The Shepherd File (7 page)

‘It’s a question,’ Holmes said, ‘of strategy, or tactics, both, possibly. It would take a little while to get one of Lamb’s men inside: say two or three days. I suspect I could beat that. I’ve already seen Mrs Wrythe.’

‘But somebody knows about you.’

‘They know where I work.’

‘That’s the same.’

‘You might as well say,’ quoted Holmes, ‘that I eat what I like is the same as I like what I eat.’

‘Isn’t it?’

‘There is nothing against me having indigestion.’

‘You mean you’re going.’

‘I told you, Joe, it’s also a question of strategy. Am I best deployed down there or am I going to waste my time in a rigid and disciplined course of carrot eating and colonic irrigation? Talking of irrigation, one wonders where the water supply of Uplands comes from: it can’t be good enough for Mrs Wrythe out of the tap.’

‘I daresay,’ grumbled Morrison, ‘they spread out tarpaulins to catch the rain.’

‘It would be worth finding out,’ said Holmes and Morrison could see he was not joking, as Morrison had thought. But the slightly academic argument as to whether Holmes was going to Uplands or whether it would be a man from MI5 came to an end when Morrison had a phone call from the Yard.

‘They’ve had a catch,’ said Morrison. ‘I’d better go.’

Holmes nodded and got up to accompany him. A catch was old Soho slang, meaning that something had been found, something had been caught in the net. In this particular case it turned out to be a monitored telephone conversation between Mrs Wrythe and Monique Shepherd.

‘Shepherd’s widow!’ exclaimed Morrison, when he heard. ‘What the devil is she pushing her nose into this for?’

Mrs Shepherd had telephoned Mrs Wrythe, had said she was unable to sleep and was taking drugs since her husband died and could anything be done for her, as, like her husband, she had not much faith in doctors.

Morrison listened incredulously. ‘Then why take drugs in the first place?’ he growled. ‘What’s she after?’

Mrs Wrythe had been sympathetic. Perhaps Mrs Shepherd would call and see her and discuss things. Perhaps she did not need a doctor as much as rest and quiet.

‘Old charlatan,’ grunted Morrison, ‘she baits it well. What do they charge for peace and quiet — forty guineas a week?’

There was very little more on the recording. The conversation was a perfectly normal one with no overtones of meaning in it that would suggest it was not what it appeared to be.

‘No mention of her sister,’ said Holmes.

‘Or of the boy.’

‘Perhaps the sister is going to look after the child while Mrs Shepherd goes in for her rest cure?’

‘Could be.’

‘Are we checking up on her sister?’

They checked. Rosa Verschoyle had arrived at London Airport. No one had met her. Her papers had been in order. She had come from Brussels. She had hired a car and driven down to the Shepherd bungalow at Bray.

‘Seems all right to me,’ said Morrison. ‘After all, why shouldn’t her sister visit her? Why shouldn’t she have a rest cure? All that I think is odd is that she is going to the place where her husband went. You would have thought she would have kept away.’

‘She wasn’t interested in nature cure,’ said Holmes. ‘She told me so.’

‘Then what’s she after?’

Checking up on the place where her husband was last seen alive?’

‘Could be,’ said Morrison. ‘Could be,’ he stared at Holmes. ‘You know,’ he said, ‘I don’t like it.’

‘Another reason,’ Holmes said, ‘for getting somebody inside Uplands.’

‘Somebody?’

‘Not me,’ said Holmes. ‘At least, not yet. Later,’ he referred to his diary. ‘Mrs Shepherd,’ he said, ‘is due to come up to London in a couple of days to see Lamb about her widow’s pension. She won’t be going to Uplands until after that. I want to be with her when she meets Lamb. I think,’ he said, ‘it could be interesting.’

Lamb’s
Den

The air conditioning hummed subduedly, like the sound of far distant planes murmuring in the ventilation ducts. The sun blazed in horizontal strips through the slats of the drawn window blinds. Lamb sat at a large desk, whose surface was almost empty except for a telephone and intercom. The room was insulated. The blinds and the air conditioning protected it from the heat. The thick carpet blotted out noise.

‘Let us be frank,’ Lamb said. ‘The Foreign Office handled him badly. Whatever they did, they handled him badly.’

‘They queried his expenses.’

‘It is a question,’ said Lamb, ‘of how to handle men. When you are out in the middle of the Libyan desert, not knowing who is your friend and who is your enemy, you don’t expect to be treated as a small-time civil servant sending reports in triplicate.’

