Authors: Mark Ellis
Norton’s destination was an imposing house at the end of a side-street behind Claridges. It was a large Georgian property fronted by a fountain, in which various pop-eyed sea-creatures spouted water over a gang of winged cherubs. A uniformed flunkey let him in to a brightly-lit marbled hall, where a pretty woman with a coquettish smile broke off from her conversation with a very tall but stooped elderly man.
“Lady Pelham. A pleasure to see you again. Thank you for having me.”
“The pleasure is all ours, Mr Norton. Reginald, say hello to Mr Norton, you remember, from the American Embassy.”
“Welcome, welcome. Jolly nice to see you again.” Lord Pelham inclined his shining cranium, which was completely bald save for a fringe of white hairs that stuck out untidily over the back of his neck. Norton guessed that he had a good thirty years on his wife, a striking woman with film-star looks, whose clinging pale-blue evening dress stunningly highlighted the shapely contours which lay beneath. Norton eyed his hostess’ diamond-bedecked décolletage appreciatively and wondered whether his lordship was able to take full advantage of his luck in having such an engaging partner.
Reginald Pelham had been a Cabinet Minister long ago. One of his ancestors had been a side-kick of the warrior Duke of Marlborough and had secured rich pickings from this relationship. His lordship had a fabulous stately pile in Oxfordshire, where Norton had recently been a guest at a most enjoyable weekend party. Pelham had only recently married, after many years as a bachelor. An ambitious as well as an attractive woman, Diana Pelham, making good use of her husband’s wealth and position and her own not insignificant connections, had embarked on a campaign to establish herself as a leading society hostess.
“Come, Mr Norton. Won’t you join the rest of our party? We are a small gathering tonight but I believe you will find the company stimulating.” Lord Pelham nodded in the direction of a door just behind him. Norton followed his hosts into a large wood-panelled room, where he was immediately offered a champagne cocktail by a waiter. “Let me introduce you to our other guests.”
Glancing quickly around the room he recognised some faces from his Oxfordshire weekend. Lady Pelham guided him towards two men standing by the fireplace. “I believe you know Major St. John…”
“Norton, hello, hello. And how’s that fine Ambassador of yours keeping?” Major Edward St. John was a stocky, white-haired man, whose bright red nose bore testament to his close affinity with fine wines and spirits. He was a Tory member of Parliament whom Norton knew to be a prominent Chamberlain supporter.
“He’s in the pink, I believe, Major. Still in America but due back next month.”
“Mr Pemberton. Good to see you again.”
Vivian Pemberton, a slight, elegant man whose face appeared to portray a permanent look of mild amusement, was smoking a pungent cigarette through a long silver cigarette holder. He looked back through a haze of smoke. “Likewise, Norton.”
“I saw one of your plays last week. The one at the St. James’ Theatre. Knockout stuff. Are you working on another now?”
Pemberton took a long draw on his cigarette. “I’m afraid the Ministry of Information have me working on some more serious stuff at present. An awful bore, I’m afraid, but as everyone keeps saying, there is a war on.”
The three ladies who had been chatting over their drinks at the other end of the room joined them.
“My wife Madeleine, Mr Norton.”
Norton shook the hand of Mrs St. John, a small mousy creature who smiled weakly at him. The elder of the other two ladies raised her eyebrows at him and held out her hand.
“And this is Lady Celia Dorchester, and her niece, Nancy Swinton.”
Norton kissed Lady Dorchester’s raised hand. Her niece held her hand out at a lower level and he shook it. Supposedly Lady Dorchester had been a famous beauty in her day but it was difficult to discern the traces of her youthful charms through the layers of fat now enveloping her face. Miss Swinton was a tall, healthy, rather gangly-looking girl. Not really his type on first impression – too natural looking a beauty for his taste.
“Norton is a close associate of the American Ambassador, ladies.” St. John drained his cocktail and signalled for another.
“Yes, yes, we know that, don’t we, Nancy? I am a great admirer of Mr Kennedy. A man of such energy.”
Lady Dorchester nodded her head for emphasis and her jowls shuddered. Norton was considering whether Lady Dorchester had been numbered in her youth among the long list of Kennedy conquests, when a servant announced from the end of the room that dinner was to be served.
