Page 13

As Toby had anticipated, the telephone rang once more that Tuesday evening and it was no surprise to hear Alasdair at the other end of the line.

“Sorry it’s late, oh heart of my heart, but there’s news to share,” he said, in a voice redolent of weariness tempered by excitement.

“I have news to impart, as well, and it’s never too late in the evening to compare notes. Anyway, there might not be a chance tomorrow morning, given the way the schedule works.” Toby and Alasdair were shooting separate scenes and having to cram costume fittings in between, because some newly written outdoor scenes demanded different clobber. Opportunity for sleuthing would be scarce. “There’ll be the journey to Cambridge in the afternoon for the local premiere, but that feels too long to wait.”

“Quite. And I believe our car is also collecting Alexander Rattigan, so we won’t be able to speak with the same freedom. He’s a good egg, but we don’t want to risk him repeating what we say and causing a general panic.”

“Do you want to toss a coin for who goes first with their news, then? I’ll I trust you to flip it and not cheat.”

Alasdair snorted. “It’s certainly too late for that nonsense. You go first.”

“Jonny’s spoken to Matthew, who is vaguely aware of our nasty pals and will be putting the investigational wheels in motion concerning what they’re up to. Interestingly, the police aren’t short of people saying they’ve run across a conspiracy being planned which then turns out to be eyewash. I do feel sorry for them. Anyhow, there’s no prohibition on us regarding further poking about. On which subject, the admirable Miss Crouch tells me that the likeliest candidate for our Alexandra is called Miss Munsey and lives in Finsbury Park. I have her address.”

“The surname part isn’t news and I’m afraid she doesn’t live there any longer.” Alasdair sounded horribly smug. Just as well he wasn’t in the same room or he’d be getting a punch. “Said Miss Munsey has moved out to parts unknown and left a forwarding address for her post. A tobacconist’s shop in Stoke Newington.”

Toby whistled. “Well, that’s a turn-up. A wicket for the Hamilton team all right. Do you know why she upped sticks, though?”

“I think I do but I’ll pretend I don’t, as I don’t want to be on a hat trick ball.”

“Most gentlemanly. Miss Munsey was quite possibly up the duff, although I was given no proof of that by Miss Crouch. It was merely based on her not inconsiderable medical opinion.”

“An opinion apparently seconded by Miss Munsey’s erstwhile landlady, centred on a couple of episodes of morning sickness. You know, it’s a shame we haven’t got Miss Crouch and Mrs Richards working on the Herbert and Chapman angle. With those two, Bessy and Geraldine pursuing the case, Matthew Firestone would have all the information he needed within the hour.” Alasdair chuckled. “Difficult for us chaps to compete.”

“Unfair competitive advantage.” Toby chuckled. “In re Alexandra, I can’t help feeling slightly cheated, should it turn out that she’s simply hiding what people in the past might have called her disgrace.”

“Because that’s too prosaic an explanation? I’ve had the same thought and castigated myself for it. Better that reason than her being done away with because of what she overheard. Which may still apply, we should remember. No grabbing at the first piece of proper evidence, if that’s what it is.”

Toby nodded. “If this does apply, though, it takes two to make a baby, or so I was taught many moons ago. No practical experience of my own.”

“It does. Your point being…”

“Who’s the papa? Dennis’s son? The chap she was arguing with? Please God it’s not Lloyd.”

“Hold on. I’ve got some notes here.” A rustling noise. “Mrs Richards spoke to Mrs Carson, the aforementioned landlady. She reckoned that when her tenant moved out, a young chap in overalls came to help her. Of course, he might also be Dennis’s son and—or—the man she had the row with. If we could find him, we might find her, although there’s not a lot to go on, in either case.”

“True. I was simply being ultra suspicious and wondering if it could have been one of Chapman, Herbert or even Salt, although that’s based on nothing other than the dislike I’ve built up for them, despite never having met them.”

“It’s not an unreasonable idea. Boss gets employee with child and either finds a reason to dismiss her so his indiscretion doesn’t follow him into the office every day. Or he slips her a douceur in order to go off, have the child and perhaps get it adopted. Or dispose of it completely with a nurse in some back street who offers such a service.”

