A Willing Victim (15 page)

Was it possible, Stratton wondered, that Lloyd was Michael’s father? That was unlikely, but it wasn’t impossible. Stratton leafed through his notebook. Lloyd’s aunt had said that he was born in 1928, so if Michael was now eleven or twelve, he’d have been
born in 1944 or 1945 when Lloyd was sixteen or seventeen. A boy could father a child at that age, and Mary/Ananda, who’d married a man fully forty years older than herself and was said to be ‘man-mad’ into the bargain, might not give two hoots about how old her partner was … But that meant that the two of them would have had to have met during the war, before the Foundation was set up, which didn’t seem particularly likely. All the same, he made a note to check if Grove knew, or would find out, what Lloyd had been doing in 1944 and ’45 and where he’d been doing it.

If it were true, of course, then Lloyd might have grown to hate Mary/Ananda for colluding with Roth in erasing him from Michael’s family tree. Perhaps he’d grown to hate his own son, too, for supplanting him when he felt himself to be the ‘chosen’ one? But in that case, why not deface both the photographs? And why stay at the Foundation for so many years, accepting – or at least keeping quiet about – the fiction about Michael’s conception?

None of it made sense. And surely, even for such a strange bunch as he was dealing with, none of that was very likely. One thing, however, was likely: if anyone other than Lloyd had defaced that photograph, then Michael – and possibly Mary/Ananda, who must have had some reason to flee the Foundation – might well be in danger.

‘We don’t want to take any chances with this,’ said Lamb. ‘I’ll get in touch with the District Superintendent in Suffolk about providing a police guard for the boy. We need to track down the mother, too – get that photograph in the newspapers. And we’d better have some copies made of both those pictures of Lloyd, as well.’

Wonders will never cease, thought Stratton, surprised and relieved by his superior’s acceptance of his argument, entirely without the bollocking-plus-finger-jabbing routine.

‘I’ll suggest you continue to liaise with DI Ballard,’ said Lamb. ‘I also think it might be a good idea for you to contact the Psychical Research Society about this Foundation place. I’m told that they keep tabs on that sort of thing.’

Stratton felt his heart sink: more cranks. Something of this must have shown on his face, because Lamb said, ‘I realise that they may seem a somewhat, er …
eccentric
crew … but apparently they’re the best source of information about this type of outfit, as well as,’ Lamb’s smile was open and genuine, ‘about the fairies at the bottom of the garden.’

Back in his own office, Stratton had just discovered that the
Psychical Research Society had its headquarters off Kensington High Street and was wondering if one of Lamb’s Masonic chums might have told him about it, when McNally telephoned. ‘Cause of death was loss of blood resulting from puncture wounds,’ said the pathologist. ‘The haemorrhage was internal, which is why you didn’t see much blood, and—’

‘Whoa,’ said Stratton, fumbling in his jacket. ‘Let me get my notebook.’ Digging about in his pocket, his fingers came upon the envelope Albertine had given him. Feeling something crackle and move inside, he realised that it contained a hitherto unnoticed second item, taped flat to the inside. Detaching it, he saw that it was a death certificate for the Reverend Edward Granville Milburn, with the date given as 17 May 1945. The informant was a Suffolk physician, Dr James Slater. Stratton, glancing at the information given under cause of death, shook his head in disbelief.

‘Right,’ he said, putting the telephone receiver back to his ear. ‘Sorry about that. You’re a bit keen, aren’t you, working on a Saturday?’

‘I said I’d give a talk to one of the university science clubs,’ said McNally, ‘where I am due in half an hour, so we’ll need to hurry this up. I assumed you’d like to know sooner rather than later.’

‘Yes, absolutely. Fire away. Internal haemorrhage and …?’ Stratton started writing.

‘Yes, internal. The assailant wouldn’t have had much blood on him at all, unless he – or she, I suppose – was injured. All the blood samples we took are O Positive – the most common group …’ McNally began reading from his notes at high speed, so that Stratton struggled to keep up. ‘Wounds on the hands commensurate with an attempt to defend himself. Traces of blood under the nails – O Positive, as I said – and twelve wounds to the chest which didn’t penetrate the cavity, plus two that did. One of them
punctured his left lung. A quantity of blood had escaped into the cavity of the pleura, which would have begun to impede respiration fairly quickly, but what actually did for him was a puncture wound to the left side of the chest, five and a half inches deep. Penetrated the right ventricle of the heart and death was caused by blood loss. Mind you,’ he added, ‘the wound to the lung would have finished him if the other hadn’t – it would just have taken a bit longer to do the job. Judging from the blood flow, both of the wounds were inflicted when Lloyd was horizontal. The others could certainly have been done when he was standing up … with the scissors, if only one blade was used. There’s not much blood on them, but with a rapid blow or plunge the vessels are compressed so bleeding takes place when the pressure is removed with the withdrawal of the weapon, and of course sometimes the weapon is effectively wiped clean on the edge of the wound or against clothing as it’s withdrawn—’

