A Fatal Freedom (6 page)

‘It was you at the menagerie, was it not?’

Ursula nodded.

Miss Fentiman remained standing in front of her. ‘You seemed to know the man who tried to take a photograph. My sister is convinced he has been following her.’ It was an accusation.

‘He is an old friend,’ Ursula said slowly. ‘He used to be a police inspector and now he’s a private investigator. I didn’t know he’d been hired by Mr Peters in the matter of his wife, and when I found out, I told him I was shocked.’

‘You did?’

‘I said he should be helping an unhappy wife not aiding a self-serving husband. And that we women should have the vote!’ she added, hoping this would persuade Miss Fentiman she was on her side.

For a moment the girl looked at her as though assessing her sincerity, then she broke into a smile. ‘Which way are you going?’

Ursula told her.

‘Oh, good, I live not far from there. May I walk with you? I would dearly like some conversation.’

Now filled with curiosity, Ursula willingly agreed.

For the first few moments, though, the two women walked in silence.

‘The thing is,’ Miss Fentiman said after they had crossed a busy road, ‘that brute has made me very worried about my sister. You saw us together at the menagerie and it was your quick action that enabled us to escape that awful man.’

So Thomas Jackman had not been sufficiently skilful to avoid being noticed!

‘You say you are a friend of his. So what made you release those birds?’

What indeed?

Ursula stumbled as the lacing of one of her shoes came loose. ‘A moment, please,’ she said and bent down to retie it. As she did so, her attention was caught by a figure melting into a shop entrance some little way behind.

It was Thomas Jackman.

Was he following Miss Fentiman now?

Thomas Jackman was taken aback to see Ursula Grandison emerge from the Wilton Crescent house. He had not seen her since the unfortunate episode at the menagerie some ten days earlier.

Since then he had tried several times to work out why she had reacted so badly to discovering he had been on a job. They had worked together on that extraordinary matter at Mountstanton House. He thought they had made a good team. When she had contacted him to say she was in London, he’d thought … well, what had he thought?

When they’d first met she had been living in aristocratic surroundings; they had seemed her rightful background. Then he had found her in that seedy Paddington hotel. When she’d asked if he knew of a suitable lodging house – well now, who had been using whom then? – it had seemed to mean that he and she were on a level. He hadn’t hesitated to ask her to accompany him to the menagerie. Had he, he suddenly wondered, had he maybe even thought she might be happy to help him in his assignment?

What if it had been just the pleasant outing Ursula Grandison had obviously expected? For the briefest of moments, Jackman enjoyed a warm sensation that a handsome and intelligent woman would welcome social contact with him. Would like to be, instead of a reluctant investigator working alongside him, a friend.

‘Friend’. The word rang melodiously in Jackman’s mind. Friendship was a rare commodity in his world. His wife had died several years earlier. Such friends as they had enjoyed together seemed to melt away when she was no longer around. His work, first as a detective with the Metropolitan Police Force and latterly as private investigator, by its very nature precluded close contact with those he met.

Not, he told himself, that there were many he’d be happy to spend time with. Petty crooks, frightened witnesses, people trying to cope with the sordid detritus of London lowlife, plus every now and then the mind-numbing business of dealing with the upper classes who relegated such as Jackman to cockroach status.

Then there were the business men such as Joshua Peters. The ones who feared they were being cheated: by confederates, by tradesmen, by wives. Who expected Jackman to prove their suspicions and meanwhile patronised him. There were many times he disliked the life he had to lead.

Trying to understand the contempt in Ursula Grandison’s voice as she left him in Regent’s Park after the menagerie, the following day Jackman had attended on Joshua Peters at his home in Montagu Place.

He was shown into a dark room next to the front door by a scared-looking maid. Heavy net hanging within swathes of thick brown velvet curtains cut out light from the window. Wallpaper in brown, with touches of cream, compounded the gloom. On top of a large desk, on an expanse of gilt-edged leather, sat a small pile of papers. An elaborate brass inkstand sat at the back, a green shaded lamp on one corner. A marble fireplace was corralled by a padded seat-cum-fender. In the otherwise empty grate was a brass stand that emulated peacock’s feathers on full display.