‘Did they ask for reports in triplicate?’

‘You know what I mean.’

‘I’m trying to be fair.’

‘I’m trying to defend my staff.’

‘Do you defend everything he did?’

Lamb leant back in his chair. His eyes travelled round the room as if seeking inspiration for a reply. There was no reply. He stroked his moustache. His moustache had a jaunty air; it filled the empty space under his nose and added decorative qualities to his upper lip. When he smiled, as he did now, his moustache helped to radiate a kind of charm which would not otherwise have been there.

‘When you run my kind of department,’ said Lamb, ‘you do not rely on the disciplines of the civil service. They’re all handpicked, Holmes, every one of them. I pick them myself. I rely on them and they rely on me. I’ve never been let down.’

‘Space for trumpet call,’ said Holmes. He was not often unkind. Lamb had sterling qualities. His character was admirable. He was staunchly devoted to his men.

‘Trumpet call?’ said Lamb. ‘You mean he wasn’t patriotic? Perhaps not. Something must have cracked. Something went wrong. But who knows how much he suffered out there in the desert? Who knows how much a stiff and unimaginative attitude on the part of the Foreign Office was to blame?’

Holmes changed the subject. ‘How did you get on,’ he asked, ‘with Mrs Shepherd?’

Lamb looked aggrieved. ‘I met her when she came,’ he said. ‘I was very cordial. Naturally.’

‘Why shouldn’t you be?’

‘Naturally,’ said Lamb. ‘We’ve nothing against her, you know, Holmes. Not a thing. One must be fair. But, the fact is, and the fact must be faced, that Shepherd was perfectly all right before his marriage to her. Of course, I’m not saying there’s anything wrong — ’

‘She is not aware of your views?’

‘Bless me, no!’ exclaimed Lamb. ‘Good heavens. Dash it. That would be unkind, wouldn’t it?’

‘It would,’ said Holmes, gently. ‘It would be very unkind. I hope she wasn’t able to guess what you thought about her?’

‘Certainly not,’ said Lamb, firmly.

‘And where is Mrs Shepherd now?’

‘One of the staff is dealing with her,’ said Lamb. ‘Quite frankly, I don’t like the woman.’

‘You surprise me.’

‘I don’t like Belgians,’ said Lamb. ‘Not that I’m holding that against her.’

‘I’m glad.’

‘Of course not. She’ll be looked after. They’re discussing the pension now. It won’t be lavish but it’ll be enough. We shall also offer her a job. A small thing, but useful. Translation work. Part-time, so she can look after her boy.’

‘Who is looking after him while she’s here this morning?’

‘Her sister,’ said Lamb. ‘He’s being taken to see the Tower of London, or something.’

‘It’s arranged I can drive her home?’

Lamb nodded. ‘Yes. There’s a car outside for you. What exactly are you after?’

‘I want to chat about this and that,’ murmured Holmes vaguely.

‘I can tell you everything you want to know about her.’

‘I’m sure.’

‘You got something on her?’

‘I don’t think there is anything on her,’ said Holmes solemnly, ‘
but
somebody might be seeing her who would give us a line. I don’t want to take chances.’

‘Very right and proper,’ said Lamb. ‘You’re quite right. Take no chances. I agree. I thought for a moment you had something on her.’

‘Not a thing,’ said Holmes and as he spoke the new suspicion rose in him like a dark cloud. ‘She was a dancer, wasn’t she?’

‘Brussels nightlife,’ said Lamb, ‘is worse than Paris.’ He was unhappy. ‘We checked on her. It’s all in the file. She was never active politically. She was the youngest of a family of seven. The father suffered from ill-health. She left school at fifteen and went into an office in Liege. From an early age she seems to have been attractive to men and had a number of affairs. At seventeen she became involved with a married man in her office and ran away to avoid the scandal.’

‘That’s when she went to Brussels?’

‘She seems to have been respectable,’ said Lamb, doubtfully. ‘More or less,’ he added. ‘She did a strip turn at first but they found she was intelligent and could talk well so they made her a hostess. The hostesses at the Au Poids de l’Or stand by the bar or go round the tables and sell drinks on commission. Sometimes they will go to bed with the customers and sometimes they won’t. It depends. She seems to have been among those who didn’t. One of the girls with her said she disliked men, she didn’t trust them.’

‘The result of her early experience?’

