As if by Magic (6 page)

Rackham expected her to justify herself, to explain exactly why she had done what she did but, remarkably, in his experience, she simply left the statement as a record of bare fact. He schooled his face into blank and polite enquiry but Mrs Culverton hurried on. ‘I don't particularly want to go into the reasons why I left him but I think any woman would have done the same.'

Again, she didn't seek to justify herself. Rackham sat back. ‘When was this, Mrs Culverton? When did you leave, I mean?'

‘Wednesday. Wednesday 31st October.'

‘Did you let your husband know?' She shook her head. ‘Did you leave a note or send him a letter?' Again, she shook her head. ‘You see, Mrs Culverton,' he explained, ‘I'm trying to find some reason why Mr Culverton should have disappeared and I thought that if he perhaps received a letter from you, saying you had left him, that could account for it.'

Her face cleared. ‘I see what you mean. No, Inspector. I simply went. Not even the servants knew I intended to leave for good.'

And there again, frustratingly, she remained silent. The pause lengthened. Rackham waited for Mrs Culverton to explain further, to enlist, as most women would have done, his sympathy and support for their actions, but she simply remained silent. He put the reasons for Mrs Culverton's actions on the list of things he might have to investigate. It was probably another man but that didn't quite fit.
Any woman would have done the same.
What did that mean? Rackham mentally shrugged and moved on.

‘Mrs Culverton, we know he should have gone to the Paris branch of the firm on Thursday. Presumably he was at the office on Wednesday?'

Mrs Culverton nodded. ‘So Mr Lloyd says.'

‘And when did he leave?'

‘Nobody knows. Mr Lloyd was probably the last person to see him at the office. Alexander was still there when Mr Lloyd left at half past five. Mr Lloyd tells me that Alexander had an engagement that evening. He had invited two business acquaintances to dinner at the Mulciber.'

‘Did you know of this engagement in Paris?'

Mrs Culverton shook her head. ‘No, but it wasn't unusual for him to have to go away at short notice.'

‘Do you know who the business acquaintances were, Mrs Culverton? The men who had dinner with your husband on Wednesday evening, I mean?'

She shrugged. ‘No, I'm sorry, I don't. Mr Lloyd might be able to tell you.'

‘And that was on the 31st. Wednesday.' He had a picture in his mind, a picture of a naked, mutilated middle-aged man on a mortuary table, a man who had been found on Thursday morning. ‘Could you describe your husband, Mrs Culverton? What did he look like?' He listened as she, hesitant as most people were when faced with such a question, answered him. Yes, that could be the body in the mortuary. ‘Did he have any enemies? Is there anyone who might entertain violent feelings towards your husband?'

Her response intrigued him. Most people – most wives certainly – would hotly deny such a thing. Yes, she had left him, but that meant, as often as not, a catalogue of misunderstandings topped off by a quarrel. She, the injured wife, could see her husband's faults but that was a very different state of affairs from imagining an enemy, a real enemy.

Instead she dropped her eyes. ‘There might be. I don't know of any,' she said at last.

‘Mrs Culverton,' he said, his voice very gentle, ‘have you considered the possibility that your husband may be dead?'

It was an appreciable moment before she raised her eyes to his and Rackham, who had been prepared to offer sympathy, was startled to catch a look of thinly veiled anticipation. It was almost triumphant, he thought, repelled. Damn it, the woman might have had a row with her husband but did she want him to be dead? Then, just as quickly, the look vanished to be replaced by conventional worry. She can hide her feelings, thought Rackham. Mrs Culverton was a woman he would have to treat with caution.

‘I've . . . I wondered.' Once again she fingered the beading on the chair but this time Rackham wondered how much of her anxiety was caused by the thought that her husband might be dead and how much by the thought that he could be alive.

Rackham leaned forward. ‘We have a body in the mortuary. The description matches that of your husband, superficially at least. Unfortunately his face is unrecognizable.'

Again, there was a gleam of anticipation followed by a puzzled frown. ‘This body, Inspector. Is this the man I read about in the newspaper? The man who was found in the river?'