‘And the traces on the scissors are O Positive too, are they?’ asked Stratton, more to slow things down because his hand was beginning to cramp than because he hadn’t understood.

‘Yes, as I’ve said.’ McNally’s voice rose a peevish semitone. ‘Judging by the position of the scissors, the minor wound to the neck was inflicted last … It seems to have been a pretty frenzied attack, so perhaps the assailant didn’t realise that Lloyd was done for. You’ll get a report in due course, but now, if you don’t mind—’

‘Just one more thing,’ said Stratton, who was still scribbling frantically.

‘If it’s quick.’

‘It will be. Nothing to do with Lloyd but, if you saw a death certificate where the cause was given as …’ Stratton clawed the piece of paper towards him, ‘“bed sores, exhaustion and rheumatoid arthritis,” what would you think?’

‘I’d think someone was playing a prank. Or that he didn’t know what he was doing. Why?’

‘I’ve got one here. It’s for a sixty-eight-year-old man who died in 1945. The informant is his doctor.’

‘Man must have been an idiot, then. Bed sores can cause septicaemia, which could certainly be a cause of death, but then it should say so on the certificate. Rheumatoid arthritis may be unpleasant, but it doesn’t kill you, and exhaustion would need to be qualified.’

‘So you’d say it was insufficient.’

‘I most certainly would. As I said, the doctor’s a fool. And, if the need had arisen, he’d never have got it past a coroner – or not unless
he
was a fool, too. Now, if there’s nothing else, I have to be on my way.’

Stratton replaced the telephone receiver and was trying to collect his thoughts when a phlegmy rumbling noise heralded Grove, who ambled in with his pipe clenched firmly between his teeth and a sheaf of paper under his arm. ‘We widened the area of inquiry – done all the streets between Shaftesbury Avenue and Oxford Street – but there’s bugger all to show for it. Everyone was either out, asleep or away, and no one saw a bloody thing. We’ve had another chat with everyone in the house at Flaxman Court, too, but …’ Grove shook his head gloomily. ‘I took a copy of that photograph, but no one recognised the woman.’

‘At least we know who she is.’ Stratton proceeded to fill Grove in on his visit to Lincott. ‘We also know, I’m afraid, that she was at the pictures in Ipswich the evening of the night Lloyd was killed, with a friend. The manager remembered her. He said that the programme ended at half past ten, and he saw them leaving. Wait a minute, though – now I think about it, I don’t think anybody actually said they’d seen her when she got back to the Foundation …’ Stratton leafed through his notebook. ‘No, they didn’t. So I suppose she could have come to London afterwards, if she’d taken a late train or got a lift or something.’

The older man listened carefully, sucking his nicotine-stained teeth at intervals and shaking his big grey head. ‘Not impossible. We’ll keep showing the photograph, and I’ll get them to ask if anyone’s seen a strange car. You’d think someone would remember – not so many people around, late on. I’m afraid,’ he added, ‘that the news from Fingerprints isn’t very good, either. The ones on the scissors are Lloyd’s and so are most of the prints in the room. Those that aren’t belong to Mrs Linder. There’s only one set – well, a palm – unaccounted for, and it doesn’t match anyone in the house or anything on the files.’

‘Where did they find it?’

‘On the desk. Redfern says that from the look of it, someone was either leaning against the edge of the desk or was pushed back against it. Of course, it doesn’t mean they had anything to do with Lloyd’s death. Could have been months old – from the sound of it, he didn’t go in for housework.’

‘That’s true,’ said Stratton, remembering the state of the room. ‘By the way, do you know what he was up to in 1944 and ’45?’

Grove made a frog face, turning down the corners of his mouth and raising his eyebrows. ‘Haven’t the foggiest. His aunt would know though – want me to give her a ring?’

‘Please.’ Stratton stood up, stretching. ‘I’ve got to pay a visit to the Psychical Research Society – yet more fun.’

