Enter Pale Death (3 page)

She gave him the cheerful mechanical reassurances he expected.

“Well, I have to dash now … Look, my dearest Lily …” He came round the table and took her hands in his, suddenly earnest. He gave her the devastating smile that had knocked her for six so many years before. “Just go and get one of those machines … those vacuum thingamies … you know what I mean … I see the very idea of one brings a flush of excited anticipation to your damask cheek.” He winked and caressed the damask cheek. “Now I wonder how Harrods could possibly know I’ve just had a pay rise?”

He’d guessed. Of course he had. That was one of the penalties you paid for being married to the smartest man in the kingdom. She handed him his briefcase, put her arms round his neck and kissed him. He bit her ear.

L
ILY
W
ENTWORTH
(
AS
was) entered the reception hall of Scotland Yard at ten minutes to nine on Tuesday morning and announced herself. She acknowledged with annoyance that her knees were trembling and she was breathing fast. The formidable building still had the power to intimidate, however often she ventured into it. Everyone else was walking purposefully up and down the tiled corridors wearing a police uniform or a business suit with bowler hat and briefcase. In her lady-heading-for-Liberty’s outfit,
she felt herself doubly an outsider. Staff changed swiftly at the Yard, and no one called out a friendly “Wotcher, Lil!” How long had it been? She calculated that it was eleven years since she’d received the first of his summonses. Each one had changed her life. Some had left scars, on flesh and spirit.

The young copper assigned escort duty took her up to the top floor in the lift. Sharing the confined space with a stranger was always awkward and, after an exchange of pleasantries, they fell silent. Out of the corner of her eye, Lily watched him doing exactly what she expected a young officer would be doing with a new subject in a lift. He was filling in his mental portrait form. Page 22 of the trainee copper’s handbook. She followed his glance as he made his top-to-toe clandestine observations:

Subject: Female
.

Nationality: English
.

Married status: Unknown (gloves worn)
.

Height: 5’ 6”
.

Build: Slim
.

Age (conjectural)… mmm … thirtyish
. (She flattered herself.)

Hair: Fair, short and waved
. (What he could see of it.)

Eyes: Green
.

Distinguishing features: Surgical scar to right jaw, not totally disguised by a layer of Leichner’s shade number 2: ‘Porcelain.’

Purpose of visit: By invitation, to attend Assistant Commissioner Sandilands
.

Lily sensed that his exercise became trickier when it came to evaluating her outfit. He noted her smart cream linen two-piece and matching cloche hat, she thought, with quiet approval. The gloves and shoes were impeccable, but his eyes snagged on the one
jarring note in her appearance—a leather satchel she carried slung from her shoulder. Unlike the neat purse just about able to contain a penny coin for the loo and a cologne-scented handkerchief that London ladies clutched to their bosoms, this capacious and battered object was decidedly utilitarian. Lily sighed. Time perhaps to exchange her old friend for something classier from Vuitton? The copper frowned in puzzlement and, sensing his unease, Lily reassured him in her best Mayfair voice that her bag had been checked at the reception desk.

It hadn’t.

The desk officer had given it a cursory look and waved her straight through without bothering to search it. Lily didn’t want to risk a sudden panicking lunge from her dutiful escort in the confined space of the lift and she gave him a broad, disarming smile. He was right to be watchful. She knew she didn’t look like a Sinn Féin gangster’s moll, but there was a chance she could have been one of those demented society women the Mosleyite Fascisti cultivated and cajoled into doing their bidding. It wouldn’t have been the first time an apparent innocent had walked into Scotland Yard with a hidden explosive.

As the lift lurched to a halt and he opened the doors with a flourish, she eased under the young man’s outstretched arm murmuring a word of thanks and added, “Suit is from Monsieur Worth and perfume from Mademoiselle Chanel, Officer.”

This was greeted by a shout of laughter. “And smile from Heaven, miss!” he told her gallantly. “The assistant commissioner’s a lucky chap! Don’t know how he does it!”

“T
HERE
’
S A BOMB
in there!

“
Bam! Splat! Bam! You’re strawberry jam!
” Lily announced in playground Cockney, slamming her bag down under the Assistant Commissioner’s nose.

“Always ready with the warm greeting, Lily! But no need for
concern. I told the desk inspector to pass you straight up, unmolested.”

