A Donation of Murder (12 page)

Florence continued to chatter about her adventures. While Dody listened she absently opened the envelope. To her surprise she pulled out a thick wad of banknotes.

‘Goodness me!' she exclaimed, fanning out the notes.

‘Lor, look at all that,' Florence remarked, wide eyed. ‘Where did that come from?'

Dody read the enclosed note. ‘There's no signature, though it says it's for the clinic. I hadn't got around to telling you that piece of bad news. The clinic has debts of nearly six hundred pounds and is about to be closed.'

‘How much money is in the envelope?'

Dody counted the money on her lap. ‘Six hundred pounds.'

‘Looks like you've found your guardian angel.'

‘Can it be from the Duchess, perhaps?' Dody handed the note to Florence.

‘The donor obviously wants to remain anonymous, printing in capital letters like that,' said Florence. ‘But what on earth's the matter, Dody?' she asked, two small parallel lines in her otherwise flawless complexion forming between her eyebrows. ‘Why the long face?'

Dody shook her head, trying to clear her thoughts. ‘I don't know, it's almost too good to be true, isn't it?' Florence's words —
your guardian angel
— spun about in her mind, reminding her of Margaret's religious zeal and how she'd kept on about not being worthy of Dody's ‘miracle'.

Dody examined the note again with increasing disquiet. She'd thrown Margaret's thankyou note into the fire after she'd read it, so was unable to compare the two handwriting specimens. And, of course, the writing in the note from Margaret had been cursive.

‘Why must you over analyse everything so? This is a gift horse, Dody, don't look it in the mouth. Rejoice!' Florence raised her glass. ‘Think of all the women this will save. To the clinic, I say!'

‘But how do I know this money isn't tainted?' Dody asked, her teeth worrying at her bottom lip. ‘It could have come from anywhere. It could be blood money — the result of a heinous crime even.'

Florence gave a so-what-if-it-is shrug.

Dody forced a hesitant smile. Perhaps she
was
over analysing. No one had questioned the anonymous donation of one hundred pounds the clinic had received a few weeks ago, so why should this donation leave her feeling so uneasy? Because this was so much more. The person who donated it must be very wealthy indeed. And why send it to her? Dody wondered. Large donations were always sent to the non-medical ladies of the board, and, as far as she knew, they were never cash. It was dangerous to keep this much cash anywhere other than in a bank.

Florence snapped her fingers. ‘Dody, look at me. You have that far away gaze that I am all too familiar with.'

Dody lifted her shoulders. ‘I'm just not sure what to do with this money.'

‘Give it to the clinic, for goodness sake. Who gives a fig where it's come from or where it's been? You'll be putting it to good use, and that's all that matters. And whatever you do, don't tell Pike about it. He'll only get uppity and confiscate it.'

Dody smiled. ‘Yes, I suppose you're right.' She wasn't sure about not telling Pike though. They'd made a pact early in their attachment to be open and honest with one another. Still, she wouldn't tell him until she'd given the cash to Lucinda; make it a
fait accompli
and face the consequences then.

Dody stood up, keen to telephone her colleagues at the clinic and pass on the good news.

‘Maybe you'd like to come with me tomorrow morning to hand the donation over to Lady Lucinda Broome?' Dody asked as she headed for the door.

‘Oh dear,' Florence replied. ‘I'd love to darling, really I would, only I'm afraid I am otherwise engaged.'

Dody turned, rolled her eyes. ‘I'm glad you're not letting the moss grow.'

‘I'm sorry, I made the arrangements earlier before you came home. You see I've organised Fletcher to give me a driving lesson. I mean, if I can fly an aeroplane, I should jolly well know how to drive a motorcar, don't you think?' Florence clapped her hands, her face lit up. ‘But of course! I know what we can do — I can drive you to the clinic tomorrow myself!'

