To Track a Traitor, page 22
“When is this rubbish going to be over?” he asked by way of greeting. “I didn’t fight in this bloody war to camp at my wife’s harridan of a sister’s house.”
“Hello, Mr. Watler. We do appreciate your patience in this. Won’t be too long now,” Sims said breezily, sweeping past the farmer with Darling in tow. “This gentleman’s come all the way over from Canada to see your oast house.”
“If I’d known it was going to be all this trouble, I would have buried her under the foundation!” Watler called after them.
Inside, it was evident that clearing out had begun in preparation for the rebuilding of the cottage. Piles of charred and splintered boards were heaped against the wall. Wooden boxes were filled with red roof tiles, and all the doors had been removed. It was toward one of the empty frames in a curved wall that Sims was now pointing. Seeing Darling looking at the strange shape of the house, he said, “That’s the kiln. Heat goes up into the tower where the hops are laid out.” He pointed upward. They went inside, though with most of the roof missing, it might just as well have been outside.
Sims walked a few paces and stopped, pointing at the floor, which appeared to be tamped-down earth. “Here’s where one of my men found the bullet. It’s hard to know what happened, of course, but this would be consistent with, as you suggest, the woman being knocked over and then being shot. It’s so close to the door, let’s assume she answered the door to her killer, though he could have pushed his way in, I suppose.”
Part of the floor above had been punctured by, Darling assumed, bombs, and a joist with a section of flooring from above hung down precariously, letting in light from the open floor above. He looked at the bullet hole and imagined the frightened woman backing up, pleading for her life. He was brought away from this grim picture by Sims.
“According to our impatient friend out there, he and his lads were clearing out the rubble and found her skeleton tucked behind the kiln just here. Somehow the tower wasn’t damaged much, so she stayed put, more or less untouched. There was a broken and very rusted lock among the rubble. It’s possible that had originally been on the door.”
“Why would she have been here?”
“That’s the problem, you see. Apparently, an old party who died in 1910 owned the place. Hadn’t any descendants, so the place sat empty. The village council got hold of it, turned the storage area into a little living space, and let it out as a holiday cottage until it was damaged in a fire in 1917. Obviously, they didn’t find her and must have abandoned any project to rebuild after the fire. Then it was bombed in ’43. That did for it. Watler out there got it for a song.”
“She could have come here on holiday. If she was in her uniform, it must have been sometime during the war. Did she come alone, or with her killer? You’d change into civilian clothes on holiday, so she’d not had time to do even that.”
“We haven’t had much time to go into all that. Now you’re here, maybe you can throw some light on it. Canadians would have records of her going missing, I suppose, if she’d disappeared from her post and whatnot. I thought the family might want her back. We could arrange to have the remains repatriated if family in Canada want her.” He kicked at a broken roof tile on the floor. “Not much hope of solving this at this late date, but she’s worth whatever we can find out. And then she might as well go home.”
“Let me call my men back in Nelson. I’ll get them to track down what they can, and provide you with, I hope, an address to send the notice to. She has some family. Her husband’s brother is the one who was so anxious for me to come here and put it to bed. He’s of the opinion that you’ll never find who killed her and that she should just be buried in one of your local military cemeteries. I assume you have cemeteries that have in the past accommodated Canadian service people.”
“Brookwood in Surrey will do. Very nice place. I wonder that he’s so anxious to have done.”
“I do too. He suggested he was worried about a scandal if the thing drags on. He apparently didn’t think much of her. Can I take you to lunch? You can tell me what you think.”
“You certainly can.” Sims walked over to Watler, who was watching them with the exhausted stub of a cigarette hanging out of his mouth, one hand in his pocket. “All yours. Thanks for holding off.”
The farmer humphed his reply and threw his cigarette on the ground.