As the guests proceeded into the dining room, a loud rap was heard at the front door.
“I think that’s our late arrival.” Diana Pelham stepped back into the hall.
Norton had just found his name card between Nancy Swinton and his hostess, when she returned.
“I think you all know Freddie Douglas, don’t you? The fastest rising star in the Foreign Office, at least that’s what Edward Halifax told me the other day.”
Douglas, a slender, good-looking young man with oiled black hair and deep-set dark, wary eyes, smiled apologetically. “I don’t know about that, Diana.”
“False modesty, Freddie. Come on now. Sit down here by me.”
Douglas sat down on Lady Pelham’s other side. He was wearing an immaculate, dark pin-striped suit, unlike the rest of the men around the table.
“Sorry about the kit. Everything’s so busy at the office, I didn’t have time to get home to change. You’re such a sweetie, Diana, I thought you’d tolerate my failings in etiquette.” Lady Pelham gave him a dazzling smile as he paused to look around the table and exchange greetings.
“Arthur. How are you? Enjoyed the other night. I need to chat to you about a couple of things. We’ll speak later.”
Douglas tapped his nose meaningfully and sat back in his chair. “Sorry, Diana. Very rude of me, conversing over your head. My profuse apologies.”
“Don’t worry, dear. Ah, here’s the wine. Now I’d like your opinion on this. Our new butler found it the other day in St. James’. Tell me what you think.”
Norton didn’t hear Douglas’ opinion on the wine but as far as he was concerned, it was as fine a Puligny Montrachet as he’d ever tasted, and that was saying something.
“And so, Mr Norton, do you like living in England?”
“Well, yes I do, Miss Swinton. Of course, I think I’d have to say I’d like it even more in different circumstances.”
“Indeed. Different circumstances. How I long for different circumstances. For the purposes of tonight, let us assume different circumstances and talk about pleasant things. I am tired of talking about the war. My aunt can talk about little else. Are you keen on country pursuits?”
Pretending to a far greater affinity with horses and guns than was strictly accurate, Norton enjoyed his chat with Nancy Swinton. She might be an ungainly sort of girl but on further acquaintance she had a sweet nature and a certain sort of charm. Perhaps his first impression was wrong?
Inevitably, to Miss Swinton’s disappointment and a little to his, the talk of the table at large soon turned to the war and they were not allowed to stay out of it.
“And what do you think, Norton?” The robust colour of St. John’s nose had now extended to the rest of his face.
“Sorry, I didn’t catch what you said.”
“I was saying that this war is a stupid mistake. It’s not Herr Hitler that we should be fighting. It’s the communists and socialists we need to worry about. We should be working with Hitler, not against him. What do you say?”
“I don’t think that would be the Roosevelt administration’s line at present.”
“Oh come on, Mr Norton. I’ve heard Mr Kennedy say much the same thing as I’ve just said.”
“The Ambassador does have some strong views on Stalin, I have to admit.”
“Strong views indeed. Look. I’ve met Herr Hitler several times. So he’s a strong man and has done some things we don’t like. But my God, sir, we can and should do business with him. Isn’t that so, Douglas?”
Douglas finished his glass of the inspiring Chateau Lafitte, which had accompanied the roast lamb, and set down his napkin.
“As you know, Major, government policy at present is to work with all our might in assisting our French and other allies in Continental Europe in maintaining at least the status quo for the present, while we go about the serious business of rearmament. It is of course legitimate to question whether that will remain government policy. I, and I think I can say many of my colleagues at all levels of departmental responsibility, would certainly concede that there is an argument that instead of confronting Herr Hitler, perhaps we should consider reaching some sort of accommodation with him. Might Herr Hitler, if allowed to expand and consolidate his power in Continental Europe, be content to leave us and our Empire alone?”
“Exactly, my boy. And I am certain he would take that view. Then perhaps we can join forces against Stalin and his red hordes.”
Reginald Pelham cleared his throat loudly. “Gentlemen. May I advise care. Some might say this conversation was verging on the treasonous.”
St. John’s hand banged down on the table. “With respect, my friend, it would be treason to waste this country’s resources on an unnecessary and futile battle against Hitler’s formidable armies. We should recognise reality.”
