As if by Magic (5 page)

‘Did you go to the police?'

George raised his hands and let them fall helplessly into his lap. ‘No. No, I didn't. After all, the will clearly said “Rosemary Belmont to her son, George Alfred Lassiter,” and that's not me, no matter what the address was. I should have gone to the police, I suppose, but my money was running out fast and I was desperately in need of a job.'

He put a hand to his mouth. It was some time before he spoke again. ‘Jack, I had no idea how hard it would be. I'd heard about the unemployment, of course, but hand on heart, I thought it was because the men weren't trying hard enough. I'd always been able to pick up something back home but here there was nothing. I'd started off in a small hotel on the Tottenham Court Road but pretty soon realized I couldn't afford it and moved to a cheap boarding house in Bloomsbury. I'd wanted to make enough for a ticket back to the Cape but I was soon scratching round just to keep myself alive. I got a few odd jobs, portering and so on, at Covent Garden, but it was very little.'

‘You poor devil,' said Jack quietly.

‘I couldn't believe it,' broke out George. ‘I was willing to work – work hard – but for every job there were dozens of men. I thought being an ex-officer would help but it cut no ice at all. For God's sake, Jack, all I wanted was some manual labour, anything to get enough money to return to Africa, but there seemed to be no chance at all. I looked at the poor beggars sleeping on the Embankment and knew I'd be joining them soon if something didn't turn up.'

Jack looked at his friend. George had gone pale, reliving that heartbreaking struggle. There was nothing he could say that wouldn't sound trite but he had to make some reply. He poured two more cups of coffee and handed one to George. ‘It must have been pretty grim.'

George took the coffee and held it, warming his hands on the cup. It was a while before he spoke. ‘Grim? Yes, it was grim. I've never felt so desperate in my life. Eventually I was down to my last few shillings. All I had left was one and ninepence, and I owed two weeks' rent. It may have been the worry which brought it on, because I couldn't think what to do, but I started to feel seedy. I came down-stairs and met the landlord in the hall. He took one look at me and gave me my marching orders. He didn't want an invalid on his hands. I was feeling so wretched I let him take the money and swipe my clothes and things to pay for the room and turn me out without any argument. I was wearing my dress clothes, so he couldn't take them, and out I went. I spent that night in Euston station, pretending I was waiting for a train. The next day I wandered about, hoping for some sort of job, but I was feeling dreadful. It was raining and bitterly cold. I sat in the park for ages, hoping the fresh air would do me good, but as time went on I knew I was in for malaria.'

‘Is this the night you were taken into hospital?'

George nodded. ‘Yes.' He hesitated, looking at Jack. ‘Your friend, the policeman – did he tell you what happened?'

‘Yes, he did,' said Jack, lighting another cigarette. ‘That's how I came to find you, of course. I'd like to hear your side of things, though, I must say.'

George didn't enjoy telling the story. As he spoke the desperation and the uncanny fear of that night returned. He remembered how the street and house seemed the wrong size; first too small, then too big. How the house, that creepily familiar house, seemed to draw him in, as if it was meant he should be there, to witness a murder in that quiet kitchen by the flickering firelight. Because he didn't enjoy telling the story, he knew his account was lame and unconvincing. He wouldn't have been able to piece things together at all if Jack hadn't helped him out with questions.

After George had finished, Jack sat for a long moment, staring sightlessly into the fire.

‘Well?' prompted George anxiously. ‘Do you think I was dreaming, Jack?'

Jack ran his thumb round his chin. ‘To be honest, George, it sounds like it.'

George looked down at his intertwined fingers. He felt an unexpected stab of disappointment. He'd had a nightmare. Either that or he'd seen ghosts and he didn't want to believe in ghosts . . . A bad dream was the only rational explanation and yet he felt oddly dissatisfied. It had all seemed so very
real
.

‘What's wrong?' asked Jack softly.