* * *
lane had started her day at loose ends. She’d hit a wall in her search for Diana. If Diana hadn’t been working for the soe, and if it were true that Hogarth knew nothing about her, and Marisa knew nothing about where she might be, she wasn’t sure what more she could do. Over her cup of tea and boiled egg at a tearoom, she tried to let her mind loose to just follow its own inclination. All it did was think about when she could be on her own in a good country hotel with Darling, but back in a time when she didn’t have any worries about her sister. Disgusted with herself for trusting her mind to come up with anything useful, she finished her breakfast and found herself wandering toward Horse Guards Road. She realized she was unconsciously turning her steps back to the War Office. Perhaps this was her mind delivering its idea. Instead of stopping, she walked onto Westminster Bridge, stopping in the middle as she had always done on any bridge in London, to look along as much of the river as she could see on either side of the bridge. She loved the spreading, regal magnificence of the Thames, seen from this vantage, going its own eternal way, as if oblivious of all the history that unfolded along its banks across the span of two thousand years. With a sigh, she continued across and stopped on the other side, looking back across the river.
She knew, she realized. There was no doubt whatever. Diana had been in some sort of intelligence role. And someone in that building knew about it. That is why she had found herself heading back to the War Office. If Hogarth really didn’t know Diana or Tremaine, someone did. Who could she see in that warren of offices who would tell her anything? She had the tenuous connection with Major Hogarth from her dealings with her the year before, but the major certainly owed her nothing. Still, it was all she had. She remembered the wooden expression on Hogarth’s face when she looked at the names, the way she’d shaken her head. Hogarth was practised. Lane knew that expression. She’d used it herself many times. It’s what she’d have done in Hogarth’s shoes. With a shakily confident determination, she went back up onto the Queenstown Road and across the bridge to try again.
“Full marks for persistence, Miss Winslow,” Major Hogarth said to her when she had offered Lane the chair opposite the desk for the second time in as many days. “I still don’t see in what way I can help you. We, I, have never heard of your sister. She was not involved with any organization through us.” She hesitated. “I can say this with certainty because after you left yesterday, I did ask someone who might know, who used to have connections with some people in the soe that I might not have. I’m afraid, as I’d suspected, that I came up with nothing.”
“Thank you for trying, Major Hogarth. The problem, really, is that I’m not sure if I believe that. That is to say, you yourself may not know about her, but someone does. Did I tell you our father was a spy? He died in ’43 in a German prison. He, like my sister and I, spoke perfect German. I used my Russian, I think I told you last year, in a minor translating role, but based on what I have seen, my sister would have been involved more deeply.”
“No, I don’t think you told me that.”
“The thing is, Major, I know from a friend of my sister that Diana was recruited in South Africa, probably by this Major Alex Tremaine, of whom you have evidently not heard either. I wonder if you know of someone called Fairfax?” Lane didn’t wait for Hogarth to answer, though she noted the major had glanced at her watch. She took a deep breath, contemplated the major for a moment, and then continued. “I haven’t met this man, Fairfax, but I was at his house because his daughter Marisa is the girl my sister went out to Africa with in ’39. They stayed with an uncle, James Fairfax. I found my visit to the house quite interesting. Very large flat off Russell Square. That was a prestigious address when I was here during the war. I assume it still is. The funny thing is, the flat was nearly empty with only the barest smattering of furniture. Marisa told me her father had lost all his money, had sold everything off. It’s not my business what a man has done with what might well have been a fortune, but in a situation like this, I find it all of possible interest. Another thing she told me was that Diana had come by to see her and stayed for about ten days, and then a few days ago she left quite suddenly. Marisa told me her father had been unhappy that Diana had come around. I should have thought that if Fairfax was known to anyone in this vast edifice, they might not know he’d lost all his money, and they might be concerned about what it might mean. But of course, if you don’t know Fairfax, it’s all moot.” Lane smiled and rose, pulling on her gloves. “I must be off, but I thought you ought to know. Good afternoon.”
This time Major Hogarth did not call up to Fairfax. She waited until Lane would be well out of the building. Then she rose, pulling her tunic down firmly, and went upstairs to find him.