A side table against the back wall carried a large bronze of a rearing horse. Two huge engravings of the Fire of London Monument and Ludgate Hill either side of a bookcase holding books with elaborately tooled leather bindings did little to lighten the stultifying effect of the room, which was compounded by a dark brown carpet half covered by a Turkish rug in purples and murky reds. Jackman’s previous interviews with Joshua Peters had taken place in his city office, a workmanlike place with ample light. If asked, Jackman would have claimed not to be a man affected by atmosphere but he knew he would find it impossible to work effectively in this room. Standing waiting for his employer, he found himself uncharacteristically nervous.

The door was thrust open and Joshua Peters strode in. He sat heavily in the leather upholstered swivel chair behind the desk. His formal suit suggested he had just returned from his place of business. ‘So,’ he said, emphasising the word. ‘You have the photograph you were to take yesterday?’

‘Unfortunately, Mr Peters, there was an incident which made it impossible to capture Mrs Peters and her friend.’

‘Incident? What sort of incident?’ The man’s voice was filled with menace.

Jackman gave a brief account.

Peters’ small, brown eyes gazed at him scornfully. ‘You allowed some birds and a girl to prevent you performing your job.’

Jackman said nothing.

Peters continued to look at him for a long moment, then pressed a bell beneath the desk. Jackman could just hear a remote jangling in the nether regions of the house. It did not take long before the same maid who had opened the front door to him appeared.

‘Tell Mrs Peters to attend me here.’

‘Yes, sir.’ With a quick bob of the head, she was gone.

Joshua Peters picked up the little pile of papers from the middle of the desk and quickly shuffled through them. Jackman recognised the reports he had sent in.

‘A great pity you have not produced the photograph but these should be sufficient.’

The door opened again and there stood Alice Peters. During his surveillance of her activities, Jackman had had plenty of opportunity to study the woman. The charm of her personality had grown on him, as had the effect of her marvellous eyes. From considering her to be no more than ‘a sweet face’, he now thought of her as beautiful. He had seen the warmth of her smile, the way those remarkable eyes lit up as she looked at the companion she had met on those carefully orchestrated ‘unexpected’ meetings. He had almost felt the touch of her small hand on his arm as she laid it on her companion’s.

This afternoon her face was unnaturally pale, the eyes veiled behind lids that were almost transparent. Her mouth, usually so sweetly shaped, was tightly closed.

‘You wish to see me?’ It was as though she could not bring herself to utter her husband’s name.

‘Yes, I do.’ Again that tone of menace. ‘Sit.’

She flinched, recovered herself, walked steadily towards the desk and sat on a chair to one side, arranging her hands neatly in her lap. Then, as if for the first time, she noticed Jackman and her eyes closed for a moment.

‘Who is this man you have been meeting?’ The question was thrust at her, and he pushed across the little set of papers.

‘What do you mean?’ Jackman could hardly hear her nervous voice.

‘Don’t try to come the innocent with me, Alice. I have had you followed,’ he waved a hand briefly at Jackman. ‘This has been the result.’ Again he thrust the papers at her, leaning forward so that his heavy face was inches away from hers. ‘You will tell me who you have been meeting and why.’

Looking at the aggression in every line of her husband’s body, Jackman thought it was no wonder that Alice Peters wanted to spend a few hours in the company of a man who could make her feel life was enjoyable.

She passed her tongue over her lips and glanced helplessly at the investigator. ‘You had me followed?’ she said, her voice breathless. ‘Why?’

Peters rose, his heavy body seeming to hang over her frailty like a bear that has tasted human blood. ‘Because I wanted to know who you were meeting.’

She turned her white face to Jackman. ‘If you have indeed been following me,’ her voice was suddenly steady, ‘then you will know that I have a wide acquaintanceship and meet a great many people.’

‘Tell her,’ Peters suddenly roared at him. ‘Tell her who she meets.’

Jackman took a grip on himself. ‘Mrs Peters,’ he started slowly. ‘As instructed by your husband.’ He realised he had put the slightest of emphases on the word ‘husband’, as though to remind her that the man had every right to know what she did and where she went. ‘As instructed by your husband,’ he repeated without inflexion, ‘I followed you for just over a week. You met the same man on five out of eight days. His name is Daniel Rokeby.’

