A Christmas Case Read online

  The Inspector tutted under his breath. ‘Jolly bad show leaving you there with the body. Just a wee lass! Wasn’t your mother thinking quite clearly? What if the murderer had still been around, lurking?’

  Posie shrugged. ‘My mother wasn’t up to thinking, sir. Let alone clearly. And we did check to see if anyone else was around, but the beach was still deserted.’

  Rufus whistled under his breath. ‘How awful. Who was the old bashed-in chump, anyhow? Did you find out?’

  ‘No. We didn’t. Not at the time.’

  Posie stared over at the doll’s house, at its absolute perfection.

  ‘We found out later – much later, at the Inquest – that he was a family man with two little children of his own. His name was Harry Jones, a normal enough name, don’t you think? We saw photographs. He was a normal enough man, by all accounts, too: he was blonde, and he wore quite distinctive tortoiseshell spectacles, of the expensive kind. He was a fairly senior civil servant, something at the Board of Trade, on Whitehall. Down from London for the weekend. He lived at Hammersmith or Fulham.’

  Posie frowned, thinking across the years.

  ‘He was on his own. He’d told his wife he was going to learn how to play golf, and that his work colleagues were all coming down together for a lads’ golfing spree at this new golf club on the Friday night after work. Of course, it transpired he’d never been near the golf club, and that he probably never had any intention of doing so. The clothes and his golf club were just part of the show. Needless to say, there were no work colleagues to be found in Broadstairs; no lads’ golfing spree. They were all at home in London, cosy and safe in their little family villas. It was all investigated at the time.’

  Inspector Lovelace nodded and sighed.

  ‘A familiar tale, I’ll warrant. We get it all the time at the Yard. A serial womaniser, I expect? There must have been a woman in it somewhere, or women, if he liked things a little fruitier, if you’ll excuse my coarseness. So who bashed him up? A jealous husband? A wronged woman, who’d found out their beloved Harry was actually happily married up in London?’

  Posie shrugged. ‘I don’t know. But it was all very suspicious. The police tracked Harry to a small bed-and-breakfast further up the promenade to the Hotel Bristol. It seemed he used the same room there pretty often, at least once a month, more often in summer. But not usually at the weekends. It all fitted with the excuses he’d given his wife: various conferences and meetings which required stop-overs. The wife was heartbroken, never suspected for a moment, apparently. It was all pretty dreadful really. Dreadful for us, too. After we’d found the body we spent the rest of that Saturday hanging around, giving evidence to the police, feeling wretched. Richard and I had never seen such wickedness before, had never realised a life was that cheap. We couldn’t get rid of the memory of the man’s bashed-in face. It was there even if we closed our eyes… Our holiday was well and truly ruined.’

  Posie remembered the immediate aftermath, too. The way her father had steered his family back to some sort of normality at the hotel: quietly organising hot baths and sandwiches for the children; a visit from a local doctor with medication for Rosa; packing all the suitcases himself to be ready to leave at first light the next day.

  Posie remembered lying between crisp sheets which smelt of antiseptic in her hotel bedroom, late at night, when she should have been fast asleep, aware that their holiday – and perhaps everything – had ended in an extraordinary way, with a sweeping away of innocence and trust. Her room, like Richard’s, was really a small walled recess giving onto the corridor of their suite at the hotel. The walls were paper-thin.

  She swallowed painfully, remembering a conversation heard in snippets, which she shouldn’t have been listening to. Posie kept it to herself, all these years later, but the sentences floated back now, horribly clear.

  Her father, in his nightgown, answering the front door to their suite:

  ‘What’s that you want? At this hour? No, of course you can’t. She’s doped up to her eyeballs. Had a hell of a shock today; no use to anyone. Fortunately our children are made of sterner stuff.’

  A gruff voice. A policeman outside? Or a Manager from the hotel?

  ‘I’m sorry about that, sir. And the lateness of the hour. Only we can’t find him. A search has been started, there are police trawling up and down the beaches. And we have reason to believe he was known to your wife. He’s Italian, a favoured dancing partner of Mrs Parker’s. His name is Benito Rossoli, and he’s on our books. Have you seen him at all, sir? Would your wife know where he might be? Could you wake her? Fears are growing for his safety.’