“Had you thought of knocking?” Fairfax asked in his soft, avuncular voice when she walked into his office. She could see he’d moved a bottle unhurriedly into a bottom drawer of his oak desk. Broke and drinking, she thought. Splendid.
“I’ve had a visit from Lane Winslow again. She is being persistent. It’s clear she has not accepted my assertion that I don’t know of her sister. And she has done enough looking now that she knows her sister worked for us. I can hardly tell her after all my denials that her sister is, in fact, a murderer and a traitor!”
Fairfax leaned back and looked at Hogarth. He disliked her. Too mannish. And he disliked women doing this sort of work. He smiled. “This might work to our advantage. Maybe she can find her bloody sister and save us the trouble. Diana’s sister came to visit my daughter, did I tell you that? My daughter cleverly got the name of her hotel and of the friends her husband is staying with.” He’d put some people on her, see where she went. “I’ll keep an eye on her.”
“What if she picks out your tails? She worked for us during the war.”
“Nonsense. You worry too much. My people are excellent. What did she do for us?”
“Translation. Something to do with Russian.”
“There you are, you see? She’s at a hotel called the Imperial and has friends in Marylebone.”
Only when Hogarth was making her way down the stairs to her own office did she wonder why she’d lied to Fairfax about what Lane Winslow had done during the war. She tried not to relish the little thrill of pleasure she got when she lied to him. If they really wanted to find Diana Winslow quickly, they ought to give her sister an added impetus.
Chapter Eighteen
darling looked at his watch. It would be four in the afternoon in Nelson. He’d returned to Scotland Yard in the morning and had been given a phone and permission to make a transatlantic call to get any information he could about the dead woman. O’Brien finally answered after nine rings. “Nelson Police. O’Brien speaking.”
“About time. I need some information. Could you get one of those bone-idle men to find out anything they can about Francine Elizabeth Renshaw, née MacDonald, born in the ’90s probably. Nelson girl. You might have to send Ames to the library to muck about in the old papers. He likes that sort of thing.”
“Hello to you, sir. Neither man is all that idle at the moment. They managed to find the body of Benjamin Arden. God knows how. I wouldn’t expect either one of ’em to find a red barn in an empty field.”
“Have they, by Jove,” Darling said. This was interesting. He would have put any money on Arden turning up as having murdered someone. “Drowned?”
“No, sir. Respectably shot in the back in an abandoned cabin. Big roll of two hundred dollars still on his person. The rucksack full of clothing and revolver he took with him missing.”
“Well, I’ll be. I wonder if he was shot with his own gun,” Darling said thoughtfully, and then returned to proper long-distance mode. “Well, it’ll give them something to keep busy with. I do need my information as soon as.”
“Right you are, sir. I might undertake it myself.”
Will wonders never cease, Darling didn’t say. “Thank you, Sergeant. You can wire me at Scotland Yard, attention Chief Inspector Sims, when you’ve got something. I’ll call you back. It might as well be on their dime, not ours.”
“Sir.”
Darling hung up and sat for some moments staring at the contours of the black telephone. He and Lane had met for dinner the evening before, and he had found the whole exercise unsatisfactory indeed. She had been worried about her sister, and didn’t, she said, see how they would have time for anything until she was found. He’d asked her what her next step would be in the search, and she’d said she wasn’t at all sure, and that she’d have to phone her grandmother to let her know she’d be longer. She hadn’t been sure how she would tell her grandparents that it was going to be nearly impossible to find Diana, without giving them any details.
Darling now felt himself at loose ends. Sims was off following up some other case, and he had to wait to learn what he could from O’Brien’s search. He wondered if he ought to go off on a lonely touristic exploration. Perhaps the Tower of London. Or perhaps he should ask to be shown the remains of Francine Elizabeth MacDonald Renshaw. Both prospects were depressing. He chose Francine.
* * *
after her unproductive visit to Hogarth—though she hoped some sort of dropped seed would sprout along the way—Lane sought out a phone box and placed a call to Scotland. “Oh, Lanette, darling! I’m so glad to hear your voice. She’s telephoned us!”
