As if by Magic (27 page)

‘So you tell me,' said Lassiter. ‘You've been frightened of him for too long, Peggy. It's over now.'

She breathed a deep sigh of relief. ‘Yes, it's over now.' She half-smiled. ‘I'm glad. It's hard to believe. I feel as if I'm coming back to life again.' She looked at Rackham. ‘I'm sure, as sure as I can be of anything, that he was the man you were looking for. I don't know if this makes sense, but he was empty, empty in a frightening way. He could only destroy, not create.' She shook her head with a little choking noise. ‘I never knew that about him until afterwards. Even the things he had cared about he destroyed. When I first met him he really did care about his business and he had plans, great plans in a way. That was real but even that was destroyed.'

‘Wasn't he successful?' said Rackham, startled.

‘Like everything else, Inspector, it was all show. Empty show. The company couldn't have lasted, the way he ran it. It would have gone under.' David Lassiter moved towards her protectively. ‘David knows the truth. Alexander was no longer a rich man and I am certainly no longer a rich woman.'

‘That doesn't matter,' said Lassiter quickly.

She turned and smiled at him and, for the first time since he had met her, Rackham could sense she was happy. ‘No, it doesn't, does it, David? I'm glad I stopped you from going to find him that night.'

Which was, Rackham thought as he walked down the stairs from the flat, very moving and very convincing. He wanted to believe it was true. The trouble was, as he remarked to Jack the next day, even though it chimed in with Anne Lassiter's story and Gilchrist Lloyd confirmed that David Lassiter had enquired after Culverton on 1st November, he wasn't completely sure it was.

Nigel Lassiter strode into his father's office, slamming the door behind him.

David, who was standing by his father's desk, jerked his head up. ‘What the hell's got into you?'

Nigel ignored him and threw down a letter in front of Mr Lassiter. ‘Read that. Just read that. That
bloody
woman!'

Mr Lassiter gazed at his furious son, then picked up his reading glasses and glanced at the superscription. ‘From Mrs Culverton.
Thank you . . . efforts involved . . . of great interest . . . long association . . . cannot see my way to . . . however. . . however . . .'
He put down the letter and drummed his fingers on the desk. ‘It could be worse,' he said at last. ‘It could be a great deal worse.'

‘How?' demanded Nigel, flinging himself into a chair. ‘We don't get another penny from her until the maiden flight to India. India, for God's sake! I don't care about India, it's a week on Friday I'm bothered about. If I can't get some more money we'll have to call off the dinner and we'll look like complete idiots.'

David picked up the letter and read through it. ‘She says she expects the final cost of the aircraft to reflect the money already paid towards the project by Culverton Air Navigation.'

‘She says she'll fund part of the production –
part,
mind you – if we agree to virtually give her a blasted plane. How the blazes are we supposed to make any money out of that?'

David's voice was deliberately calm. ‘I can't help thinking that's fair enough, Nigel.'

‘You would. You've never believed in the Pegasus. Why didn't you tell the bloody reporters it was going to crash on take-off? It's what you expect, isn't it?'

‘I'm not expecting anything of the sort,' said David patiently. ‘For God's sake, Nigel, you know it needs more work.'

Nigel Lassiter buried his head in his hands. ‘Work! That's all I ever do. I've worked so hard and this – this
bloody
letter – is all the thanks I get for it. We need sales. I need money.'

‘The press presentation caused a lot of interest,' said Mr Lassiter. ‘Some of the comments make wonderful reading.'

Nigel looked up. ‘So what? They were bound to like it. They couldn't but like it. I was relying on Culverton's. What the devil does she mean, she expects a substantial reduction? Does she want me to be grateful? Why the hell should I be?'

David folded his arms and sat on the corner of the desk. ‘What now? The company's stretched as it's never been before. If we had the funds we could carry the seaplane until orders came in but we haven't. I'll freely admit it, Nigel, the plane's a beauty. Once you've had a successful maiden voyage to India, the aircraft will virtually sell itself. But – and it's a big but – you've got to get her to that stage. Is there anyone else you can approach?'

Nigel's shoulders sank. ‘I don't know.' He bit his nails broodingly. ‘The firm will have to pay up. You'll just have to give me the money.'