Without his hat and coat, Pike shivered in the icy rain. He pulled the umbrella low over his head and sighted Malcolm James swaggering down the grey Mayfair street. Opulent Georgian terraces ran along each side, fronted by skeletal trees and frost-burned shrubs. James strode up the garden path of a florid house of cumbersome Victorian design that clashed with its elegant surroundings. The mansion stood alone on the corner of the street, separated from its terraced neighbours by a small railed garden, a gypsy among gentry.

James reached into his pocket for a key and let himself in as if he were the owner. In reality the home was owned by Mr John Giblett, and was as well known to the Metropolitan Police as any gambling den or house of ill repute.

For about ten minutes Pike stood on the other side of the road in the drizzling rain, contemplating the invisible shield around the house that made it so impenetrable. What kind of armour did John Giblett protect himself with — and where were its chinks? Perhaps Malcolm James, Giblett's most recent associate — second in charge, partner even, if the hotel letter had any truth to it — could answer that question. As well as informing Pike of the death of Tommy Beauchamp on the hotel phone, Singh had passed on the dates of the violent robberies of last year thought to be attributed to the Anchor Men. The train robbery was on May 14th and the Croydon jewellery shop was robbed on September 1st. It had to be more than a coincidence that the Anchor Men's switch to a more violent
modus operandi
began soon after Giblett had sponsored James recommendation to the De Keyser Hotel. The man had to be exerting some kind of influence over the gang. Pike contemplated the likelihood that this change might signify a power struggle or a hint of dissension, or something else that he might be able to exploit.

Pike telephoned Singh from a public house on the corner of Regent and Brook Street and waited, tapping on the mouthpiece while his assistant rummaged about in the mugshot albums. At last Singh found the photograph of Malcolm James and passed on his relevant criminal history. Pike memorised the information and put the phone down with a silent curse. He barely noticed the sting of the rain as he strode to the tram stop. That man James was not to be underestimated.

By the time Pike reached the Rag in Pall Mall he was soaked from the waist down, and his wet trousers chafed. The porter greeted him by name, which was quite a feat considering he had not passed through the club's door for over a year. Subscription was expensive and he'd been thinking of cancelling it. Now he was glad he hadn't. The club had the pulse of Empire about it and as such was a handy place for gathering information and making contacts. It was also one of the less pretentious clubs in town, an asset that was brought home by the porter's warm welcome.

The ex NCO looked him up and down in the entrance hall with a smile on his face and no hint of distaste or judgement. ‘Would Captain Pike care to borrow a suit of clothes? I think we might have some in your size, sir.'

‘Thank you, Sergeant Major Dodson,' Pike replied with a grateful smile. No, he would not cancel his subscription just yet.

Ten minutes later he emerged from the cloakroom in a borrowed dinner suit, damp boots polished by the boot boy, and a touch of pomade in his hair.

Pike made his way up to the evening room where Dodson told him Colonel Heathcote could be found at his usual position at the bar. Pike looked at his fob. He had half an hour before he was due to meet Callan. That should give him just enough time to discuss regimental matters with the Colonel.

‘Good evening, Colonel Heathcote, how are you, sir?'

His former CO was resplendent in mess dress of short dark blue jacket, silver braid and pale waistcoat. He had not changed much since they had last met, other than a bit of extra grey at the temples and in his moustache. He still looked fit, his long slim legs accentuated by the well-tailored double-striped trousers. His appearance came as a surprise to Pike. He'd heard the CO hadn't done much since the South African War except prop up the bar at the Rag.

‘Pike,' the colonel exclaimed, ‘delighted to see you. It's been a long time, what?' They shook hands. ‘I seem to remember you'd joined the police?' He looked Pike up and down through narrow eyes, as if searching for the changes such a drop in social standing would produce.

‘Yes, sir, not long after I'd resigned my commission.' Better get it out now, Pike decided, see how turbulent the regimental waters still were about his ‘disgrace'.

The Colonel's face tightened. ‘Oh, yes, over the South African concentration camp fiasco.'

‘Yes, sir,' Pike said, ‘but I have no regrets. The public had to be told. Someone had to speak out about what was really going on there, the near starvation of those Boer women and children, the disease . . .'

