As if by Magic (15 page)

Jack saw the great dark bulk of the factory stretching down towards the river as he drove through the lodge gates. David Lassiter directed him to the front and he pulled up outside a pillared entrance. The door was standing open, the light spilling down the flight of steps.

Dr Moorhouse, who was obviously meant by nature to be a cheerful soul, was looking out for them. He was waiting for them in the lobby with Fielding, the nightwatchman. ‘This is a very sad turn of events,' he said with professional sobriety.

‘Terrible, sir,' put in Fielding sombrely. He looked really shaken, thought Jack. ‘When I found poor Mr Walsh, I hoped he might have just had a nasty turn, like, but he'd gone, poor young beggar.'

‘Have you moved him?' David asked Dr Moorhouse, leading the way up the stairs.

‘Well, I had to move him to examine him, of course, but he's still in the room where Fielding found him. I wanted your instructions before I took any further action.'

They turned on to the upper corridor, a passageway lined with office doors. It was a rum thing, thought Jack, but places that should be full of people always seemed a bit creepy when they were empty, as if there were unseen ghosts and unheard echoes just beyond his senses. At least the lights were on. That was something.

‘When did you find him?' asked David, turning to the nightwatchman.

‘It was eight o'clock or so, sir,' said Fielding. ‘I got here at seven thirty, as I always do on Saturdays, and started my rounds. I looked round downstairs first, then I came up here. I saw there was a light on in Mr Lassiter Senior's room. I thought it was Mr Nigel's room at first, and didn't think much of it, because he's often here, sir, as you know. Anyway, when I realized it was Mr Lassiter's room, I had a look in, and there was poor Mr Walsh, stretched out on the floor. I tried to wake him up, hoping I could help, but he was past saving. I tell you, sir, I had to sit down and pull myself together before I could telephone, then I spoke to Mrs Lassiter. She was very good.'

‘I came as soon as I got the message,' said Moorhouse. ‘I've examined Mr Walsh before, of course, and, to be truthful, this has come as no great surprise. He had a marked disordered action of the heart. His own doctor prescribed bromide of sodium for him, which would have been beneficial, but there was very little anyone could have done. He had to be careful not to overdo it and to beware of sudden exertion and shock, but I'm afraid time caught up with him in the end.'

They came to the office. The light was on, left by Dr Moorhouse after his previous examination. Walsh's body lay in the middle of the room.

Jack drew his breath in, aware that his reactions were mirrored by both the Lassiters. Walsh was lying with his face turned towards them, his hands by his side and his face showing the waxy pallor of death.

‘He was very much like that when I saw him first,' said the doctor. ‘I moved his arms, of course. There's not much doubt what he died of, poor devil. The symptoms are pretty clear. It's his heart, all right. Among other things, he suffered from auricular fibrillation, if that means anything to you.'

‘Not an awful lot, no,' confessed Jack. He dropped down on one knee beside Walsh. His eyes were closed and his jaw had fallen open. ‘Poor devil,' he said softly. ‘When did he die, doctor?'

‘About seven o'clock or thereabouts.'

David nodded. ‘He can't have been here long. He left Eden Street about five, as I recall, and he would have got the train down. Why did it happen now, doctor? Any particular reason?'

The doctor shrugged. ‘Not really. If he was nervous or apprehensive it wouldn't have helped. Any sudden shock, such as a door banging or so on, might have done it. He was in a bad way, you know. It was mustard gas that caused his condition, I understand. I intend to say as much on my certificate.'

Jack stood up and looked at David. ‘Is your brother's office next door?' he asked. David nodded. ‘I'll just see if it's undisturbed.' He was back in a couple of minutes. ‘All clear,' he said quietly. ‘I don't think he went in there.'

David heaved a sigh of relief. ‘I suppose that's something.'

Jack stood back, looking round the room, his hands in his pockets. ‘These offices would have been cleaned last night, I suppose?'

‘Yes, that's right. The charwomen come in the evening.'

Jack looked at the ashtray on the desk. There were two cigarette stubs in it. They both looked as if they'd been smoked using a holder. ‘Do they empty the ashtrays?' he asked.

David looked at the ashtray in surprise. ‘Yes, of course they do.' He shrugged. ‘Walsh must have smoked those. Except . . .'

‘Yes?'

