lomax termed Coburg’s ‘posh friends in high places’.
‘Do you know which hospital the body was sent to?’
‘I’m not sure. I’m sorry. I don’t think the inspector actually said.’
