The Shadow of Treason (7 page)

Throughout the afternoon, Hunter’s colleagues at the Ministry found him preoccupied. And so did his wife at home that night. He was wrestling with conflicting emotions, his
conscience pulled in different directions. He’d long ago rebelled against the stern traditionalist values instilled by his father, a non-conformist preacher. But those values had never quite left him.

At ten o’clock he made the phone call that sealed his death warrant.

Jane Hart had found the reunion with her mother less
embarrassing
than she’d feared. She’d anticipated close questioning about recent events. And, while she knew her night with Adam must soon be public knowledge, she didn’t want to be the one to disclose it to her mum. Also, she mustn’t reveal where she was staying in London, or why.

On the train to Tilfleet, she’d concocted an elaborate story. The next production at the Windmill was to be much more
spectacular
, and she was to be heavily featured. So she was called to rehearsal every day at nine. Jane planned to talk long and loud about this theatrical excitement, hoping to swamp any awkward questions from her mother. But she needn’t have worried. Mrs Hart was all set to do some swamping on her own account. After clasping her daughter to her bosom for ten seconds, she launched into a tumultuous recital of all that had happened at the Cavendish since they last met.

Clearly she’d enjoyed being besieged by reporters from the national press. And as for the local paper, that would actually carry a full-page interview including her picture, specially taken by their photographer, a nice man but rather arty. On the downside, she’d now lost the use of two rooms, Jefferson’s and Adam’s: out of bounds while the police searched for clues. And then beds and furniture would have to be replaced before the rooms came back into service.

Reactions in the house had varied. Jack Hardstaff had been a tower of strength, helping her with insurance forms and giving general support. Nice old Mr Donner had offered legal advice. But other residents had been less helpful. Some had complained that she’d been taking in the wrong sort of guest: dubious characters
who allowed themselves to be murdered in their rooms. Mr Butler had actually given a week’s notice.

The police had shown her pictures of the two men who died at Southend and she’d recognized one of them as the stranger who’d called recently, asking about accommodation. It was all very mysterious. They’d also quizzed her at length about Adam Webber, probing for anything Mrs Hart knew about his
background
. On this subject she had few facts. But that hadn’t stopped her giving a generous flow of opinions and
speculations
. These she now retailed to her daughter.

Thus it was a long time before the question of Jane’s London activities came up. But eventually it was bound to. Mrs Hart expressed surprise that her daughter was going back to London that evening. This was Jane’s cue to tell her about the nine o’clock rehearsals, and embark on a lengthy and exuberant account of the new show, and her major part in it. She kept this going until Sergeant Monk came in and said that Inspector Jessett would like to see Miss Hart now. Jane then gratefully excused herself and followed the sergeant out.

The inspector had commandeered the lounge for his
interviews
. Emily Hart had offered the use of her office, but the inspector had foreseen the likelihood of her hovering in the vicinity. So he’d opted for the larger room, which was now closed to residents, except those summoned for questioning.

Jane found herself seated at a table opposite Inspector Jessett, while Sergeant Monk sat close by with his pencil and notepad.

Jessett began with a few pleasant enquiries about her welfare, and about life at the Windmill. He’d been there once, he said, to see the comedian John Tilley, a favourite of his on the radio. It was a permanent source of amusement to Jane and her friends that men always claimed they went to the Windmill to see the comics: it appeared that the presence of beautiful girls with very few clothes on had nothing to do with it.

Keen to keep on the right side of the police, Jane went along with this pretence, and told Jessett that the Windmill currently had a new comedian, Vic Dudley, who seemed likely to achieve
the same success as Tilley and other past luminaries. She also mentioned the possibility of complimentary tickets. Would Jessett and Monk be interested?

Avoiding over-eagerness, the officers indicated that they might well be. ‘Very funny, that Dudley,’ said the inspector. ‘I always enjoy him on the wireless.’

Jane said she’d see what she could do, and gave them a charming smile. Inwardly, she was trying to decide at what point, and in what manner, she should make the big statement that had to be made. She decided it would save time and reduce awkwardness if she volunteered it at the first opportunity. This came quickly. The preliminaries over, the inspector said, ‘Now then, Miss Hart, I want you to tell us all you know about Maurice Cooper’s death.’

This was the moment, and Jane spoke in a firm clear voice. ‘The most important thing I can tell you, Inspector, is that Adam Webber didn’t kill him. I know that for a fact.’