“All of which says we should follow up on your tobacconist—who may have some light to shed on things, please God—and I propose we get Jonny to tackle that angle. He’s not possessed of a well-known face, for one thing, and if the person doing duty behind the counter is female, he can exercise that undoubted charm of his on them. Spreads the workload, too and we don’t want to freeze him out when he’s already proved his worth.”

“Agreed on every count. What excuse could we suggest he has for being on Alexandra’s trail that wouldn’t risk him being slung out on his ear? He can’t say he’s an old flame, because surely the tobacconist would wonder if Alexandra was using a poste restante address to ensure he didn’t know where she was.” Alasdair gave what sounded like a stifled yawn. “And unless whoever gives her the letters is blind, innocent or obtuse, they must know that the woman who collects the post is expecting, unless the baby has already arrived.”

“Hm.” Toby should have anticipated this added complication. “What if Jonny says he didn’t realise Alexandra was expecting and is desperate to see her and ask for her hand?”

“Same applies. If he suggests he’s the baby’s father, it begs the question of why Alexandra should run away and favour disgrace over shaming him into marrying her. Too suspicious all round.”

“The whole business begs the question of why she hasn’t married the papa, irrespective of who he is. Unless she has, of course, and needed to keep it a secret from her—or his—family because they don’t approve. Or,” Toby added, suddenly recalling the book he’d read recently and had now loaned to Alasdair, “it’s like in Smallbone Deceased and she won’t marry as a matter of principle.”

“Oh, yes. I’ve just reached that bit. Life imitates art?” Alasdair took a deep breath. “Then what about Jonny playing the ‘noble sacrifice’ part? The type you excel in. He could say that he knows Alexandra’s expecting a baby and while it can’t be his, the father is a swine who’s left her to face the consequences of their joint action—don’t snigger—alone and that he wants to offer his hand and so preserve her honour.”

“Will he be prepared to say all that? I mean, given the notable family he comes from, doesn’t he risk his reputation, if both the shop assistant and Alexandra believe him and he’s sued for breach of promise? We could accidentally have hit too close to home if she’s desperate to get a ring on her hand.”

“I’m sure Jonny isn’t going to be bothered by that and the Stewarts strike me as the kind of family who’d be able to overcome any difficulty should it occur. Anyway, all Jonny has to say is that he was putting on an act as part of an investigation and he’d have us—and Matthew, no doubt—to back him up.”

Toby snorted. “And what if Alexandra has a most dedicated young man who hears of this slander and gives Jonny a punch up the bracket? Maybe we should leave it to Jonny to come up with a plan, because he’s not short of brains. He can always consult Messrs Stewart and Coppersmith regarding a strategy.”

“We’ll be seeing them tomorrow in Cambridge, n’est pas ? We should tell them how valuable Jonny’s proving. Anyway, we’re digressing, I’m tired and there’s more to impart. I spoke to Geraldine, as a result of which her cousin, Bruce, rang me.” Alasdair gave a summary of what he’d learned, including Carstone’s pre-war political sympathies and Lloyd’s making a nuisance of himself by insisting he knew about people’s powers, ending with, “And that peculiar behaviour was possibly a result of having been bombed during the Blitz.”

“A touch of shell shock? That puts a different complexion on things.” It wouldn’t make Toby like the man but he could sympathise. “That could have changed his perception of reality. I’m sure science has only scraped the surface of how the brain works and the effects of it going wrong. Maybe Lloyd has met people who’ve suffered a similarly traumatic experience and they truly believed they could do such strange things, which bolstered his beliefs. Maybe Alexandra was one. Now, talking of Carstone, I’ve been working through the file of cuttings the publicity department lent me. And guess what?”

“The hour’s too late for ‘guess what’, hooligan. Tell Uncle Alasdair what you found.”

“The chap who tried to save him at Chancery Lane was called James Salt. J Salt was one of the employee names I noticed in the Herbert and Chapman offices. It may be a mere coincidence, but it’s an unusual name and given the way neither of us can shake Carstone from our minds, perhaps it means something.”

“That could explain why Carstone’s been bothering you: your subconscious remembering the name from newspaper reports on the inquest and linking it to the one you saw in the office, all without your realising that you were being nudged into connecting the two.” Alasdair sounded distinctly perkier at hearing this titbit. “Would it be possible to fake pushing someone while looking like rescuing them?”

