The Secret Tunnel (33 page)

“There’s one thing I still don’t understand,” said Taylor. “Dickinson had every opportunity to grab the letters. I wasn’t exactly watching them like a hawk. One assumed, wrongly, that one’s possessions were safe, as the studio had provided us with people like you and Joseph. Why didn’t you just nab them when my back was turned?”

A voice spoke from the doorway. “Because someone else got to them first.”

Another new arrival—and this one completely unexpected.

“Andrews!” I gasped. “How the hell did you get here? I thought you were under arrest!”

“That’s the other thing I meant to tell you, sir,” said Arthur. “Mr. Andrews was bailed the minute they opened up the tunnel.”

“But why?”

The tread of heavy feet approached, and in walked Sergeant Shipton, followed by young PC Jack Godwin, still in plain clothes.

“Because Dickinson’s orders were countermanded,” said Shipton. “He omitted to mention to the Peterborough Police that he had been relieved of his duties. Impersonating a police officer is a very serious offense, Dickinson.”

Shipton stood over the bound former detective superintendent, who looked up at him through damp hair. It was a piquant image.

“He’d got away with it for years,” Shipton continued. “Spying on people, blackmailing his superiors. We’ve all got
something to hide, haven’t we, Dickinson? And you’ve got a very good nose for a secret. Your boss, Commander Fleet, for instance. He had a mistress, and an illegitimate child, tucked away in Fulham. Didn’t want everyone talking about his business, so he turned a blind eye to the Stanley Goldwater business, when really you should have been thrown out in disgrace.”

“Commander Fleet has said nothing,” said Dickinson.

“Commander Fleet has authorized me to tell you, sir, that he has decided to take early retirement.”

“What?”

“In order, he told me, to spend more time with his family. His real family. What else did he say, Godwin?”

PC Godwin stepped forward and read from his notebook. “He said that he should have stood up to Detective Superintendent Dickinson over the Goldwater affair, and instead of just suspending him for six months he should have chucked him out of the force on the spot. But Dickinson was blackmailing him, and negotiated the lesser punishment. Now Commander Fleet has retired, and handed the case over to his successor.”

“I think,” I said, “that we can finally piece this story together. Everyone is here. This is what really happened…”

“Oh, I love this bit,” said Morgan, rubbing his hands. “When the detective has got everyone into the same room, and suddenly everything becomes clear. I hope it’s good, Mitch. I, for one, am completely stumped.”

“Me, too,” said Taylor. “Come on, Mitch. I’ve played the part often enough on stage. Let’s see what sort of job you make of it.”

I paced up and down for a moment, collecting my thoughts, and then began.

“PETER DICKINSON WAS SUSPENDED FROM THE FORCE AFTER the death of Stanley Goldwater,” I began, trying hard to control the whirl of thoughts and impressions in my brain. “He managed to avoid outright dismissal due to his hold over his superior, Commander Fleet. But he knew his luck was running out, so he started looking for other sources of income and power. He knew about Herbert Waits’s operations at British-American, and he accepted a commission from the British Fascists to steal letters belonging to Hugo Taylor. The two jobs fit together perfectly, and Dickinson infiltrated Hugo Taylor’s party under the guise of a publicity manager.”

“I wondered why we’d suddenly got a new chap on the job,” said Taylor, “but British-American are so disorganized that I didn’t really bother about it.”

“He planned to steal the letters on the Flying Scotsman, and deliver them to Lady Antonia Petherbridge, who, I presume, would pay him handsomely. She had raised the money by hocking her jewelry—she was wearing imitation diamonds. The money was hidden in her luggage—
which is why she sent Chivers to guard it when the train was stuck in the tunnel. She was nervous, and rightly so. I imagine there was several hundred pounds in her carriage, unprotected.

“It should have gone smoothly. Dickinson had taken the precaution of enlisting the support of railway personnel, looking out for any unwanted snoopers and throwing them off the train. He didn’t want any witnesses. But two things went wrong. First, Simmonds failed to get rid of Bertrand and me. Second, when it came to stealing the letters, Dickinson discovered that someone else had got there before him. Isn’t that right, Mr. Andrews?”

Andrews stepped forward, a picture of composure. I admired his sangfroid.

“Quite so, Mr. Mitchell. David Rhys found the letters in Hugo Taylor’s luggage.”