Lady Dorchester nodded her head vigorously. “Absolutely. Nancy and I couldn’t agree more.”
Norton could sense Nancy squirming on the seat to his right.
“I’m afraid, aunt, you’ll have to speak for yourself there. I can’t believe that any sensible person would wish to be friends with Hitler. What about his cruelty, the lack of liberty, the fanatical hatred. Look at the way the Jews have been treated. Mr Churchill says that…”
“Oh for goodness sake, Miss Swinton. Don’t talk about that warmongering charlatan. Look, Hitler dragged his country out of the mire. He had to have a firm hand. He had to deal firmly with agitators, socialists, communists, many of whom were Jewish. You can’t make an omelette without breaking eggs you know. I’m sure Mr Chamberlain has the right perspective and will follow the sensible path. Eh, Douglas?”
Douglas nodded at the Major and wiped his mouth with his napkin.
“Perhaps that’s enough of politics for now, eh, Diana, at least until the port arrives. And so, Vivian, what’s new in your world?”
“Oh my dears. It’s so tiresome. Last spring I made up a little party with the Oliviers and some other friends to go to Vienna and we were going to repeat the experience again this spring but,” he sighed, “another casualty of war I suppose. And anyway, Larry and Vivien are stuck in Hollywood. It’s all just so ghastly!”
Tuesday January 30th
Merlin finished the bun and pulled his chair a little closer to Tony’s electric fire. The paper had a story about volunteers joining up to help the Finns. This irritated him, prohibited as he was from contributing directly to the war effort by the A.C.’s injunctions. His irritation was compounded by his failure to make any meaningful progress with the Barnes case. Bridges had put in a lot of tedious spadework in identifying the flag of the boat seen by Colonel Trenchard and then tracking the boat down to a waterman’s boatyard in the Pool of London. It turned out that the boat owners had been employing casual labour on the boat that day, having unluckily lost their full-time crew of three all in one go to the call-up in the first week of January. They had names for that day’s replacement crew, who had been carrying a small load of agricultural equipment up the Thames to Maidenhead, but no addresses. The boatmen had been paid cash-in-hand at the end of the day’s work and had not been seen since.
All this effort by Bridges proved to be wasted when, five days after the discovery of the body, they finally received Dr Sisson’s report. The doctor estimated that the body had been in the water for at least three days. The boat line of enquiry had been dropped and Bridges muttered something rude about to which orifice the good doctor’s snuff might be applied in future.
The report did confirm, as expected, that they were dealing with a murder case. The gruesome absence of an eye had nothing to do with the girl’s death but was down to a scavenging fish. Death had been caused by a blow to the head and, in Sisson’s view, had certainly occurred before the body’s immersion in the water, as the lungs were empty. So the next question to resolve was the identity of the victim.
They ploughed unsuccessfully through all vaguely applicable missing persons reports. Looking for missing persons in London had become a nightmare since the war started. The evacuation had relocated thousands of women and children to the countryside. Some had settled down in their new homes but many had quickly given up on the delights of rural life and returned to the city. These movements back and forth inevitably complicated police enquiries considerably.
They looked into a few likely prospects, only to find that the girls reported missing had escaped their families to live with boyfriends in or out of London or, in one case, to work in a brothel.
Things were not going well on other fronts either. Johnson was still struggling to make a breakthrough on the hit and run he was investigating. Little progress was being made with the dockers investigation. The preparation for the IRA trial was tedious and time-consuming and Merlin just couldn’t bring himself to get moving on the fingerprint report. Meanwhile, crime was a moving target, and new cases were coming in all the time to their undermanned and overworked office.
Merlin left a couple of coins on the counter and headed out into the cold. The river in front of the Yard was now almost completely solid. He remembered reading somewhere about winter fairs held on the frozen Thames in the sixteenth or seventeenth century. He’d like to see that but somehow doubted that Londoners would be in the mood for such jollity this winter.
Back at the Yard, Bridges caught up with him as he reached the top of the stairs. “We’ve had a break – I think we’ve found the Barnes girl, sir.”
Merlin pushed through the door into his office, threw off his coat and fell heavily into his chair. “What have you got?”