  There had been outraged protests from the Reverend Parker, with a slamming of the front door. Probably for the first time in her life Posie had heard her father’s voice raised in anger.

  She cleared her throat, forced the memory of that night away. The audience in the red parlour were looking at her expectantly.

  ‘A good deal came out at the Inquest, but there were more questions raised than answers given.’

  ‘Were you at the Inquest, Miss Parker?’ asked Andromeda Keene, her eyes alive with curiosity.

  ‘She wouldn’t have been allowed,’ growled the Inspector, protectively. ‘Strictly over- eighteens only.’

  ‘That’s right,’ answered Posie. ‘Richard and I had to give written statements and they were read out for us. In fact, only my father ended up going. He gave my mother’s evidence for her. She didn’t travel down to Broadstairs for the Inquest, it was all too much for her. We never went to Broadstairs again, in fact.’

  ‘What was the verdict at the Inquest on Harry Jones?’ Inspector Lovelace raised an eyebrow.

  ‘I didn’t know at the time. But I looked it up, years later, after the war, when I was first in London and had access to police records, and access to newspaper archives. There was a verdict of “unlawful killing, by persons unknown”. There was much ado made of the fact that Harry Jones’ glasses were never found, either at the murder-scene or back at his lodgings: apparently he’d never have gone out without them as he was half-blind. This led the Coroner and the police to think that the killer was some crazy jealous type who took the glasses as a wicked trophy. It was all jolly odd.’

  Posie sniffed. ‘My mother and my brother and I weren’t named as the people who found the body, so it was almost as if the thing never happened to us. As if it’s just confined to my memory. Especially as I’m the only one alive now who was there at the time.’

  She paused. ‘As I said, I looked up the newspaper reports too. The Morning Legend carried the story for a few weeks, actually. But they took an angle all of their own. There was a professional dancer, his name was Rossoli, who went missing on exactly the same day as this fella, Harry Jones, was killed.’

  There was a gasp from over near Major Fairbanks, and then Mrs Fairbanks was suddenly coughing. The Major slapped her on the back and water was fetched. The Major looked disapproving:

  ‘An Itie, was he, this missing dancer?’

  ‘That’s right, Major,’ replied Posie, coolly, trying not to let anger bubble to the surface at the Major’s derisory words. ‘Rossoli was an Italian, engaged at the Hotel Bristol as permanent staff: very popular apparently. But his going missing like that damned him, and he was as good as labelled a killer. Some tiff over the same woman, perhaps? Who knows? All I do know is that The Morning Legend offered a reward of fifty pounds if someone came forward with details which would secure Rossoli’s arrest.’

  ‘Fifty pounds? I think I remember that story,’ said the Inspector, rubbing his chin. ‘Photos of that Italian fella were all over the place for most of the summer, especially as the papers had very little other news. Dark chap, very handsome. Looked a bit like Ivor Novello does now; could almost have been oriental. They never found him, did they? At least, I didn’t hear about an arrest or a reward being granted.’

  ‘That’s right, sir. It all fizzled out. So that’s the end of it. My mystery.’

>   Although it wasn’t really the end of it at all.

  Not that that concerned anyone here.

  Rufus was clearing his throat, slipping back more drink. He had switched to grain now, and was helping himself liberally to what looked like a fine Islay malt.

  ‘It does sound a jolly rum affair,’ he agreed, setting his tumbler down with force on a small glass coffee-table nearby.

  ‘It sounds a sad, sordid little case. It was awfully unfortunate that you Parkers happened to walk right into it. And old Richard never breathed a word, all through Eton. But what I don’t get is what exactly was the mystery? Surely it was fairly open and shut? This Harry lad was doing the dirty on his wife, got bashed over the head by some foreign dancing chappie and then you lot had the unfortunate luck to find him? Or am I missing something?’

  The Inspector groaned. He was about to open his mouth to speak when he was called away again by Manders, to the telephone.

  ‘London, sir. Very important, apparently.’