She flushed. ‘We move in the same circles,’ she said, her voice gaining strength. ‘Daniel is a friend of my sister, Rachel. If you were following me yesterday, you will know that the three of us visited the menagerie at Tottenham Court Road together.’ Her hands clutched tightly at the arms of her chair.

Jackman nodded.

Joshua Peters’ face darkened. He flourished his handful of papers. ‘Yesterday perhaps. But here,’ he leafed through them, picking out first one and then another. ‘You met Rokeby by himself at the British Museum. And again walking in Hyde Park. And then at some art exhibition. You cannot deny this.’

Bombarded by her husband’s words, Jackman saw Alice Peters find courage. ‘They were accidental meetings,’ she said, looking him straight in the eye. ‘I may have told my sister where I was going and perhaps she mentioned it to Mr Rokeby. As I said, he is her friend.’ She swallowed hard. ‘What is it you accuse me of, Joshua? Meeting an acquaintance and passing a little time with him?’

She managed to make the suggestion sound ludicrous and Jackman inwardly applauded her spirit.

Suddenly Peters rounded on him. ‘Have you reported everything to me? There were no assignations, no meetings in hotels you have failed to note down?’

‘Mr Peters, I am not in the habit of cheating on those who employ me.’

All at once, the man looked like a bear who had lost his way.

As though the changing of her husband’s target for a moment had given her additional courage, Alice Peters rose. ‘If you have nothing else to say, I will be in the drawing room. I am expecting my aunt to call for tea.’

Jackman managed to open the door for her. She went through without a glance at him.

Peters flung himself back in his swivel chair. ‘Bitch!’

The word shook Jackman. He wished he could tell this overbearing man what he thought of him. If only he didn’t need the fees …

‘Do you wish me to continue surveillance on Mrs Peters’ movements?’

The man sat, his heavy head bowed, chewing on a thumbnail. It was as though he hadn’t heard. Jackman waited. Finally Peters glanced up. ‘Call at my office 9.30 tomorrow morning.’

Jackman nodded. ‘I’ll be there. I’ll let myself out, sir,’ he added.

Once outside, he felt lighter, as though in that gloomy room he’d sloughed off a skin.

The next morning’s meeting was short. Peters announced that he had accepted his wife’s word that nothing unseemly had occurred between her and Daniel Rokeby and that he had promised to withdraw Jackman’s surveillance.

‘For the moment, anyway,’ he finished. ‘I’ll soon know if she’s up to her tricks again.’

Peters reached into a drawer and drew out an envelope and looked at him with hard eyes. ‘You wrote in your notes that the man Rokeby is some sort of poet but supports himself selling scurrilous stories to low magazines, right?’

Jackman nodded. It hadn’t taken long to establish who the attractive stranger was. After the third meeting, Jackman, instead of ensuring Mrs Peters was returning home, had followed the young man into a public house, where he had greeted another. They fell into an easy-looking conversation, drinking beer, laughing and joshing together. Then Jackman’s target punched the other lightly on the upper arm and left.

Jackman had approached the bar, slipped, clutched at the other man, and apologised. After that it didn’t take long for Jackman to pretend he’d wanted to catch an old friend, only to discover that the man who had just left was called Daniel Rokeby.

‘You don’t say! I could have sworn it was my old mate, Alfie Brooks. Alfie’s a solicitor’s clerk, says he’s going to be rich one of these days.’

The young man had given a hoot of laughter. ‘More than Dan will ever be.’ Half an hour later Jackman had everything he needed to know about the fellow who had captured Alice Peters’ heart. For Jackman was sure that this is what had happened. And who could blame her, married to a man like Joshua Peters?

Peters handed the envelope to Jackman. ‘That clears my account with you. I’ll be in touch if I need you again.’

* * *

For some ten days after that Jackman heard nothing more from Joshua Peters. He had long ago learned not to become emotionally involved in any of the investigations he undertook, or to make moral judgements on those who required his services. In this case, though, it had become increasingly difficult to maintain his distance and perform the job he’d been hired to do.

Then he had received a scribbled note that looked as though it had been written under extreme stress, commanding him to meet Peters immediately and gave an address in Bloomsbury.