A Spider in the Cup (Joe Sandilands Investigation) (30 page)

“I’ll need his permission to transfer the case to the Met. As the perpetrators are most likely to have come down from London, he won’t object.”

“Go ahead, Joe,” Kingstone said. “Look—I’ll stay here with her until they can send an ambulance. I’d like a quiet moment.” He sat down on the back seat and took one of the dead hands in his.

Joe sighed and prepared to object. This was highly irregular. But then—irregularity had seemed to be the pattern from the start of this sorry mess.

“That’s well understood, old man. Rejoin us whenever you feel like it. Let me know when they get here and I’ll instruct the crew.”

With a thin smile, Kingstone handed the keys back to Joe. “Better have these back. Wouldn’t want you to worry.”

L
YDIA LEFT HIM
with the telephone in the hall. “Get hold of the Chief and make your arrangements. I’ll go into the drawing room and fill Marcus in on the latest occurrence. Oh, dear,
he’ll be on to his second glass of champagne by now. I shall have to sober him. And tell cook to hold back lunch.”

All was quiet and calm when Joe joined them, his requirements graciously acceded to by the capable Surrey officer. Marcus had laid out the objects dredged from the pockets of the gunmen on a table and made a list of each man’s possessions. The handbag, untouched, was standing ready for his inspection.

“The hat, Joe,” Lydia moved straight in. “It looks like a man’s but it was hers. The label inside is Aspinal’s ladies department. Like the rest of her outfit—smart but sporting. Just what a cosmopolitan woman would think right for a trip out into the country. Very practical actually, like all Chanel’s things. You can move about easily in them. Run if you have to. If you’re given the chance.”

“One thing before you get started on the lady’s bag …” Marcus was eager to speak. “Here’s a puzzle. May not be anything to it but I’ve learned over the years to cultivate a suspicious mind. This here page from the paper you took from Onslow’s inside pocket …”

“The racing sheet? I’ll look at that later.”

“No, no … now might be better. It’s more than it seems. It is indeed about racing but it’s one of the back pages torn out of this morning’s
Daily Mirror
. Early edition. Out on the London streets from six
A.M
. Good reporting they do, on sports. It was the headline that caught my eye. Lord Astor’s nag—crème brûlée, if you please—was beaten in yesterday’s Manchester Cup. Surprise that! I had a fiver on him! And then, I was half way down the article when I noticed it. Turn the paper sideways and you’ll see someone’s written something in ink in the margin. A note to himself by Onslow? I don’t think so. Take a look, Joe.”

“Black ink. Woman’s writing, would you say? What do we make of this?
Odette invites Siegfried to join her for Act 4 of original version.”

“Last act of
Swan Lake
?” Lydia suggested. “But why write on the sports page? They have an Entertainments section, don’t they?”

“Any other single sheet torn out would have asked a question. Called for a closer inspection. Racing tips found in the pocket of a London thug hardly merits a second glance. As we demonstrated! It’s just our good luck that Marcus was intrigued by the article … Good Lord! He was going to show this to Kingstone. He’d recognise the writing and understand the reference—she was dancing the part of Odette when he first clapped eyes on her in New York. He’d see from the date that she was still alive—at least she was early this morning—and know she was out there waiting for him. It’s an identification and an assignation. Both.”

“What’s the significance of ‘original version’ do you suppose? How many versions can there be?”

The men turned to Lydia.

“Lots! Some have happy endings, some tragic. Choreographers
will
keep playing with the story. Tchaikovsky wrote his original version in eighteen seventy-seven. His brother changed the ending in the eighteen ninety-five revival.”

“The first one, Lyd, how does it end? The one we’re talking about?”

“Happily. Odette is a princess who’s been turned into a white swan by day, under the spell of a wicked sorcerer—Von Rothbart …”

“A German gentleman, would that be?” Joe asked.

“Probably. This was straight after their invasion of France, remember. Not the last but the eighteen seventy invasion. The Franco-Prussian business. Paris had been besieged, Parisians starved to death, the city pounded to rubble for weeks by German artillery. ‘Big Bertha,’ I believe their ghastly cannon was called. Bogeymen and villains and large bossy ladies all acquired Prussian names in storytelling circles.”

“Even Conan Doyle was at it,” Marcus offered. “Who can forget his villainous adventuress Fraulein Adler and her association with Wilhelm Gottsreich something or other von Ormstein!”

“I can, for one,” Joe said. “Get on, Lydia.”