‘He hardly ever smoked. Only on social occasions and not often then. He didn't carry a cigarette case, I know.'

‘Did he use a cigarette holder?'

David shrugged. ‘He might have done. Yes, I think he did.'

Jack flipped open a silver box on the desk. ‘There are cigarettes in here.'

‘That's probably where he got them from,' said the doctor. ‘You're quite right about him being a very occasional smoker though, Mr Lassiter. I remember asking him about it when I treated him last.'

Jack frowned. ‘Mr Lassiter, are you thinking of calling the police?'

‘The police?' David looked at him in astonishment.

‘There's no need for the police, Major Haldean,' said Dr Moorhouse. ‘No need whatsoever. What on earth makes you suggest such a thing?'

‘Those cigarette ends.' Jack was still frowning. ‘I don't like them.'

‘But . . .' Dr Moorhouse stared at him. ‘Major Haldean, we can't possibly call the police because of two cigarette stubs. I can assure you there's no possibility of foul play. It's my duty to report to the coroner any cases of violent, unexplained or unnatural death, but nothing of the sort has occurred. Mr Walsh died as a result of a pre-existing heart condition. There's no question of anything but purely natural causes and I can testify to that. If we did call in the police, Major, I would be reprimanded by the coroner for wasting police time.'

‘That's true enough, isn't it, Haldean?' said David Lassiter. ‘I mean, there's nothing for them to investigate, is there?'

Jack looked round the room in a dissatisfied way. ‘I don't suppose there is.'

‘What's happened to Walsh's body?' asked Rackham the next morning, pouring out a cup of coffee and handing it to Jack. They were in Rackham's rooms off Russell Square, the Sunday sound of church bells and the occasional car coming faintly through the window. ‘Milk? Sugar?'

‘Just milk, thanks,' said Jack, stretching his long legs out towards the fire. ‘The doctor took charge and I imagine the body's filed away in the mortuary until it's released to the undertakers for the funeral. That will be next week, I imagine. I dunno, Bill. The doctor didn't find anything fishy, but I don't like those cigarette ends. There was one short stub and one longer one. They suggested someone had been in the room with him.'

‘They might do,' said Rackham, unconvinced. ‘I'm not so sure. The trouble is, Jack,' he added, stirring his coffee, the doctor was quite right. If this bloke Walsh had a ropy heart and keeled over, that's natural causes, not suicide or murder, no matter how many fag-ends were in the ashtray. If Dr Moorhouse had reported it to the Essex police he'd have got a very formal flea in his ear.' He sat down in the chair across from Jack. ‘He had a heart attack, something that was very much on the cards. You said yourself he looked a real crock. If, as you say, he was sneaking round like something out of a spy thriller, I bet he was jumping with nerves. He probably smoked a couple of cigarettes on the strength of it.' He grinned. ‘It sounds as if that could have seen him off from what you've told me.'

‘But he only smoked on social occasions,' countered Jack.

‘So David Lassiter says. I don't imagine Walsh consulted him every time he lit a cigarette. The doctor said he died of natural causes,' repeated Rackham patiently.

‘Look, Doubting Thomas, the doctor said Culverton died of natural causes,' pointed out Jack.

‘Yes, damn it, so he did, but natural causes didn't take his clothes off, cave his face in and dump him in the river, did they? That's very unnatural indeed. Incidentally, we got the result of the fingerprints I took from the bottle in the washroom. The body in the Thames was Culverton, all right.'

‘Did you doubt it?' asked Jack.

‘Not really,' said Rackham, ‘but it's always as well to be sure. The point is, we know there's been some funny business with Culverton. Apart from these cigarette ends there's nothing to show there's anything amiss about Walsh.' He looked at Jack's face and sighed. ‘Okay. Let your imagination rip. What d'you think happened?'

‘That's just it,' said Jack in irritation. ‘I can't see what can have happened. On the one hand, there are those two cigarette ends and an odd discrepancy in times.' Rackham looked up, enquiringly. ‘Walsh left Eden Street about five o'clock and died about seven. The train journey takes approximately forty-five minutes. Now, even leaving him a generous allowance for walking to and from the station at either end, he's got at least half an hour unaccounted for. What was he doing in that time? He wasn't searching Nigel Lassiter's office. I don't think he'd been in there. What was he up to?'