“But why was he searching through Taylor’s things? That’s what I don’t understand.”

“David Rhys wasn’t a diamond merchant,” said Andrews. “Nor was he an insurance broker, as he had told me. He was a private detective.”

“Of course!”

“He had been employed by Herbert Waits of the British-American Film Company to get evidence of his wife’s adultery with this gentleman.” He gestured toward Hugo Taylor.

“My God,” said Taylor, “he really was barking up the wrong tree.”

“How did you find this out, Andrews?”

“I’d followed David to Scotland. I was desperate to be with him. I must have been mad, dragging Christina and the children all the way up there, and then, the minute David was leaving, putting them all on the train again. But love makes us all mad, doesn’t it? David was horrified when he saw me. I see why now—but at the time I thought it was
because he wanted to break with me. I pleaded with him to change his mind, but he just refused to talk about it. He told me to keep out of his way. We exchanged cross words. I lost my head. I kept trying to catch him, and he kept slipping past me. God, how ridiculous.”

“But you caught up with him when we stopped at York, didn’t you?”

“Yes. I pushed him into the lavatory and locked the door, and I started all over again, accusing him of using me—and then I realized that he was frightened. He was as white as a sheet. Something was wrong.”

“Did he tell you?”

“Yes. That’s when he confessed that he’d been lying to me all along about his job. He wasn’t in insurance—he was a confidential agent, a private detective, whatever you want to call it, employed by rich clients to gather evidence on crooked employees or unfaithful spouses. He’d done very well out of it. He said he’d gone into Mr. Taylor and Miss Athenasy’s compartment while they were in the dining car having their photograph taken. He was looking for evidence of their affair—and he found a packet of letters. He assumed they were love letters between the two of them, so he took them. As he was coming out of the compartment, he ran into someone—he wouldn’t say who, but I realize now it was Dickinson—who saw what he had taken and threatened him if he did not give it back. Somebody came along, and David managed to get away, and shortly afterward we stopped at York.”

“So, Dickinson,” I said, “just after you’d seen Rhys coming out with the packet of letters, you checked up on Bertrand and me, to make sure we hadn’t heard anything. You wanted to keep us busy while you got Joseph to sort out Rhys. You were very clever. You knew exactly how to distract us, didn’t you? And you were right. I was a fool. I should have listened to Bertrand.”

“You knew that we would stop at York, didn’t you?” Simmonds addressed Dickinson. “You’d already got a hold over Eltham, the engineer. You knew all about his situation, and you told him it would suit you to break the journey. There would be no need to tell the passengers, you said. He was glad of the chance to spend some time with Rowson, so he didn’t ask any questions. Not the cleverest of men, Eltham, and as for Rowson…well, let’s just say he’s suited to his job. But then you turned the screw on them. You said you knew all about them. When we left York, they were taking orders directly from you.”

“I wondered where you were when we stopped at York, Dickinson,” I said, “but now I think I know. You were telephoning ahead to the Peterborough police, telling them that there would be an arrest to be made at the station. You omitted to mention that you were suspended from duty, and they didn’t ask any questions.”

“Peterborough have confirmed as much,” said Shipton. “The moment Commander Fleet spoke to them, they admitted their mistake.”

“And where was Joseph? Ah, of course—he was looking for Rhys, instead of looking after Daisy and Hugo, as he was paid to do. But of course, you were paying him, weren’t you, Dickinson? He was your henchman.”

“And there was me thinking that the studio employed him,” said Frankie. “You know, as a sort of gigolo. To keep Miss Daisy happy.”

“I imagine Joseph also earned extra pocket money from Miss Athenasy,” I continued, “but he took his orders from Dickinson. But you couldn’t find Rhys when we were stopped at York, could you, Joseph?”

Joseph said nothing; I had seen him catch Dickinson’s eye.

“No, because David was in the toilet with me,” said Andrews. “He told me his life was in danger as long as he had the letters. He’d opened the packet and realized what
he’d actually taken—love letters from a member of the royal family to another man. I thought it was Taylor he was frightened of; I never thought of Dickinson. David wanted to get off the train, make a run for it—but I kept him in there. Oh, God, if only I’d let him go, he might still be alive.”

“I doubt it,” I said. “Joseph would have caught him.”

“But then we started moving again, and it was too late. He was furious with me, said I’d ruined everything. I was desperate to make it up to him—so we came up with a plan. I’d return the letters to Hugo Taylor’s luggage, and somehow all would be well.”