  But no matter, for Andromeda Keene was already speaking. ‘You have missed something, your Grace.’

  ‘Ah? Have I now? Do tell…’

  The Cabaret star nodded. ‘I know the beaches at Broadstairs. They’re backed by these big white chalk cliffs, but the cliffs don’t really have caves or anything in them, just tiny indentations, big enough to sit in, but not more. A bit like shallow natural deckchairs. That’s right, Miss Parker, isn’t it?’

  ‘Quite correct. Where we sat at Joss Bay was one such place.’

  ‘So?’ Rufus frowned in puzzlement.

  ‘Well, Miss Parker has already told us that when they entered the beach of Joss Bay they were quite alone. They didn’t see anybody, and they certainly didn’t walk past this tweed-clad body with his head smashed in when they went to sit down in the last little enclave. They’d walked past the other enclaves without noticing anything untoward, because nothing was there.’

  Posie nodded in agreement. It was quite a thrill to have a famous person end your story, even if it wasn’t really the true ending.

  Andromeda Keene finished on a high note. ‘So you see, this chap Harry Jones must have been killed right next to them, round the corner, in the half hour they took to eat their lunch. Isn’t that a thrill?’

  ‘I say!’ exclaimed the Major. ‘Or else he was killed somewhere else and dumped there during that half hour? Which is almost, but not quite as bad.’

  ‘No,’ said Posie, shaking her head. ‘The blood was not yet congealed: it was very fresh. It was dreadful. It must have happened just as Miss Keene described. Just around the corner from us. We were eating a fish lunch as the poor man was killed and his life ebbed away.’

  ‘Gracious!’ muttered Rufus.

  ‘That’s why it’s haunted me ever since. Perhaps if we’d heard something, or stood up, and looked around the corner…’

  There was a small, snatched silence in the parlour. And then the glassiness of Rufus’ eyes seemed to clear for a second and he focused intently on his old friend’s sister. A look which lingered a moment too long.

  ‘Are you sure there isn’t anything else about this story, Nosy, old girl? It doesn’t seem to have a very good ending.’

  Posie drew herself up with as much dignity as she could, bearing in mind she was sitting rather low in an old armchair, wearing a borrowed cricket jumper. She noticed with a slight feeling of confusion that Dolly had re-entered the room without being noticed, and was back in her own armchair, sleeping under her blankets again. For all the world as if she hadn’t left. But Posie had seen her go…surely?

  Maybe the Madeira wine was much stronger than she’d thought…

  She turned back again to Rufus, on the defensive. She was beginning to get unaccountably angry at him.

  ‘No, Rufey. There is nothing else. And I wasn’t aware that mysteries had to have neat, symmetrical endings. Goodness, no. If that was the case I’d never have any work, or provide any answers. I can’t think of any “neat” mysteries I’ve ever helped to solve.’

  ‘Oh, but I have.’ Inspector Lovelace winked, shutting the door behind him again. He seemed to have some sort of extra spring in his step.

  Posie looked at him with relief, and he bounded over to his seat, next to her own. He looked at his wristwatch quickly before looking up at Rufus.

  ‘Is there time for me to add my halfpennyworth of mystery?’

  ‘Why, yes. We’ve got a good twenty minutes until we need to think about getting ready for Mass. I take it everybody is still coming?’

  Rufus’ eyes roved around the room, but the question was not really a question, more a sort of order. There were murmurs of assent all round.

  ‘The floor is yours, Inspector. Give us your worst.’

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. I will,’ he promised. And Posie noticed there was a keen look about Richard Lovelace, but absolutely no glimmer of a smile.

  ****

  Four

  Richard Lovelace splayed his hands together and cracked each knuckle as he did so, a habit Posie found singularly revolting. He only did it at points of high tension, however, so she was inclined to forgive him.

  He then took a cigar from Rufus, already cut, and lit it unhurriedly. ‘You asked for a mystery which smoulders in us, even now, your Grace. I have one to recount for sure. It disturbs me still.’

  He took a deep drag, and exhaled.