Rackham nodded. ‘It's an unpleasant task to identify a body, Mrs Culverton, particularly in these very distressing circumstances. I would like to spare you if I could. Is there anyone who knew your husband well?'

Her mouth tightened. ‘It has to be me, doesn't it? If what the newspaper said was right, he'd be unrecognizable to most people. I can't ask anyone else to do it.'

And that was true enough. She had courage, Rackham thought, even if he didn't really trust her. He rose to his feet. ‘In that case, Mrs Culverton, perhaps you'd be good enough to come with me.'

Jack found a note from George on the table when he got home from Scotland Yard.
Gone for a walk. I borrowed some of your clothes. Hope that's okay. George
.

So he'd gone for a walk, had he? That was a first. There was no doubt George was getting better by the hour. He'd lost that awful wasted look and was far more himself again. Characteristically, he had been longing to get out. What clothes had he taken? Jack looked in the wardrobe. His old blue suit, a sleeveless sweater and a Burberry. That should be all right. Some of his things made the poor beggar look like Charlie Chaplin.

He'd have to see about getting George kitted out. It was all very well saying expansively, ‘Borrow my things' but George was a big man. They were about as tall as each other but George was a much sturdier bloke. Although his clothes did at a pinch, there was no denying George wasn't comfortable. He couldn't do up Jack's collars and the only shoes he had were his patent leather ones. Perhaps if George was up to going for walks, he'd agree to pay a visit to Butler and Furness? They could kit him up right away and clean and press his dress clothes into the bargain. Jack, thinking ruefully about the straining seams of his suits, rejected the idea of waiting for a proper tailor to do his thing. Besides that, Butler and Furness were all right and didn't cost a fortune.

Money. He stoked up the fire thoughtfully and put the kettle on to boil on the spirit lamp. He had to, as he had pointed out to George, work for a living and it was just as well he'd worked like a galley slave all week. That would be pretty handy, what with an increase in rent, the hefty donation to the Royal Free he'd felt honour-bound to make, a ticket to South Africa in the offing and now a visit to Butler and Furness. This Good Samaritan lark didn't come cheaply.

He made a cup of tea, relaxed into the armchair and lit a cigarette. George appreciated it all, though. George was a very straightforward character. He had something to be grateful for and was. Jack grinned. There was something deeply engaging about old George.

There was a noise in the hall and he looked up as George came in. ‘Hello, old man,' he began, then stopped. He had been going to say something about it being a rotten day for a walk, but the excitement on George's face brought him up short. ‘Whatever is it?'

‘Jack,' said George, urgently. ‘I've found the house!'

‘What house?'

‘The house,' repeated George, undoing his coat. ‘The house where it all happened. You know, where I saw the girl. Well, where I thought I saw the girl, at any rate.' He tossed his coat and hat on to a chair. ‘Jack, I don't know what it is about that place, but it's creepy. You know I said I felt drawn to it? Well, it's true. There's something about that house. When I was there before, I know I was coming down with malaria and so on but I'm not ill now. And yet, believe you me, I stood on that pavement and felt as peculiar as I had the other night. I don't know.' He stopped, hunting for the right expression. ‘It's
meant,
Jack. It's as if I'm meant to be there.'

‘Where is it?'

‘The house? The address is 19 Eden Street. The place is called Mayfair, apparently. I asked a passer-by. I knew it was near a big park and I tramped around this afternoon until I found it. Look, I don't know the first thing about which bits of London are which, but is it a very grand area?'

Jack laughed. ‘Mayfair? I should say so. It's seriously posh.'

George hunched down before the fire and warmed his hands by the flames. ‘I thought so. I felt like the cat in the wrong warehouse, as the Boers would say, so what is it about the place, Jack? No one would call me grand and yet I kept on feeling I belonged there. I'm just a farmer. Not even that, now I've sold the farm. I've only been in London once before and that's when I was on leave in the war. I've certainly never been to Mayfair.' He stood up and braced his hands on the mantelpiece. ‘I don't like it,' he said quietly. ‘It's . . . Well, it's spooky.'

‘Did you see who lived there?' asked Jack curiously.

George shuddered. ‘Absolutely not. I'm . . . I'm
frightened
of the place. Besides, how could I possibly approach them after what I did? I broke into their house.'