“Then you’re losing your marbles … getting slack. Your modern anarchist doesn’t go about with a smoking bomb under his cloak, twitching and frothing and muttering Ruritanian curses. It’s quite likely to be some posh lady with a bee in her silk bonnet and a hand grenade in her crocodile-skin purse. How do you know I haven’t started an affair with the dashing Oswald, King of the Blackshirts, since we last met? He’s cutting a swathe through Kensington, I understand. Breaking more hearts than limbs. Oh … sorry! Hello! So pleased to see you again, Joe! How are you doing, old thing?”

“Apart from the onset of senile decrepitude you’ve just identified, I’m fit and well and very happy to see
you
. Shall we sit down and I’ll introduce you to my problem?… Ah! Here comes our coffee! Thank you, Constable Smithson. You set a lovely tray! On the side table, if you please. Now, buzz off, lad—we’ll wait on ourselves. Here you are, Lily … Blue Mountain in Worcester china … nothing but the best for my favourite flatfoot. Oh, and a gypsy cream or two to nibble on … So there you are. It comes with a warning, Lily,” he said after a brief outline. “What I’m putting before you is covert and unauthorised. I don’t think it could be dangerous …”

“When did you ever offer me an ice cream in the park? Do I need a gun or will a hatpin do the job?” Woman Police Constable Lily Wentworth, as she had been a decade earlier, spoke with sunny disregard to her old boss. “I sharpened my claws before I came. Though I’m surprised there’s anything I can still do for you in your new elevated status, Commissioner.” She looked around with exaggerated appreciation at the large top floor room with its windows open to the river and the Victoria Embankment below. The impressive desk across whose polished surface they were exchanging delighted grins carried only a severely stylish pewter
pen tray and inkpot. Scottish by the look of it and Joe’s own choice, she guessed. The absence of files, notes and memos at this hour told of a team of secretaries and a pool of typists at work early somewhere about the building. The empty wastepaper basket and freshly polished floor were further indication of others unseen ministering to the needs of the top police brass.

He was looking the part, she thought, in his well-tailored suit and quiet tie. Far too young for the job, but then he always had been ahead of his time. She remembered that, at her first interview with him, the freshly appointed Commander Sandilands, dishevelled and disorganised, had greeted her with papers spilling off his desk and a face haggard with exhaustion and despair. Alarmingly, his hands and clothes had been damp and still stained with the fresh blood of four gunshot victims. His reputation, his handsome looks and his battle scars had combined to render her practically speechless in his presence. Now, the sleek surroundings and the equally sleek appearance were reassuring. Surely, at last, she could let go and ignore the urge she had always felt to rally round and protect him.

“I’m listening. Tell me what you’re really up to, Joe.” He’d never liked to waste time, and his pace was her pace. They worked well in harness.

“Getting to the bottom of a mysterious death in high places. So high, people dare not even gossip about it. Nothing ever reached my desk until last week and, unless I’ve been remarkably slow on the uptake, I don’t believe I’ve ever been passed a hint over a whisky in some concerned gent’s club, which is the way these things often start.”

“Has it been reported in the press?”

“No. Apart, that is, from an unremarkable mention in the obituary column of the
Times
.” Joe fell silent, sunk in thought. “She merited four lines, Lily. Just four lines. The problem, you might say, has been buried six feet under and left to rot away. Unnoticed. Unmourned. To all appearances.”

“No police involvement, you say?” Lily asked, eager to hear more. She’d learned to pay attention and give weight to Joe’s suspicions over the years.

“Initially, yes, there was. A token enquiry. The county police force involved—efficient fellows, I’m told—have pronounced themselves satisfied there’s been no dirty work at the crossroads. ‘Death by misadventure,’ the coroner announced. I can’t imagine why I’m letting myself be drawn into all this. The nearest anyone comes to suggesting that all may not be well is an occasional hissing intake of breath, a quiet shaking of the head and—of all ploys!—an attempt to squeeze a comment from
me
! I who know less than anyone! What really cuts me to the quick is—I fear people actually suspect me of involvement in the cover-up. I won’t have that, Lily.”

“Gawd! It’s the Prince! He’s in trouble again? I thought he was safely off in Africa shooting things.”

“If only it were so simple! That would be much more easily settled. His every move is recorded, preventive measures in place. At home or away, he’s only a danger to the beasts. This enquiry, if my worst fears are well-founded, could involve stepping into unknown territory strewn with man-traps and mines.”

“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.”