“And you really thought that would work?”

“What else could we do? The letters would be back where David found them. He’d stay in public, make sure nobody could do anything to him, and then make a run for it at Kings Cross. It seemed like his best chance, and it would have worked—if only the lights hadn’t gone out.”

“I saw you coming out of the toilet together,” I said, “and I spoke to Rhys. He was nervous—and when he saw Dickinson coming, he ran. Straight into Joseph, I suspect.”

“That’s when I brought Mr. Taylor his dinner,” said Arthur. “Do you remember, sir? I had to squeeze past you and Mr. Dickinson in the corridor. Mr. Dickinson checked that everything was all right, and came with me to the compartment.”

“Was there a steak knife on the tray when you left the dining car, Arthur?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Well, there wasn’t by the time it got to me,” said Taylor.

“So, Dickinson was already forming a plan. He pocketed the steak knife. Had you already thought of cutting off Rhys’s finger, Dickinson? Or did you just think that a sharp knife might come in handy?”

Dickinson’s mouth was set in a grim line. He too remained silent.

“Joseph demanded that Rhys return the letters—but now, Rhys could honestly say that he didn’t have them. Perhaps he let Joseph search him. The letters were not there, so Joseph let him go. That must have annoyed you, Dickinson.”

“That’s right,” said Taylor. “Joseph came back into the carriage while I was tucking into dinner. They were mumbling about something or other. I didn’t pay much attention. Daisy was being a nuisance, complaining about the food, drinking and taking drugs. Then she was pawing Joseph. God, what a woman!”

“And that’s when the plan was made,” I said. “Joseph went ahead to tell the engineer to stop the train in the tunnel and put the lights out.”

“And I thought he was just going to complain that I hadn’t been given a proper steak knife,” said Taylor. “I say, we’ve all been taken for the most dreadful ride, haven’t we?”

“Dickinson and Joseph acted quickly,” I continued. “Dickinson went off looking for Rhys. They heard Bertrand and me in the toilet together, so Joseph jammed the door shut to make sure we didn’t get out. Everyone else was too frightened to move from where they were—the train was pitch dark.”

“Apart from me,” said Taylor. “I went out looking for help, because Daisy was panicking, and I got a nasty crack on the head for my troubles. I thought it was that bloody Lady Antonia or her little jackal, Chivers.”

“No,” I said. “It was Dickinson. He thought he’d got lucky. In the dark, you and David Rhys look quite similar—both tall, same sort of build and coloring. He blackjacked you, and would have killed you, but he realized just in time that he’d made a mistake and let you go back to the compartment.”

“My God, so it was you!” said Taylor. “And you told me to lie about it, to say I’d bumped my head on the cocktail
cabinet, because we didn’t want any scandal about an assassination attempt. You devil.”

“You went back to your compartment, Hugo, and you passed out. Daisy was out of her mind on cocaine. Neither of you knew what was going on under your noses.”

“That’s when I replaced the letters,” said Andrews. “Everything was quiet, so I peeped through the door. I thought you and Miss Athenasy were just asleep. I couldn’t see very well, and I was rummaging around for the right bag to replace the letters in. I thought I’d found the right one—there was a shaving kit and so on in there—and I accidentally upset a bottle of aftershave. It went all over the place. Miss Athenasy must have heard, because she started saying something—but I don’t think she really saw me. I panicked, and stuffed the letters into the bottom of the bag, and ran.”

“So that’s why you smelled of lemons,” I said. “You’d put the letters back into Dickinson’s bag, and in the process you’d spilled some of his aftershave. It’s a very distinctive smell, isn’t it, Dickinson? Lemons.”

“It’s Coty’s Esprit de Citron,” said Frankie. “Lovely stuff. Terribly expensive.”

“The sort of luxury one can afford,” I said, “when one is a successful blackmailer. And so, after all that, the packet of letters was actually in Dickinson’s own bag. But he didn’t know that. He believed that Rhys still had them. He was under strict instructions from Lady Antonia to make sure that nobody else learned of the contents of those letters—otherwise her plan was useless. The fascists wanted the letters in order to persuade Prince George to be their spokesman—but if anyone else read them, they lost their power. The damage was already done. And so Dickinson had to kill Rhys in order to silence him.”