‘Smoking cigarettes by the sound of it,' muttered Rackham. ‘Perhaps the train was late.'

Jack shook his head. ‘No, the trains were running fine last night. I checked.'

‘Well, maybe he stopped off for a drink somewhere to steady his nerves.'

‘Maybe,' said Jack. ‘Yes, I suppose he could have done that.'

Rackham frowned. ‘The trouble is, there could be any number of reasons. I bet Dr Moorhouse didn't give seven o'clock as an absolute, did he? All these times of death are always very approximate. You want to argue, I take it, given that he publicly hoped Walsh would drop dead, that Nigel Lassiter bumped him off, yes? The motive, presumably, being that Walsh was on the right lines in thinking Nigel Lassiter had a shady deal with Culverton.'

‘I don't know as I want to do anything of the sort,' said Jack, plaintively. ‘Nigel Lassiter was vile to Walsh but he can't be the bumper-offer. He was hosting a highly publicized and well-attended dinner at the Savoy last night – it's mentioned in the newspaper this morning – in the presence of Dr Maguire, a sprinkling of investment bankers and a couple of luminaries such as Sholto Bierce, the MP. It was the fact that Nigel was so safely engaged elsewhere that drew Walsh to the factory in the first place. Nigel and all his guests really were at the Savoy,' he added. ‘I checked that, too. I called in on my way here.'

‘That was very keen of you,' said Rackham. ‘So what are you saying?'

‘I'm saying it's odd, damn it!' Jack sighed in exasperation, then relaxed, picking up his coffee once more. He grinned ruefully. ‘Sorry. I'm probably barking up the wrong tree but it feels
wrong
.'

Rackham raised his eyes to heaven. ‘There's enough to think about without you having feelings. What are you doing tomorrow?'

‘Working. Why?'

‘Because I hope that, come tomorrow, I'll find out what was in that rosewood box we found in Culverton's office. Following your suggestion, I intend to see if Culverton had been caught making trouble with any of his female staff, too. I thought, as you were in on it, I'd bring you up to date.'

‘Cheers, Bill,' said Jack. ‘We could go for a quick one in the Heroes in the evening if you like. Look, I know you're busy, but if you could find time to call on Marchbolt's, George would be really grateful.'

‘I'll do it first thing,' promised Rackham.

The next morning Rackham, as promised, went to see Mr Marchbolt, the senior partner of Marchbolt, Lawson and Marchbolt. Mr Marchbolt, keen to dissociate his firm from any suggestion of fraud, was eager to help.

The firm's first action on being called upon to execute Rosemary Belmont's will had been to write to the address in South Africa, but the letter had been returned marked
Gone Away.
They had written to a Mr George Lassiter of Mayfair, London, whose address they had found in the telephone directory, to see if he was, by any chance, the man they were looking for but Mr Lassiter had not replied.

‘We can only request information,' said Mr Marchbolt, steepling his fingers, ‘not compel it.' If Inspector Rackham would care to see, the correspondence was still contained in the file.

Their next move was to advertise in the South African press and that did bring a result. The legacy had been claimed by a George Alfred Lassiter in February 1921 who enclosed his birth certificate for identification. Mr Marchbolt examined George's birth certificate but was unable to say if it was the same document which the firm had seen earlier. Marchbolt, Lawson and Marchbolt, he informed Rackham, were not in the habit of marking personal documents. He was able to produce the letter they had received but Rackham could glean nothing from it. It was a neat, typewritten document from the Faulkner Hotel, Cape Town, signed in the name of George Lassiter. The signature didn't look like Lassiter's, but Rackham hadn't expected it to.

What was interesting about it was that whoever had written the letter obviously had some knowledge of Rosemary Belmont. Rosemary Belmont, so the letter said, had been married to the writer's father, Charles Lassiter, and, after her divorce, had married Jerome Belmont in Deauville in 1902.

Mr Marchbolt, although he had never met Mrs Belmont, she being one of the clients inherited from his father when he took over the practice in 1911, was able to confirm that the details were correct and added to them from the information they had in Mrs Belmont's papers. Mrs Belmont's will, said Mr Marchbolt, had been drawn up shortly after her marriage. After Belmont's death in 1915, caused by a too-free indulgence in absinthe, Mrs Belmont had taken to drink, isolated in France by the outbreak of war.