Momentarily nonplussed, Lane was about to say, Who? “Do you mean Diana?” she asked.
“Yes, of course I mean Diana! I was so relieved, I can’t tell you. She was absolutely knocked over to learn you were here. I’m sure she can’t wait to see you. I told her all about you going down to London to see her friend to try to find her. I must say, she sounded very upset indeed that you were going to all that trouble.”
“Where is she? Is she going back to you?”
“Oh.” Her grandmother hesitated. “You know, she didn’t say. Well, I’m sure she’ll be home soon. She did say that while you are in the south, you ought to visit a place called . . . now wait a minute, I’ve written it down. Sounds like something to do with chickens. Here it is, Cuckmere. I’ve never heard of it, but she says it’s very nice at this time of year, especially just now. That’s all she was able to say, I’m afraid, because she said someone was wanting to use the phone box.”
Lane looked behind her and saw that she too was occupying a phone box a very impatient young man wanted to use. She gave him a little wave and a smile, to which he replied with a smirk and a wink, and she turned back. “How’s Ganf?”
“Well, he’s quite troubled by all this to-ing and fro-ing. He’d really like you all back, please. Of course, he’s more cranky because he only gets one digestive with his tea.”
“Give him my love. I’ve a very impatient young man fidgeting outside waiting for the telephone. I’ll call again when . . .” When what? “When I can. And tell Ganf we’ll all be there soon.”
“No need to hurry on my account, luv,” the young man said when she stepped out onto the pavement. “Why not wait for me? I’ll show you a nice time.” He flicked the remnants of his cigarette into the drain and grinned at her.
She gave him a wan smile and walked briskly away. She considered going to her hotel, but the prospect of spending any time in the poky little room with its basement window was unappealing. She had to think. She made her way along Sloane Street to Grosvenor Gardens and found an unoccupied bench. She took a deep breath and put her handbag beside her. There were not many people, but the weather was turning, so perhaps people were staying in. She watched an older man with his umbrella over his arm taking his constitutional. Londoners were never far from their umbrellas. What did Diana’s message mean? Diana had not gone to her keepers, whoever they were, at any spy agency. She had phoned their grandmother. And why Cuckmere? That at least was obvious: It was so obscure a place that it could only mean that she was there, or meant to be there, and wanted Lane to be as well, and soon.
By degrees she calmed down enough to form a plan. She would go to the hotel and change her shoes and collect a couple of things, then go to Hatchards to buy a map, in hopes of finding out where Cuckmere was, and maybe find Darling. If not, she’d have to leave a message for him. Thus resolved, she walked the distance to the hotel, happy that movement absorbed some of her agitation.
“Message for you,” the attendant said when she handed over the room key. This woman appeared as uninterested as possible in the affairs of the guests. Lane had a fleeting thought that she could sneak Darling past her with no trouble. The envelope was brown but had no markings to indicate whence it had come. Government, she was sure, and had a momentary passing memory of receiving just this sort of envelope during the war. She took it and went downstairs to her room and sat on the sagging bed to tear it open.
“Please come immediately when you get this. M. Hogarth.”
This was a surprise. She changed into some comfortable lace-up shoes and slipped some money out of the envelope she had slid behind the tiny vanity mirror and put it into her handbag. She could feel herself moving calmly in spite of the wrenching alarm Hogarth’s note occasioned. It was a familiar feeling. Outward calm, inner stomach-churning panic. It was the war all over again. Outside on the street again, she was about to hurry toward Victoria to find a cab when she noticed a man walking in the opposite direction. She didn’t stop or look back at him, but she knew she’d seen him before. Furious, she picked up her pace. Hogarth had people tailing her!
She found a cab for the short distance to the War Office, an expense she wouldn’t have indulged but for the terrifying brevity of Hogarth’s communication. It took all her strength not to turn back to see if her tail had caught a cab as well.