  ‘I’m not afraid to admit it brings tears to my eyes. And that doesn’t just mean it’s an unsolved mystery; by gad, no. I can say quite honestly that as a Chief Inspector at Scotland Yard, I have as many unsolved mysteries under my belt as I do hot dinners. And if I was to worry about each and every one of them, I wouldn’t get any sleep at night.’

  The Inspector took another drag.

  ‘But this one was different. It stands out in my memory because it was so truly awful. The crime, I mean, and the aftermath of it. And the worst thing was, that we realised how it had all been done just a little too late, and the killer got away scot-free. He’s still free, even now. The devil.’

  Interest whetted, everyone leaned in, all except Dolly, who slept on.

  Posie frowned, for she had never heard Richard Lovelace speak of anything in his professional life which he considered to be like an albatross hanging around his neck before. Everything seemed so certain with him, somehow.

  ‘Funnily enough, this took place in 1903, too. Although I’m almost ten years older than Posie here, so I didn’t have the innocence of childhood to protect me from it. And it was a Christmas case. That bit was very important.’

  They were all transported back to a time when the hard-working young Richard Lovelace, having completed his three years as a regular bobby-on-the-beat on the mean streets of mainly East-End London, had applied to be transferred, by way of plain-clothes division, to New Scotland Yard.

  ‘I’d passed all my Sergeant’s exams, and they said they’d try me out at the Yard, which was dashed decent of them, as I was very young to play at being a detective.’

  Rufus cut in loyally. ‘Don’t put yourself down, Lovelace. I expect they took you on because you were jolly good, not out of the goodness of their little plain-suited hearts.’

  The Inspector shrugged, a trace of a flush stealing over his face. ‘Thank you for your kind words, your Grace, but all I know is that I got taken on in October 1903, expecting a good deal of gore. Don’t forget, I’d been used to Jack-the-Ripper territory, albeit that those crimes had been a good ten years before my time. But the place was still haunted by the memory of it, and there were copy-cat murders aplenty. Women of the night, mainly; poor beggars.’

  He ground out his smoke, coming back to the narrative. ‘To be honest I was disappointed by the Yard at first. I was dealing with all these hoity-toity women, claiming political rights, and getting themselves all into a lather about it.’

  ‘You mean the Pankhursts?’ cut in Andromeda Keene quickly, affronted. ‘And the Women’s Social and Political Union? I don’t consider
there was anything hoity-toity about them. They were just trying to get women the rights they were entitled to. That we are still entitled to, and don’t have!’

  ‘Hear, hear,’ muttered Levin Smythe somewhat mutedly.

  The Inspector shrugged. ‘I mean no offence, Miss Keene, and I’m all for women’s rights, don’t get me wrong. But these WSPU women were hell-bent on trouble, and while they were based up in the north, their rallies were down in London, mostly next to Parliament. I had to patrol about outside, and it wasn’t much fun.’

  ‘Poor little you.’ Andromeda sniffed.

  ‘I’m just telling it how it was. So when I was asked to work over the Christmas weekend of 1903, I was expecting a quiet time. There had been no trouble lately, and all those fearsome WSPU ladies were probably tucked up quietly in the north for the festive season. I had no family of my own just then, and I couldn’t exactly turn down the request to work, bearing in mind I was trying to impress my superiors.’

  ‘Quite so.’ Major Fairbanks agreed as if he, out of all of them, should know all about superiors, and lines of obedience and duty. ‘Quite so.’

  The Inspector nodded at the Major. ‘I see you understand, sir. Well, as I was saying, it was all going nicely. Christmas Eve passed smoothly at the Yard, with just the odd disturbance here and there in the centre of town, but nothing that a normal bobby couldn’t sort out. I was having a quiet time in the common room with my supervising Inspector, Chief Inspector Friday. He was a nice old lad: he’d seen a rum thing or two in his time and liked to tell you all about it, but he was practically counting down the days until he retired in the springtime. We’d been playing cards, I remember, and we’d been whiling away the hours on cheddar cheese sandwiches and cups of tea. At just past midnight we got the summons, up from Marylebone, to come quick. Something terrible had happened.’