‘Probably. She seems to have fallen hard for Shepherd, though. It was, I should think, the first time she was really in love. He was good looking — she liked Englishmen — and within a matter of days they were going out together. They got married within a month.’

‘Happily?’

‘He was devoted to her.’

‘She wanted him to give up his job.’

‘That’s not surprising.’ Lamb stroked his moustache. ‘They all do. We try to give the married men a fair deal but they’re out all hours.’

A light glowed on Lamb’s telephone. ‘Excuse me,’ he said and listened. ‘All right,’ he said and put the receiver down. ‘They’ve finished the pension business. They’re bringing her up. Apparently — ’ said Lamb, and frowned, ‘she doesn’t want the job.’

‘Did you think she would?’

‘Look here,’ said Lamb, ‘let’s get this clear. The department is not inhuman. She’s the widow of one of my best men and her pension won’t be very large She’s bilingual, she’s not unintelligent, she’s got a small child to look after. I thought she might do some translating, part-time, travelling up to the office for an hour or so a day to deal with monitoring reports — that sort of thing — nothing top security, just the routine stuff.’

‘And she doesn’t want to?’

Lamb got up and walked round the room. He was genuinely puzzled. There was no understanding women. They behaved illogically. Lamb looked out of the window. It was very hot outside and he liked heat. ‘Wish I could get away for a bit,’ said Lamb. ‘Lovely weather,’ he said. ‘Perfect weather. Perfect English summer. Nothing like England for a holiday. Thought of going down to Cornwall as soon as I can get away. Where would you think would be a good place to go?’

‘Penzance,’ said Holmes, who was looking at the ceiling with a blank expression.

‘Penzance, eh?’ Lamb was not sure to what extent Holmes was serious. ‘Well, I suppose so,’ said Lamb. ‘Nice little place, Penzance.’

In the wall behind Holmes three small convex glass lenses were fitted into a flush panel under a Sharland etching. The three lenses were of different colours. A light flicked on behind the centre lens. It glowed steadily: a pale creamy-green, thick, like coloured milk.

‘Mrs Shepherd,’ said Lamb. He led the way into the adjoining room.

Her eyes were dark and yet not dark. When the light caught them it seemed to shine inside. Holmes looked at the small flared nostrils, the long nose, the firm profile, the dark curling hair. She was beautiful.

He was aware at once of her antagonism towards Lamb and of her state of nerves. She lit and drew greedily on a cigarette, drinking smoke with an open mouth.

‘All right?’ said Lamb, cheerfully. ‘Miserable business,’ he said. ‘Miserable. Got to get it fixed up, though; got to get it fixed up.’

‘I am grateful for the pension.’

‘Not as much as you ought to have,’ said Lamb. ‘Not as much. Thought you’d like to do some part-time work. Part-time work would be a help. Keep your mind occupied. Work the anodyne for pain. Work. Time.’

‘I may do some part-time work locally.’

‘Not good enough,’ said Lamb. ‘They won’t pay.’

‘Thank you,’ she said, quietly. ‘I shall be all right.’

Lamb did not know what to say. ‘Think it over,’ he said. ‘Think it over.’

She turned her eyes on Holmes. The look asked why he was there, but it was not entirely unfriendly, not as it had been with Lamb. Holmes said:

‘May I take you home?’

There was an obvious hesitation. ‘I want,’ she said, ‘to do some shopping.’

He said he could take her wherever she wished. She said she had a return ticket. He continued to press and she gave way suddenly as though it was not worth the effort.

‘Very well.’

She was not, therefore, quite hostile as yet and there were several assumptions from that.

They said goodbye to Lamb and he took her down in the lift. The black Wolseley which Holmes was to use was parked outside the office with a security man waiting in it. He vacated the wheel when Holmes arrived and stood on one side, opening the passenger door.

Monique Shepherd got in. It would not be difficult for her to guess that it had been well organised but there was little harm in her knowing.

Holmes got in the other side. He looked but she stared firmly in front of her. Whatever she thought or whatever her feelings, she was keeping them strictly to herself, strictly under control. There was no question of confiding in him or in anyone. He could see that. Her nerves, he thought, were worse now than when he had first seen her. Her fingers were never still. But she had a grip on herself.

The car started. He swung it out into the traffic. The security man, who had been watching from the steps of the building, turned and went inside. The traffic was very thick, very congested, moving slowly. Another car nosed into the traffic from the other side of the road. It was a black Humber saloon. A long radio aerial projected from a rubber bush mounted in the centre of the roof. Inside the car were two Europeans.