George shrugged. ‘After the men had left the room I wondered if I'd dreamt it. I felt the table. It was solid. I touched the girl. I could have sworn she was really there. Because I thought I might have dreamt it at the time, for some reason it makes it seem more real.' He looked up ruefully. ‘Forget it,' he said with a dismissive gesture. ‘It must have been a dream. Nothing else makes sense. Look, Jack,' he said, briskly changing the subject, ‘it's damn good of you to take me in like this but I want you to know that I'll push off as soon as I can.' He gave a shy smile. ‘I might have to sponge the ticket money from you, but I'll repay you as soon as I can.'

‘Ticket money?'

‘To go back home.'

‘Hold on.' Jack's voice was firm. ‘You won't be fit to go anywhere for a few weeks. Don't worry, George. It's nice to have you here. Apart from that, you'll need somewhere to stay while we try and find out what's happened to this legacy of yours.'

George's eyes opened wide. ‘But I told you. I don't know it's mine. Besides, it's been claimed.'

Jack snorted impatiently. ‘Good God, man, I know it's been claimed. Who by? That's the point. We ought to be able to discover something between the two of us.' He stretched his long legs out in front of him, toasting the soles of his shoes by the fire. ‘The question is, where do we start?'

Jack decided to start with the solicitors but his plans suffered a setback. That afternoon
On the Town
experienced a crisis which caused him to abandon his guest and completely overturn George's unvoiced opinion that writing wasn't really work. It wasn't until Friday afternoon, by which time he had hammered out a ten-thousand-word story (in which a golden-haired girl was mysteriously done to death not in a kitchen but a conservatory), three articles and a column, that he could call on Messrs Marchbolt, Lawson and Marchbolt. The results were unsatisfactory. Old Mr Marchbolt, although he received him courteously, could shed no light on the mystery and clearly thought the whole business was a misunderstanding. Major Haldean would surely appreciate, he added, steepling his fingers together, that any suggestion that the firm had acted other than in good faith was one they would treat with the utmost gravity. Indeed, if Major Haldean thought there was any chance whatsoever that a fraudulent claim had been made, it was Major Haldean's duty to go to the police.

Major Haldean, picking up his hat and stick, thought he'd do just that. He derived a certain amount of satisfaction from seeing the wind visibly taken out of Mr Marchbolt's sails.

The policeman Jack first thought of was, of course. Inspector William Rackham. But Rackham was not at the Yard. He'd been called out on urgent business and Jack, leaving a message for him, disconsolately went home.

The urgent business Rackham had been called away on concerned Mrs Margaret Culverton.

It had been that morning, the morning of Friday 9th November, a dark, fog-filled day, when she got the letters. Peggy, as Margaret Culverton was always known, held the letters lightly by the edges. They were both from Gilchrist Lloyd, Alexander's secretary. She could tell that from the writing on the envelopes. She had been waiting for this. The letters had been forwarded from the house in Richmond, the house she had shared with Alexander.

Alexander
. . . Her stomach seemed to turn to water. There had been a time – long ago, it seemed – when she had been happy. Then she had met Alexander. She had thought that happiness was her usual state. She was wrong. It was difficult to remember now why she had been so attracted to him. Alexander's dignified good looks (no one would ever shorten his name), his firm chin and Roman nose, suggested a thoughtful, temperate, far-seeing man. Even now, with that dignity coarsened into grossness, she knew he had a presence. Alexander would never be overlooked. He had charmed her. Oh yes, Alexander could charm. He was obviously going to be successful, too. He had vision and the knowledge to make his vision work. The hard core of ruthlessness, which she had always sensed, she had mistaken for tenacity. She had never met anyone like Alexander. She had been excited by his vision of the future, a future linked by the invisible highways of the air. Aeroplanes would replace ships and perhaps even railways. When you could breakfast in London and lunch in Paris, who would travel any other way? In a London tormented by war, she had listened, spellbound. She knew aeroplanes as things to be feared, with their bombs and their guns. Alexander showed her a glittering future of a prosperous peace, where the aeroplane would be the metaphorical sword to be beaten into a ploughshare. Alexander, like others before him, could quote the Bible for his own ends. He had invited her to share in that future. All he needed was money; her money.

She wasn't happy for long. Happiness had turned to dull content, and then, so subtly that she couldn't mark the change, to uneasy acceptance which merged into apprehension. Fear had followed close behind, then absolute revulsion seized her. She had left Alexander and had been dreading this moment ever since.