‘Didn't you say there was a woman? A woman with the policemen? You said she was nice.'

George's face softened. ‘She was nice. She might understand if I could explain it to her but I can't face her again. She must have thought I was loco.'

Jack shook his head. ‘Not from what you told me. She's the one who worked out you were ill.'

‘That's true,' said George. ‘She wouldn't let the policemen arrest me. If I'd seen her on Eden Street I might have said something.' He gave a short laugh. ‘God knows what.' His eyes grew wistful. ‘She was a corker. I wish I could talk to her again but I don't suppose I'll ever know her name.'

‘Hang on.' Jack levered himself out of the armchair. ‘Now you know the address, I can probably tell you who she is.' He walked to the bookcase, selected a book and opened it on the table.

‘What's that?' asked George with interest.

‘Kelly's Street Directory. It's a list of who lives where, indexed by street names. Where did you say it was? Eden Street?'

George joined him at the table. ‘That's right. 19 Eden Street, Mayfair.'

Jack turned up the entry. He ran his finger down the page then stopped. He drew his breath in and stared incredulously at the book, his body rigid.

‘Jack?' said George. ‘Jack? What is it?'

For an answer Jack pointed at the name beside 19 Eden Street.

George read it and gasped. He turned so white that Jack put a hand on his arm to steady him. ‘It's no wonder it's familiar, is it?' he whispered. ‘Dear God, I live there. Me.'

Jack stared once more at the neatly printed entry.
Mr George Lassiter.
He took a deep breath. ‘George,' he said, at length, ‘that really is a stunner.'

Jack and George looked at the entry in the street directory. ‘It's got me stumped,' said George eventually. ‘Jack, am I going crackers? I don't suppose it's a misprint or something, is it?'

‘I wouldn't have thought so,' said Jack. ‘After all, there you are.' He gave his friend a sideways look. ‘So, there
are
two George Lassiters in the world, even if this one lives in London. I wonder if this one knows anything about your missing legacy?'

‘By jingo, that's a thought,' said George slowly. ‘He could be the man who claimed the money.'

Jack clicked his tongue. ‘That's going a bit too fast. After all, you said your legacy was claimed from South Africa.'

‘He might have come from South Africa. There's nothing here to say how long he's been living at that address.'

‘No, that's true. He's not alone,' added Jack, putting his finger on the page. ‘Mr David Lassiter, Mr Nigel Lassiter, and look, this presumably is the girl you met, Mrs Anne Lassiter. I wonder who she's married to? There's another raft of names, too. Michael Walsh, John Corby, Nora Nelson and so on. I bet those are the servants. George, don't the Lassiter names mean anything to you?'

George shook his head. ‘Not a damn thing. It's got me beat. What do we do now?'

‘We could go round and see them,' said Jack.

George drew his breath in sharply. ‘I can't do that.'

‘Why not?'

‘Because of what I did. I broke in, remember? I stole their food, helped myself out of their larder and then, to top it off, caused a real scene. For heaven's sake, the police were involved, Jack. I was very nearly arrested. I can't walk through their front door and expect them to receive me with open arms. They'd throw me out on my ear and I couldn't blame them.'

Jack reluctantly agreed. ‘Yes, you might be right. I can see you're bound to feel awkward about it.' He walked to the sofa and, sitting on the arm, ran his thumb round the side of his chin. ‘You could write to them, I suppose,' he said eventually. ‘Or I could go. I could explain what happened and say you've been ill and so on.' He looked at George. ‘What d'you think? That might be the best thing to do.'

George sighed unhappily. ‘Would it?' He hesitated. ‘Look, don't you think you've done enough for me already? I appreciate it, Jack, really I do, but this is my affair.'

‘All right.' Jack raised an interrogative eyebrow. ‘So you want to go alone?'

George looked at him ruefully. ‘I don't want to go at all.' He shook himself in irritation. ‘I can't see the point of writing. I'd never be able to think of what to say. Damn! I'll have to see them. It's the only way.'

‘Alone?'

George's mouth twisted. ‘I can't ask you to come.'