‘You might ask them what the wife’s Auntie Annie did with her teaset,’ said Grove. ‘Only electroplated nickel, but it had great sentimental value and she’d always said the wife could have it when she’d—’

‘I’ll electroplate you in a minute,’ said Stratton, reaching for his coat. ‘And you get your lot to find something useful for me down Wardour Street, or I’ll tell the Psychic blokes to send
you
something that goes bump in the night.’

*

The headquarters of the Psychical Research Society proved to be next door to a drab vegetarian restaurant. Stratton, who was feeling peckish, glanced at the flyblown menu card in the window. Headed with the words ‘Fleshless Food’, the items on offer included sorrel salad, something called Nuttolene which he didn’t even want to think about, and ‘health-giving’ Granose biscuits. Despite it being lunchtime, there seemed to be very few customers and Stratton found he had no desire to join them.

The building occupied by the Society, spruce and gleaming with fresh paint, seemed positively welcoming in comparison. There was a book shop on the ground floor, with a neatly arranged window display of the society’s journals and books with titles such as
The Way of Attainment
,
Photographing the Invisible
, and
Science Hammers on the Church Door
. The middle-aged lady behind the till was rather wispy and dressed in trailing, sludge-coloured clothes, but at least she didn’t go in for penetrating stares or everlasting smiles. On hearing why Stratton had come, she conducted him briskly through to a cramped, filing-cabinet-filled back office to meet her boss, who had the reassuringly corporeal look of a scruffy, aged Billy Bunter and whom she introduced as Dr Thorley.

‘Mr Lloyd hasn’t come to our attention,’ he said, when Stratton had explained the situation, ‘and I’m afraid we know very little about Theodore Roth’s background. There’s the connection with Ambrose Tynan, of course,’ here Thorley gave an indulgent smile, ‘but we don’t, for example, know where he was born, or very much at all about his life before he came to England.’

‘That was after the war, was it?’ Stratton pulled out his notebook.

‘That’s right. I assume, from his name – if, of course, it is his real one – that Mr Roth is Jewish. So, if he came from Europe, then he must have been lucky enough to escape the persecution.’

‘I understand he’d been in a concentration camp,’ said Stratton, remembering what Tynan had told him.

‘It’s quite possible. We think he came originally from Eastern Europe. He claims to be Russian, which is certainly possible. It’s often difficult, with these sorts of people, to disentangle fact from fiction. He also claims, for example, to have studied in Tibet.’

Stratton flicked back through his notebook to the notes from his conversation with Tynan. ‘“In his youth, under the great masters”,’ he read. ‘And they would be?’

‘Your guess is as good as mine. In fact, we don’t know whether they exist at all. But it’s not an unusual claim, by any means. Madame Blavatsky, who founded the Theosophical Society in the last century, told people she’d travelled to Tibet on her own and lived there for over seven years. It’s never been substantiated but an awful lot of people swallowed the story on remarkably little evidence.’ Thorley shrugged. ‘They believed because they wanted to. It was the same with G. I. Gurdjieff. He founded an organisation very similar to Roth’s, and made the same claim about studying in Tibet – but again, there’s no proof he went anywhere near the place, just as there isn’t with Roth. Blavatsky, incidentally, was Russian, and Gurdjieff was born in Armenia. There are an awful lot of stories about both their lives which I doubt would stand up to examination.’

Stratton nodded, remembering the quotation about the big stick he’d seen at the Foundation. ‘Presumably, between the wars, it would have been quite hard for a foreigner to get into Tibet.’

‘Heinrich Harrer managed it, of course, during the war.’

‘Harrer?’

‘Austrian mountaineer, visited the country and became the Dalai Lama’s tutor. Wrote a book called
Seven Years in Tibet
. Very popular.’

‘Oh, yes.’ Stratton recalled seeing the title in the windows of the bookshops on Charing Cross Road. It must, he thought, have
been the basis for the documentary film that Roth had said Tynan and Mary/Ananda had gone to see on the night Lloyd was killed.

‘Harrer was the exception. It was very much a closed country – still is, of course, now the Communists have got it. Very few Western travellers, and the natives have little contact with the outside world, so they can’t tell us. And of course much is made of the secrecy surrounding these great masters.’ Thorley’s fat hands pawed quotation marks in the air around the last two words. ‘Or the “Great White Brotherhood”, as Madame Blavatsky called them. Which is,’ he added sardonically, ‘especially convenient if – as we suspect – they don’t actually exist.’