The Colonel held up his hand for Pike to stop; he'd heard enough. ‘It was a courageous move in hindsight, though at the time you did yourself no favours.'

‘No, sir.' But Pike hadn't sought the Colonel out to be to reminded of the scandal his letter to
The Times
had caused, condemning the treatment of the Boer civilians.

‘I hear there is some movement afoot, sir,' he said, steering the topic away from himself and getting to the point. ‘There is talk of mobilisation. I was wondering if you might know if there were any opportunities for someone like myself back in the Regiment.'

Heathcote made a humphing sound. ‘Possibly,' he said, guardedly. ‘You were a good officer until you caught it in the knee. Some said you may as well have caught it in the head — the injury made you go soft.'

Pike flexed his fingers. ‘If by that you are referring to my desire for justice and fair treatment for civilians, then you are correct, I have gone soft.'

The Colonel smiled. ‘Then the police force is probably still the best place for you, my boy.'

Pike felt the skin beneath his collar burn. ‘Justice is justice, from whichever way you look at it—'

‘Ah, Matthew, there you are.' Callan entered the evening room, catching Pike unawares. The commander had arrived earlier than expected. Perhaps that was just as well, Pike had been about to sabotage his cause with needless argument. Talk about being saved by the bell.

He regained his composure and introduced the commander of Special Branch (and former lieutenant of the Blue and Greys) to Colonel Heathcote.

After some polite small talk, Callan announced that he had booked a table in the dining room so they could eat while they talked business. Both men shook the Colonel's hand. The Colonel gripped Pike's for a second longer than he had Callan's. Pike noted the shine to his eye, the almost imperceptible nod. Perhaps he hadn't sabotaged himself after all.

‘I look forward to talking again, Captain Pike,' Heathcote said as Pike and Callan vacated the evening room. ‘“Death or Glory”, what?' he called from his position at the shiny bar.

*

‘“Death or Glory?” What was that all about?' Callan asked.

‘Our Regimental motto,' Pike replied, as they made their way downstairs to the magnificent Baroque-style dining room. The meeting with Heathcote had ended on a more positive note than Pike could have hoped. The Colonel's demeanour towards the end suggested he might have been forgiven for his so called ‘betrayal' after all. Until recent events he had no idea how much he'd been missing the army. The prospect of rejoining the Regiment sent a hot course of excitement surging through his veins. He made a conscious effort to dampen the obvious spring in his step as he walked by Callan's side to the table to which the waiter escorted them.

He didn't think Dody would mind his returning to the career of his youth, she might be delighted even. It would be a London posting — he'd done his time overseas — and their lives could only change for the better. And if, as rumours suggested, there was indeed a European war, she would surely understand his need to do his patriotic duty.

But he had no intention of handing in his resignation from the police force before he'd captured those responsible for the deaths associated with the theft of La Peregrina. The recovery of the necklace itself would be but a bonus. He imagined the Queen would have umpteen valuable necklaces, and the King was sure to be able to find her another bauble. As with his letter to
The Times
, it was justice for the victims that he pursued.

The conversation in the dining room, beneath a ceiling pressed with scenes of mythical battles, began with Pike's summary of the La Peregrina case. Pike was surprised by how much Callan already knew about the robbery. When he mentioned the involvement of Archie Slade and his subsequent death in the tenement, Callan nodded.

‘We've been watching him since he was granted
habeas corpus
back in 1912, preventing his extradition to France and re-incarceration on Devil's Island.'

‘What was he originally charged with?'

‘A Paris jewellery theft — nothing as ambitious as the La Peregrina, but someone was killed nevertheless. He should never have been given
HC
.' Callan took a sip of wine and shrugged. ‘But he had a skilled lawyer.'

Pike frowned as he made the connection. ‘Don't tell me — paid for by John Giblett?'