“Well there’s no duelling scars or lederhosen on display in the ballet,” Lydia pressed on. “It’s pure fairytale. A prince catches sight of Odette by the lakeside with the other bewitched swans and lingers long enough to watch her transform back into her human form after sunset. They fall in love. Unfortunately, at a ball, the prince is tricked into a flirtation with the Black Swan, the evil daughter of Von Rothbart—Odile—who is her double. The black and the white swans are danced by the same ballerina and, of course, are never on stage at the same moment. Just as the sorcerer believes he has everyone in his power, the prince pulls himself together, returns to the lake, finds a despairing Odette, apologises and is forgiven. He fights Von Rothbart and tears his wings off, so destroying his powers. He marries Odette and they live happily ever after.”

“That’s it?” Marcus was expecting more.

“Well, it’s the dancing that’s important.”

“What happens in the other versions?” Joe asked.

“They both die.”

Joe glanced at the door. “No need to speculate further on this—we can ask Kingstone what he makes of it when he joins us but I’m thinking these few words are more than an identification. They would have meant a great deal to him.”

“Oh, yes. It’s a proposal of marriage,” Lydia confirmed.

“It was bait. Best quality bait. He would have taken it.” Marcus said shrewdly.

“Right—the bag?”

Joe opened it and began to set out the contents one by one on the table. “Wallet … thirty pounds in there. Change purse … 
a few half crowns and sixpences for tips. Two handkerchiefs, unused … lipstick … powder compact. Ah, fountain pen.”

He unscrewed the cap and, anticipating his need, Marcus pushed a newspaper towards him. Joe scribbled a few words and compared them with the ones on the racing page they’d found on Onslow.

“Same ink, same nib.” He put the pen with the other objects.

“Last but not least—last because it’s the heaviest and it’s sunk to the bottom.”

He produced a blue-steel revolver.

“Isn’t that the same as …?” Lydia began in surprise.

“Third one I’ve seen today,” Joe confirmed with a groan. “Has someone opened a franchise for personal self-defence items in London? Is someone flooding the market with undetectable side-arms? Sleek and chic … this season’s armpit accessory?”

“I gave her that gun two years ago,” said Kingstone from the doorway. “The company was about to tour in South America and I thought she could always do with a bit of protection. I think she used it twice.”

“Well she hasn’t used it recently.” Joe’s fingers were busy with the gun. “Full clip.”

Kingstone joined them, first announcing that the ambulance had arrived to pick up the body and the men were now awaiting Joe’s instructions. A local police officer, Constable Brightwell, was in the hall with similar expectations. P.C. Brightwell, he reported, had cycled in with information he was eager to pass on.

Joe hurried out to see them all, grumbling. “I don’t want to think about what Rippon’s going to have to say to me. I send him three bodies in two days … at the weekend …”

The senator watched him go and turned to Lydia with an indulgent smile. “Does your brother ever stop?”

“I’d pull his plug out if I knew where he kept it. Drives you mad! But, you, Cornelius … I can imagine the hell you’re going through so I’ll ask you just once—are you going to be all right?”

“A question I can’t possibly answer,” he told her with an air of calm. “But the asking is timely! I’m okay. Better than you might expect. I’ve been metaphorically feeling my own pulse. I’ve done some quiet thinking out there, asked some questions, got some answers. A bit of a one-sided conversation you’re going to say, but not so.” Finally a grin broke through. “I’ve reset my watch, Lydia.” He put his old army timepiece on the table. “You were right—it just needed to be wound up … and not over-wound. See—it’s giving the right time. My time. I’ve run up another very long hill, I’m still alive and kicking, and there’s just one more thing I need to know.”

He waited for their looks of polite enquiry and then said ruefully: “Are you fellas ever going to offer me lunch?”

“Y
ou’re very good at this, Cornelius,” Lydia commented as Kingstone swooped and removed the last of her counters. “I hardly ever play but I can usually beat the girls.” She began to clear the pieces off the board. “Joe’s not bad but our best player is Marcus. You’ll have to go up against him to call yourself house Morris champion. But with Joe doing his interrogation in Guildford and Marcus striding about the grounds with the inspector looking for tyre marks, you’re stuck with me, I’m afraid. Shall we play another round?”

“You make all your guests play?”

“Oh, yes. I usually choose the moment after a heavy lunch and a glass of wine or two—as now—when they’re not feeling too sharp! Or distracted and worried. All things considered, I thought I must stand a fighting chance with you! It’s said to be a good test of character.”