The inspector leaned forward. ‘Really? How can you be so sure?’

‘Because Adam was with me in my room all that night.’

The inspector was silent for a moment. Sergeant Monk looked up from his notes and studied Jane with new interest.

‘I see,’ said Jessett finally. ‘That’s certainly something we needed to know.’

‘I’m hoping it’s something my mother doesn’t need to know. She’s rather old-fashioned.’

Jessett was still assessing this new revelation. ‘Yes, yes, I can see that. Of course, when evidence is given in court, it’s hard to see how it can be kept quiet. But we shan’t be rushing to tell Mrs Hart, unless it becomes necessary.’

‘Thank you. I really will try to get those complimentary tickets.’

The inspector allowed himself a small smile. ‘We shall wait patiently, Miss Hart. Mind you, I’m not sure that a Windmill show will be good for my sergeant’s blood pressure.’

The sergeant looked pained. His moment of levity over,
Jessett stared hard at Jane as he asked, ‘And when was the last time you saw Mr Webber?’

‘When he left me the following morning, to go to work.’

Jessett maintained his stare. ‘You haven’t seen him since?’

‘No.’

The inspector sighed. ‘Well, I think you’d better give us an account of all the events of that night, from the time Mr Webber came home.’

With her secret now revealed, Jane was happy to tell the story in detail. She explained how they’d gone to sort out Jefferson’s things. Then she told them about the confrontation with Cooper, and how they’d then gone on to finish the job.

‘What happened then, Miss Hart?’

‘We went downstairs and had hot drinks. Mum’s managed to get hold of a jar of Horlicks.’

Mugs of Horlicks struck Sergeant Monk as an odd prelude to a night of passion. But it occasioned no surprise to Inspector Jessett: he’d been married for twenty years. He prompted her gently. ‘And then you both went to your room?’

‘I’ve had a lot of stress in the last few weeks,’ said Jane. ‘And I was still grieving for Mark, Mark Jefferson. Adam was comforting me. He’s very kind and gentle, you know.’

‘The policeman who went to arrest him on the pier might not agree with you.’

‘Well, Adam was terrified, wasn’t he? He thought they were out to kill him.’

‘Did he? How do you know that, Miss Hart? Have you spoken to him since? A phone call, perhaps?’

Jane had realized her mistake as soon as the words were uttered, and she’d had a moment to recover. ‘No, no, of course not. He’s disappeared, hasn’t he. But the story was in all the papers. Some people were chasing him. Obviously, he couldn’t think straight.’

The inspector allowed a heavy pause to elapse. Then he said, ‘You do realize, don’t you, that withholding evidence from the police is a criminal offence?’

Jane was back in control of herself. ‘Yes, of course, Inspector. I’ll do all I can to help.’

‘Good. I think that would be best. Let’s go back to the hot drinks downstairs. You’re saying you and Mr Webber were together from then until he left in the morning?’

‘Yes.’

‘So what time did he leave your room?’

‘Around six. He had to be at work early.’

‘But he must have gone to his own room to collect the things he needed.’

This was a tricky one, for which Jane had failed to prepare herself. There was a brief pause while she considered her options. Then she decided that from now on she would tell the truth wherever possible.

‘Yes, he did,’ she said.

‘And did he find his room already wrecked?’

The die was cast now. ‘Yes,’ she said.

‘That’s extraordinary. He finds his room smashed up, but he doesn’t report it to anyone. He just goes off to work, as if nothing had happened.’

‘He realized that, if people knew the damage was done by then, they’d know he hadn’t slept in his own room. He wanted to protect my reputation.’

‘Hm. Well, that makes a sort of sense, I suppose.’

‘He definitely didn’t wreck his own room.’

The inspector ventured another wry smile. ‘I may not be Sherlock Holmes, Miss Hart, but I’d already reached that conclusion.’

Then came the next crisis point. The inspector looked steadily into Jane’s eyes. ‘And you’ve had absolutely no contact with Mr Webber since six o’clock yesterday morning?’

Jane’s nerve held. ‘No. I went up to London mid-morning, to do my show at the theatre, and I stayed in town overnight.’

‘Why was that?’

‘I’ve just started being called for 9 a.m. rehearsals.’

‘Really? They make you work hard at the Windmill.’

‘Well, yes. Especially when we’re preparing a new show.’