“Why not? Magicians practice that kind of misdirection all the time. We do, too, as actors. Were you never taught how to fake a strangling scene? If you were clever enough in the execution and afterwards produced just the right amount of wailing and hand wringing, you’d be convincing.”

“Hmm.” Alasdair considered the notion. “It would help if you had a collaborator, perhaps in the form of the person who apparently saved your life. As a plan it’s audacious but possible, and haven’t we been told that Herbert and Chapman were rather good at manufacturing a plausible scenario when defending one of their unsavoury clients?”

“Very true. That other chap was called Robert Archer, by the way, and he could also be one of H and C’s merry men, for all we know. Should we ask Dennis’s son or beard the lions in their den ourselves?”

“Doing any bearding could be tricky. What I hadn’t got round to reporting back, because we got distracted by Lloyd’s history, was that Bruce doesn’t want us poking in our noses with them. He stated plainly that he didn’t want to face the wrath of our fans if anything untoward happened and I don’t think that was just a joke.”

Toby whistled. “Very different to Matthew Firestone’s viewpoint, but perhaps he’s more aware of our track record and our ability to handle ourselves in a tricky situation.”

“It was all rather odd, actually,” Alasdair said, “because earlier in the conversation he’d suggested that you might pick Lloyd’s brains about what his cousin was up to. Bruce said he’d changed his mind after further reflection, although I wasn’t convinced it was merely that.”

“Any inkling of what caused the about face?”

“Funnily enough, it was after we discussed Carstone. Might be a coincidence, but…”

Toby could imagine the eloquent shrug accompanying that statement. “What does this Bruce chap do, by the way? I’d assumed he was an equerry or civil servant but I no doubt assumed wrongly.”

“He didn’t say and I suspect pressing him wouldn’t have got an answer. I guess it’s something on the security side, because he’d been involved with keeping an eye on Fascists during the war, and he’d also worked alongside Messrs Coppersmith and Stewart with whatever they were doing. Add on to that the authoritative air he possessed and what Geraldine said about him. He tells her plenty about his job but it’s all mundane details.”

“I see. Like folk in war who were involved with something secret which they couldn’t talk about, so told friends they were simply involved in a clerking role and would they like to hear all about it?” Toby’s second cousin had done the same, pretending she was a mere clerk, when he knew all along that she had far too much in the way of brains to be confined to such a mundane role.

“Exactly the idea I had. Anyway, I told Bruce we had a missing woman to find and we’d be continuing in that particular quest. He didn’t issue a ban on that.” Alasdair yawned. “Sorry. I need my bed.”

“You get away to it. Give me that Stoke Newington address and I’ll call Jonny to get him on the trail. We’ll have to explain how things may have turned on their heads in more ways than one, so I’ll brief him on the Bruce stuff as well as Mrs Richards’s Miss Marpling. As for us, what next?”

“Despite what Bruce said after his change of mind, I’d like to follow the Lloyd angle. See if he’s more deeply involved in this mess, if we can do it without touching on Herbert and Chapman .”

“You must be tired. Fat chance of that given his relation to Billy Chapman.”

“You don’t fancy going back to the meeting next Monday? Ostensibly to give everyone an update on Alexandra, but really to probe Lloyd? You don’t need me to tell you what to do.”

“Ask him out for a drink, ostensibly—as you put it—to make amends for not having the power he was sure I had?” Toby chuckled. “I’d have to work myself up to that. I’d happily go and see the doorman, though. Not any time on a Monday, to avoid the risk of seeing the rest of the gang. I could pick his brains on all counts, including the matter of Lloyd—whom he clearly doesn’t like so might be willing to dish any dirt on. Then I’ll turn the conversation to Carstone. What were you thinking of doing that won’t incur Bruce’s wrath?”

“Assuming I don’t wake in the morning with a better idea, and assuming you wouldn’t mind me slightly treading on your toes, I’d like to talk to one or more of Moira and the lads. On the same subjects as you’re going to tackle the porter about.” Alasdair yawned again. “Goodnight sweetheart. I’ll be no use in the morning if I don’t get my shut eye.”