She took a deep breath and, picking up the paper-knife, slit open the first envelope. It was merely a note, written by Mr Lloyd and dated Thursday 1st November, to say that Alexander had gone to Paris. She smiled wryly. She hadn't told the servants she was leaving for good. She'd merely packed a bag and been driven to the station, as she had so many times before. They must have waited before forwarding the letter on, thinking she would be back soon. She opened the second letter and, as she read it, her eyes, which had been narrowed in unconscious defiance, opened in surprise. It had been written last Monday.

Culverton Air Navigation Limited,

23 Cooper Street,

London SW3.

Monday, 5th November 1923

Dear Mrs Culverton,

As you doubtless know, Mr Culverton should have flown to Paris on Thursday, 1st November. I do not wish to alarm you unduly but I have today received a telephone call from the Paris office enquiring as to the whereabouts of Mr Culverton which I was unable to answer.

To the best of my knowledge Mr Culverton should have departed for Paris on Thursday morning but I now understand that, although he booked a seat on the 9.23 Culverton Air Navigation flight from Croydon, his seat was not, in fact, occupied. Following extensive enquiries I have ascertained that Mr Culverton has not flown to Paris on any of our subsequent flights.

I would be grateful if you would contact me at your earliest convenience.

Yours sincerely,

Gilchrist Lloyd

Secretary

Peggy Culverton put down the letter, staring blankly at the words on the page. With fingers that trembled slightly she lit a cigarette then, abruptly reaching a decision, she walked into the hall, picked up the telephone and rang Culverton Air Navigation.

William Rackham sat in the armchair in Margaret Culverton's sitting room. It was a pleasant room in a pleasant flat, if a bit on the small side. A pied-à-terre? He thought that was the right description. The flat was in a good area, furnished with classic good taste. The sideboard and table were of highly polished dark wood and the up-to-date chrome fittings of the fireplace caught the flicker of the agreeable wood fire. It was a lady's room, thought Rackham, taking in the shiny chintz of the sofa and the vibrant splash of colour from the chrysanthemums in their tall vase on the windowsill. Yes, a lady's room and Margaret Culverton was definitely a lady.

She was in her forties and still attractive, fashionably but quietly dressed in light brown. She didn't miss much, if he knew anything about it. That she was worried was obvious, both from her expression and from the way she continually fingered the beading on the arm of the chair.

He cleared his throat and smiled, hoping to put her at her ease. ‘It's very good of you to let me come and see you, Mrs Culverton.'

‘Are you the person I spoke to on the phone?' Her voice was firm and clear.

‘That's right, Mrs Culverton. I made a note of what you said, so we don't need to go over that again.' He coughed and came to the crunch. ‘Your husband is missing?'

She nodded. ‘Apparently he's been missing since 1st November.'

Apparently? That was an odd way to put it. Didn't she know? ‘When did you last see him?' She hesitated. Rackham watched her curiously. ‘Mrs Culverton?' he prompted.

‘I saw him last on the morning of Monday, 29th October. We were at our house in Richmond. That's The Lampreys, River Grove Road.' She spoke in a nervous rush. ‘Alexander was driven to the station to catch the 9.07. It was his custom to spend the week in town. He had rooms at his club, the Mulciber in St James's. I spoke to Mr Lloyd, Alexander's secretary, after I received his letter. He told me Alexander had arrived in the office on Monday morning.'

‘And did you see him or speak to him – on the telephone, for instance – during the course of the week?'

‘No. No, I didn't.' She sounded very uncertain and Rackham looked at her, waiting for the revelation he was sure was there. ‘Mrs Culverton?' he prompted.

She took a deep breath. ‘You might as well know,' she said in a rush. ‘Having asked to see you it would be stupid to try and hide things.' She looked at him with troubled grey eyes. ‘How much needs to be made public?'

‘Nothing,' said Rackham quickly. ‘You can put your mind at rest about that. What you tell me is entirely confidential unless, of course, it's a criminal matter.'

‘In that case . . .' She straightened her shoulders and plunged in. ‘I had left my husband, Inspector.'