‘So you’ll be staying in town tonight.’

‘That’s right. I have to.’

‘Please give Sergeant Monk your London address and phone number, in case we need to contact you.’

Fortunately, Jane had anticipated this one.

‘I don’t know where I’ll be staying until I get back to town. I have to go backstage at the end of the show and see who can put me up. Best to contact me at the theatre. I’ll give your sergeant the Windmill backstage number.’

Sergeant Monk’s eyes lit up, and Inspector Jessett seemed satisfied. There were a few more questions about Adam’s recent behaviour, and then the ordeal was over, apart from a final injunction.

‘Miss Hart, if at any time you became aware of Adam Webber’s whereabouts, you would let us know, wouldn’t you?’

‘Yes, of course, Inspector.’

‘Good. Remember he’s a wanted suspect, and anyone who helps him evade arrest will be charged with obstructing the police.’

‘Yes. I understand.’

‘Thank you, that’s all for now. Don’t forget that number for my sergeant.’

Jane supplied the number and left the room, trying not to look too relieved. Hating herself for her action, she avoided her mother, to escape further questioning, and sought out George Fowler. She found him alone in the scullery, drinking tea.

Now it was Jane’s turn to be interrogator. She weathered an initial burst of opinions from Fowler, who was still getting huge entertainment from the Tilfleet drama. He had many theories about Cooper’s death and associated events. These ranged from sexual jealousy, via black market rivalry, to wild plots involving German agents and collaborators. Possibly even a German
U-boat
, lurking in the Thames.

Jane heard him out patiently, and then began putting her questions.

‘George, I believe the simple solution is usually the right one.’

‘Yeah,’ said George. ‘I was wondering if Cooper and Jefferson done a robbery, and then fell out over the loot.’

‘I suppose it’s possible,’ Jane conceded. ‘But I think your black market idea’s more likely. Cooper was in on that, wasn’t he? He was always offering me nylons, and he seemed to have Scotch whisky for sale. D’you know anything about the local rackets, George?’

Fowler tapped the side of his nose with a grubby finger. ‘Yeah, I know a lot, miss. But I’m risking my life if I talk about it.’

‘Anything you say would be safe with me, George. I’d never let on I heard it from you. And there’s a couple of quid in it, if you tell me anything useful.’

In George Fowler’s mind, prudence grappled with an innate enthusiasm for cash, plus a relish for showing off his
knowledge
. It was an unequal struggle.

‘All right, I’ll trust you. Look, I’ve never been in on it myself. I don’t touch nothing dodgy. But there’s this pub out on the Fleet Road, right? Called The Bull. The word is, you can get a lot of things there you can’t get at Woolworth’s.’

‘The Bull.’

‘Yeah. The guv’nor’s a bloke called Harry Paynter. His brother Reggie’s an ex-boxer. They’re both in with a gang who’ll do anything for money, and quite a lot for small change. Right pack of villains they are. They got an enforcer called Sid Garrett; very handy with a razor.’

‘My God! And you think Cooper was involved with that lot!’

‘He’d never have been part of the gang. They’re all hard men. Cooper was a jelly. But I reckon he did business with them. He was often out at The Bull.’

‘How often?’

‘Maybe two or three times a week. And, like you said, he could always get things. Booze and nylons and petrol and stuff. If you could pay over the odds for it. Which I couldn’t, of course.’

‘Do the police know about The Bull?’

‘I reckon they must do. But they’ve never managed to pin anything on the Paynters – they’re smart. Also the word is, one of the bobbies at the local nick is a mate of Sid Garrett. Seems they were at school together. Anyway, I reckon if the Bull mob don’t trouble the coppers, the coppers won’t trouble them.’

‘That’s not right, is it?’

‘I dunno. To my mind, the law’s got better things to do than go chasing black marketeers. I mean, they got to be watching out for Nazi spies, ain’t they? And saboteurs. Don’t rock the boat, miss. We got enough troubles here already.’

‘Whatever happens, I won’t involve you, George. And thanks for the information.’ Jane rose, handed George two pound notes, and left the scullery. George poured himself a fourth cup of tea, and put in three lumps of sugar. Mrs Hart didn’t take sugar, so George got her ration. Jane said a hasty farewell to her mother, explaining that she had to catch the six o’clock train. Then she hurried off to the station, thinking about the hard men who’d do anything for money.