“Well, I warn you—I like to win. No quarter given for sex or age and I’ve had practice at this game.”

“So I see! But so has Marcus. He jolly well ought to be good at it! He grew up here and there’s a game board cut out right there on the village green. He’s been playing with the local lads since he was big enough to hop between the holes. Not many of the green games left these days, sadly. They’ve mostly been removed
along with the stocks and the pillories, the bowling alleys and all the other fun things. No one needs them now there’s a picture palace in Guildford and a wireless in every cottage.”

“On the green? You mean carved right out of the turf?”

“Oh, yes. From time immemorial! You find them marked on any smooth surface from the backs of Roman roof tiles to the tops of Victorian pub tables. The first record of our village game is fourteen hundred and something. The greens were gathering places, centres for entertainment as well as public punishment and announcing the news. In
A Midsummer Night’s Dream
, Titania grumbles that ‘the Nine Men’s Morris is filled up with mud.’ They had terrible weather in those days as well.”

“It’s been played in some strange places. Wherever men had time on their hands, strengths to try, schemes to make in discreet surroundings.”

“Yes. Men. Women disguise their gossip and chicanery under layers of harmless sewing. Now, chess is totally absorbing but quilting and Nine Men’s Morris are not demanding enough to distract attention from the main business of the day. You can look innocent and occupied on the surface when your mind and your tongue may be busy with any kind of roguery. Marcus can play blindfold while reciting the
Encyclopaedia Britannica
,” she finished proudly.

“You’re not tempting me to a showdown with the master, Lydia.” Kingstone laughed. “It’s not a game to be despised, though. It’s a game of strategy. If you’ll excuse my pointing it out, it was a mistake to start off by concentrating your pieces in one section of the board. It feels more secure to you, perhaps, but it’s much more effective to space them out strategically around the board.”

Lydia nodded. “I’m always too eager to get my mill going! Three counters in a row. Three strong men. That’s you, Marcus and Joe! I go straight for it.”

“Right.” Kingstone placed two white counters back on the board in a line pointing from the six o’clock position to the centre and then a third on the row above and offset by one place. “Look here—when you move this stray back in line, you’ve made a mill of three and you’re in a position to get rid of one of your opponent’s men. Next move, you just slide the same counter back out of line, then you replace it when you can and cull another black one. Just go on like that, dodging back and forth, until you’ve cleared the board. You establish your strong position, put your head down and keep going. It’s not thrilling but it’s effective.”

“Who makes the most challenging opponents, Cornelius? Clearly not women—after two rounds of shuffling to and fro, we’re bored stiff and looking about for socks to darn. How about … New York bankers? Birmingham industrialists? German economists?”

For a moment he was startled. “Did …? Who …?”

“Joe put me up to it. He told me about your adventures yesterday at the Victoria. The lunch you attended given by those estimable people—the Pilgrims. I was telling him what good work they do for some of the women’s charities I’m involved with, and he mentioned what you did afterwards. You shouldn’t expect to hide these things from Joe, you know. I stopped trying when I was sixteen. He always finds out what you’re up to.”

Kingstone greeted this casual, almost teasing, confidence with perceptible shock but his voice when he replied was measured. “Joe uses you, Lydia. He had no right to put you into danger. First by bringing me here. Then by telling you all this. Because danger’s what you’re in. Up to your neck. And I’ve brought it down on you.” He glared at the game on the table in front of him. “Forget all this nonsense! No more Morris! This is a distraction. A sideshow.” He folded up the board, scooped all the counters angrily into one large palm and replaced them in their bag.

With the action, his voice lost its gritty directness, its swift
allusive expression, and took on a senatorial authority. “It is a pseudo-cultural caprice indulged in by men with much to hide and much to lose. It’s a mask for the activities of a group of powerful men. Men who sip brandy and move their counters with a manicured forefinger in a cynical salute to what they fancy to be an endearing echo from their past. But the game they play has little to do with those sweaty, penniless adventurers who spent long hours confined aboard a little ship—men trying to preserve their sanity in a hostile and uncertain world. The players hide their purpose within the body of a charitable and hallowed institution as the parasitic wasp buries its eggs, unresisted, in an unsuspecting fat caterpillar. A cover—quirky but apparently harmless—for meetings which are anything but innocent. These constitute an intensive exchange of views and formulation of plans by the members of a highly selected élite. Things are said face to face that may not be spoken over wires or even put in diplomatic bags. Decisions made at their meetings are carried unanimously, are final and binding. And always expedited.”