“Then you go off, sweet prince. I’ll be doing the same once I’ve tried to catch young Jonny.”

Luckily, Jonny had not yet taken himself—with or without Roger—off to bed when Toby rang. “Sorry to call so late, but there have been developments.”

“They must be important. Tell all.”

Toby outlined the news about Alexandra Munsey, the information from Bruce, leaving for the moment the things he’d gleaned himself from the inquest reporting. “Which all means that, although it may be too soon to say for definite, our case of the missing lady may have turned out to be a bit of a red herring, while the threat of disruption to the coronation seems to have become something that only the proper authorities can handle. Bruce doesn’t want us getting involved.”

“What a spoilsport. Didn’t you and Alasdair happily risk your lives every time you scrambled?”

“We did, but he clearly doesn’t want us to continue indulging that daredevil attitude into peacetime. Anyway, there doesn’t seem to be a moratorium on locating Alexandra, so we’ll press on with that and if anything coronation wise turns up while we do so, we report it to Matthew, not Bruce.” Toby harrumphed. “Although we may have something meatier to dig our teeth into, which we’re not banned from probing.”

“That sounds more like it.”

“Yes, I thought you’d appreciate this. I’ve spent my evening going through everything Landseer could provide me regarding Charles Carstone, late actor of this parish. He who went under the wheels of a train in what might have been a cleverly masked suicide.”

“The suicide theory that I reckon is a no go because of his Catholicism?”

“The very one. This death might just turn out to be murder, unless Alasdair and I are so obsessed with finding violent crime lurking everywhere that we’ve misread the slender clues.”

Jonny whistled. “Well, that’s a turn up. I never thought of wondering if you could make a murder look like an accident. What’s brought you to that conclusion, apart from a naturally suspicious nature salted by relevant experience?”

“A name. And one that’s rather coincident to what you just said. James Salt. Does that ring a bell?”

“Let me think. Was that one of the names on the desks at the Herbert and Chapman offices?”

“Correct. J Salt, anyway. James Salt was the person on the platform with Carstone who tried to save him and who was himself saved by a chap called Robert Archer who was, according to all the reports, standing next to him when this happened. If we could somehow prove they knew each other, which wasn’t admitted in court, it could be an indication of dodgy business afoot.”

“Hm. Playing devil’s advocate, Salt might have had genuine reason to know Carstone through his being a client of the firm. Chancery Lane isn’t that far a walk from Clarence House, so they might have innocently gone there together at knocking off time, in order to journey home. Salt might even have been asked to keep a watch on Carstone, if somebody at the solicitors was concerned that he was in such a state that he might harm himself.”

“All good points, but that client connection isn’t mentioned in any of the reports. They state that neither man knew Carstone, so either it isn’t our J Salt or they’ve deliberately kept things quiet.”

“As they keep their location quiet. This Bruce chap hasn’t banned looking into Carstone’s death, has he?”

“No. Although remember that he told Alasdair that Carstone was another Mosley-ite, until his career started to take off and he wisely eschewed those connections. Alasdair also got the feeling that the mention of Carstone might have prompted the warnings about poking our noses in, although that might be him reading too much into things. It becomes habitual when you play Holmes and Watson too much.”

“I expect it does. Right, give me that address where Alexandra has her post sent and I’ll try to drop in there tomorrow. If I take an extended lunch hour, I can make up the time later. I’ll report back tomorrow evening.”

“Alas, you won’t find us here then. We’re off to see your aged relative for the East Anglian debut of the film in which I portray him. They’re entertaining us at St Bride’s.”

Jonny chuckled. “Watch out for the claret, then. It can be powerful stuff and we wouldn’t want your adoring fans to see you pie-eyed. I’ll call on Thursday, if that works.”

“Excellent. I hope that we’ll have things to report to you, too. We’ve that day off from being actors, so we’ll turn detectives, instead.”

Although what Alasdair was going to contribute was a moot point. The vague idea he’d spoken about, talking to Moira again, felt increasingly like a smokescreen. What idea was buzzing around that beautiful head of his and how would it be in line with the promise to Bruce that they’d not be sniffing around the firm of Herbert and Chapman ? Or had Toby fallen into the trap of reading too much into everything?