‘We haven't got it!' said David angrily. ‘I always said this was too big a project for us.'

‘Yes, I know. You wanted to stick with your businessmen's bus. You've got it in for me, David. You want me to fail. Ever since Thomas's crash you've been trying to undermine me. Don't deny it. You know it's true but it was his fault, not mine. He couldn't control the plane.'

David Lassiter got to his feet and, hands opening and closing, towered over his brother. ‘You think I've got it in for you, do you?' he said in a deceptively quiet voice. ‘You think Thomas was to blame?' His hand shot out, grasping Nigel's shirt and hauling him to his feet. ‘Well, let me tell you –'

Nigel, his dark eyes alight with fear, wriggled as helplessly as a worm on a hook.

Mr Lassiter brought his fist crashing down on the table. ‘David! Calm down.' David Lassiter didn't respond. ‘David!'

David slowly turned his head to look at his father, then, like a man coming up from underwater, looked at his hands, shook himself and released his grip.

Nigel dropped back into the chair, staring at his brother. ‘You damned lunatic,' he said softly. David was staring at his hands. Nigel straightened out his shirt. ‘It's not safe to be in the same room as you.'

Mr Lassiter smacked his fist down on the table again. ‘Nigel! That was completely uncalled for. David, you mustn't let your temper get the better of you, no matter what the provocation.'

David, still staring at his upturned hands, blinked and looked at his father. It was as if he was coming back from somewhere very far away. ‘I'm sorry, sir,' he said hesitantly. ‘I forgot myself for the moment.'

Nigel, still straightening his tie, continued to stare at David. ‘What about me? Don't I deserve an apology?'

David, white-lipped, swallowed and flexed his hands. Nigel instinctively started back in his seat.

Mr Lassiter leaned forward warningly. ‘David!' he said urgently.

David Lassiter took a deep breath and relaxed his shoulders. ‘Sorry,' he said evenly.

A thin smile curled Nigel's mouth. ‘That'll do, I suppose. Now, if we can return to business, I'd like to point out that Mrs Culverton has given us all a problem. This firm needs the Pegasus and I'd like to remind you both that you promised you'd see the Pegasus through, not abandon it at the last minute. I need
money!'

‘The press presentation –' began Mr Lassiter.

Nigel cut him off. ‘The press presentation! Don't talk to me about that. Yes, we got mentioned in the aviation papers but the Pegasus should have been headline news. What happened? All the coverage was about that South African idiot and his pal, to say nothing of Daring David here, cavorting around the roof. I wish the bloody idiot had fallen off. It would have served him right.'

Mr Lassiter took off his glasses and stared very hard at his son. Then he placed his hands flat on the desk in front of him and concentrated on keeping them steady. Nigel, suddenly aware that he had gone drastically too far, swallowed and waited. When Mr Lassiter eventually spoke, it was in a quiet, even voice that Nigel had only heard a very few times before. ‘That South African idiot, as you call him, is my grandson. I do not feel I have to add to that statement. If
you
–' here he gave Nigel such a withering glance that he flinched – ‘had an ounce of his concern for others then I would be a far happier man. I could describe your character; I prefer to leave such things unsaid. As for the Pegasus, unless fresh money is forthcoming soon, then I am afraid that the seaplane will have to be postponed until we have recouped at least some of our losses.'

Nigel glanced at him then fumbled for a cigarette. ‘Postponed?' He rubbed his forehead and gave his father an agonized look. ‘You don't mean it, do you? You can't.' He mouth twisted. ‘Look, it'll be all right. I'm sorry I said that about George. I didn't mean it. You must know I didn't mean it. You can't hold it against me, not now. All I need is a bit more money to bridge the gap. It's going to be a success. You must help. We've got to fly next week. It's all arranged. It was Anne who suggested I host a dinner, a dinner in the air over London. If it wasn't for Anne I could have postponed the first flight but I've got to fly next week. She said it would be a success. She's put a lot of thought into it. You can't let Anne down. You wouldn't let Anne down, would you, David?'

‘That's a bit transparent,' commented David.

‘She really has put a lot of effort into it,' said his father. ‘I can see she'd be disappointed if it didn't come off. There's been quite a bit of excitement in the press about it. And Nigel's quite right. It would cause some very adverse comment if the dinner were to be cancelled.'