‘I expect so. Giblett probably wanted Slade on his team. Slade had a good reputation within the criminal fraternity, honour among thieves and all that. But you'd know more about Giblett than me, and that's one of the reasons I've called for this meeting. Isn't he the blaggard supposed to be credited with the stealing of the Ascot Cup?'

‘Indeed, he is. For a while he kept it at home and served his friends punch from it. By the time the police raided his house it was long gone, with no proof that it had ever been in his possession. His staff are well paid and loyal to the death. No one's ever had the motivation to grass him up. And why should they, when he gives them better protection than we ever could or would?'

Callan reached into his briefcase and placed a photograph on Pike's empty side plate. ‘Is that Giblett?' he asked.

Pike picked up the photograph and examined the image of the tall, good-looking man wearing tails and a top hat, and agreed that it was John Giblett. The location was De Keyser's Hotel and it was a recent picture; Pike could see the unmistakable Christmas tree glimmering in the background. A shadowy, bearded figure lurked nearby. The rigidity of the body in the off-the-rack suit was that of a man trying and failing to fit into surroundings to which he was unaccustomed.

‘And that's Archie Slade,' Pike commented, tapping the image.

Callan nodded. ‘I wasn't one hundred per cent sure it was Giblett he was meeting.'

‘It is. It looks like a fairly recent photograph. How on earth did you manage that?'

‘The long front desk is hollow. I secreted a man and camera equipment in there and he managed to get the lens through a discreet hole we bored into the panelling.'

‘Good heavens!' Pike exclaimed, impressed. ‘That's even more cunning than the van we set up for the suffragette rallies.'

‘I know, it's not easy to keep up with all the scientific changes these days.'

‘Giblett and Slade were possibly meeting to discuss the robbery,' Pike said. ‘Giblett's plots are always elaborate. He has a network of contacts with most only told the bare minimum of details. After years of criminal success the man seems to have almost unlimited funds and people he can call upon.'

Callan held up another photograph. ‘What about this man?' he asked, cracking the photograph with his fingernail.

Pike noted a dinner-suited man with a crooked nose shaking Archie Slade's hand. Again, the bejewelled Christmas tree shone in the background. This time the tree was being scrutinised by a woman. Pike recognised her from her autopsy photograph and felt his throat tighten.

‘That's Malcolm James,' he said. ‘And the woman behind him is Ursula Levi, the shop girl, also the jeweller's niece, who was killed in the robbery.' He thought of the plain, reserved girl, winkled out of her shell by the worldly Malcolm James — taken dancing, learning to trust him, to confide in him, to love him even. And then, if Mr Sachs's description of her killer was reliable, shot by him in the street, ‘like a dog', when she had served her purpose. God, what he'd give to get his hands on that Malcolm James.

‘The Anchor Men have changed their
modus operandi
since James joined them,' Pike added, attempting to hide the emotion in his voice. ‘Their crimes are becoming increasingly violent. I can't see the intense loyalty Giblett commands of his troops lasting if he keeps killing them off.'

‘What do we know of James?' Callan asked.

Pike thought back to the information Singh had given him earlier on the telephone. ‘You name it, he's done it: petty theft, illegal gambling, robbery with violence, the selling of illegal substances. Also worked as a debt collector for a loan shark. He was put away for coercion with violence — broke a fellow's legs with a sledgehammer. He's a sadist. They say he was laughing while he did it.' Pike paused, taking a sip of wine. ‘But tell me, Callan. I can understand Special Branch's interest in Archie Slade — you wanted him out of the country and kicked back to France. But he's dead now. Why the continued interest in the La Peregrina case, in the Anchor Men, in Giblett and James?'

‘You think I'm overstepping my Special Branch boundaries?'

Pike shrugged. ‘You tell me.'

The waiter brought them menus. Both men chose the soup and the pheasant.

‘The King was interested — not that he's interested now, I might add. His interest alone is reason enough to involve Special Branch . . .'

‘I sense a but.'

‘But, indeed. Something's also going on in your department, Pike, and that something needs to be investigated. By you.'