Nigel stubbed out his cigarette and lit another. ‘I can't let that happen. I'm so close,' he said, more to himself than to the other two men in the room. ‘I'm so very close . . .'

It was Sunday afternoon. Jack, alone in his rooms, lay in drowsy comfort full-length on the sofa, the
Messenger
discarded in a heap beside him. Outside, the rain-filled wind rattled against the windows. He felt a warm sense of pleasure at the contrast. A coal fell on the glowing fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney. From the hallway below a distant telephone bell jangled. It was probably the telephone which had woken him up. He snuggled back into the cushions, gazing abstractedly at the ceiling. George was at Eden Street and it was pleasant to have only his own thoughts for company.

George had suffered as a result of his experiences at the factory. He'd wrenched the muscles in his arm and had to wear a sling all week. Still, compared with what could have happened . . . He thought once more of George's white face and the agonized clutch of his hand and shuddered. That moment when he felt himself being pulled inexorably over the edge of the board-walk was easily one of the worst in his life. My God, but he was grateful to David.

David: his mouth tightened as he thought of David. It seemed incredible that, granted the sort of man Culverton had been, the only person who seemed to have any motive to kill him was David. Bill had put in no end of work, chasing up Culverton's associates, but there was nothing. Peggy Culverton had a motive, of course, and, like David, a trumped-up alibi, but that was all. Bill had had a long discussion with the Assistant Commissioner about them. As the AC had pointed out, there wasn't a shred of any real evidence, only a circumstantial case. In the AC's opinion, once Anne Lassiter, David Lassiter and, most of all, Peggy Culverton had explained those circumstances, no jury in England would bring in a guilty verdict. And Bill's opinion? Agnostic would probably sum it up. However, he agreed with the AC about the reactions of any jury, especially if Mrs Culverton even hinted what she believed about her husband.

There was a knock at the door. ‘Major Haldean?' It was Mrs Pettycure. ‘There's a telephone call for you, sir.'

Damn. ‘Thank you,' Jack called back as he levered himself off the sofa.

Bill Rackham was on the phone. ‘Jack?'

His voice was urgent and Jack was instantly alert. ‘What is it?'

Rackham's voice was sharp and thin with worry. ‘We were wrong about Culverton. Another girl's been found in the river.'

‘Dead?'

‘Very dead.' Jack could hear the emotion in Rackham's voice. ‘She was marked with a cross. I thought this was over. I thought it had stopped but we were wrong, Jack, wrong. We're back to square one.'

At half past nine on Tuesday morning Jack walked briskly down the Strand to Fleet Street, crossed at the Cheshire Cheese, weaved his way through the traffic and stopped by the newspaper seller standing in the shelter of the doorway of the steps leading up to the third-floor offices of
On the Town
.

‘Paper, Major?' asked the newspaper seller, holding out a copy of the
Chronicle
.

‘Thanks, Stan,' said Jack, feeling in his pocket for change.

‘I see they're no further forward catching this Ripper,' said Stan. ‘I don't know what the police are playing at. Useless, they are.'

‘Umm,' said Jack diplomatically, glancing at the headlines. Politics had moved the Ripper into second place but the story was essentially the same as in Monday's paper. Yesterday the victim had no name. Now she was identified as Martha Palmer of Sheffield Court, Marylebone, thought to be twenty-six, originally from Brighton, who had, until last April, been employed as a waitress at the Golden Road Café in Soho and had twice been cautioned for soliciting. No one had seen her since Saturday morning.

Jack had an idea of the work behind that simple statement. He felt an unexpected wave of anger. Her life – not a good or productive life but still a life – could be summed up in a couple of sentences whereas her death spawned two paragraphs of newsprint. He skipped through the rest of the piece quickly. Bill had told him the details on Sunday. The body had been found at three in the afternoon by a bargeman moored up in the Surrey Basin at Rotherhithe. Bill had added more graphic details than the newspaper either knew or felt comfortable printing. The actual cause of death was strangulation but she'd suffered before she'd died. And they'd thought Culverton was the Ripper. They were, as Bill had said, back to square one.