Page 14

Wednesday had proved an excellent day, one which Toby had enjoyed every moment of. All Landseer studio business had gone well, the drive to Cambridge turned out to be smooth and untroubled, and the meal at St Bride’s—claret and all—had turned out to be both delicious and entertaining. The premiere itself was a huge success, with Jonty Stewart charming all and sundry, especially Fiona who managed to much of the evening on his arm. Stewart and Coppersmith had also proved a hit with the gentlemen and ladies of the press, their picture being splashed over both the arts and society pages of the classier newspapers. Toby hoped that he and Alasdair would be as handsome and charismatic if they reached their age.

Now it was Thursday and the three principals had a fallow day, with any filming on the new production being confined to background shots, which would be awash with extras, and those scenes involving minor characters. While Fiona was probably going to spend her time seeing her handsome nobleman—who’d hopefully be amused at the way his uncle had monopolised her in Cambridge—Toby and Alasdair would be putting on their metaphorical deerstalkers. They’d be having a debriefing on the case that evening, probably followed by a hurried de-briefing of another sort, before they headed to their respective beds.

After a lie-in and a glorious breakfast, Toby dropped into his tailors to pick up a new set of pyjamas, then made his way to Eagle Street, hoping that Clarence House wouldn’t be under observation by Bruce’s boys, which would risk earning himself a black mark. His conscience was fairly clear, because he wouldn’t be going anywhere near the third floor nor would he be asking the porter about Messrs Herbert or Chapman. Not directly, anyway.

By the time he’d got his new pyjamas wrapped and tucked under his arm, Toby had also got the approach he’d take with the doorman—whose name he’d remembered as Fred—firmly wrapped up, as well. He made his way along Eagle Street with a spring in his step, raising his hat to several ladies and one striking looking chap who shouted greetings along the lines of, “Hello, Dr Watson.”

“Back again?” the doorman said, as soon as Toby entered the lobby. “I thought, from the way you left his nibs’s meeting that evening that you and your pal had shaken the dust of this place off your feet good and proper.”

“I meant to, Fred. That was what his nibs called you, wasn’t it?” Toby waited for the confirmatory nod before continuing. “The trouble is, I needed to come back to get some information: the things one has to do in the name of amateur detection. It’s a damn sight easier playing Holmes and Watson onscreen than off.”

Fred rolled his eyes. “Don’t come over all Gloria Swanson. That’s as bad as him .”

“Him? Do you mean Lloyd Conway?”

“That’s the one. They’re all a right shower, him and his pals on the third floor. It’s lucky that they’re the exception, because if all the tenants were like them, I’d be out of here.” Fred drew himself up in his chair. “But there’s two DFC’s and the son of a VC among the other occupants and better people you couldn’t wish to meet.”

Toby, momentarily wishing he’d had the foresight to be wearing his medals, pressed on. “Fred, you sound just the person to give me the information I need, in strictest confidence, naturally. We need to keep an eye and ear in case his nibs, as you so splendidly referred to him, or any of his acquaintances turn up.”

Fred jerked his thumb towards a door behind him. “We can talk in my cubby hole. I can keep an eye on the door and an ear on the telephone from there.”

“Much appreciated.” When they’d entered the inner sanctum—which was well provided with a window looking into the lobby and a mirror to cover a potential blind spot by the main entrance—Toby lowered his voice. “ Herbert and Chapman . I had no idea, when I came here that Monday, exactly what the firm was like. I’ve since discovered their business reputation and that nobody has a good word for them. I can understand why.”

“Their clientele must have a good word for the firm, but some of those are hardly an advert for decency or good judgement.” Now Fred dropped his voice. “I’m not going to mention some of the people I see going up there. I know that’s where they’re headed, because even if they hadn’t had to sign in, they look shifty.”

“I don’t remember signing in,” Toby said.

“You don’t need to, either side of official opening times.”

That was interesting: might Herbert and Chapman entertain some of their clients—or co-conspirators—out of hours?

“Still,” Fred continued, “in or out of hours, people have to ask where the blessed place is, like you did. Daft, not having a proper nameplate outside or a notice in here.”

“Clearly feeling they have something to hide.”

“Not just the business they conduct, I’d say. Who they’d vote for, if they got the chance.” Fred snorted contemptuously. “I don’t suppose it’ll come as a shock if I said that there’s a chap works for them who…well, guv’nor, his politics are the kind that decent people like us took to the skies or seas to fight against.”

Toby tried to look surprised. “Nazis? Fascists?”

Fred nodded. “Home grown ones. If you run across a bloke called James Salt, go in the other direction. Mr Bowe, I remember when the Blackshirts marched through the East End —or tried their damnedest to. Salt was marching with them. He must have been barely old enough to shave but I remember him.”

“You must have an extraordinary memory, then.” Or Salt had a striking appearance. Toby would have to look back through inquest related articles because he was sure they held a picture of the two supposed heroes, although so blurred that it could have depicted anyone. The pair were hiding their lights under bushels, one of the reports had said, true heroes who didn’t seek the glare of publicity. No wonder they’d been so reticent, if they were in shady business up to their necks.

“I’ve always had a knack for recalling faces, even if only seen the once, and Salt’s got a distinctive kink to his conk which you couldn’t miss, although I had another reason for remembering him. Would you forget if you saw a young squirt of a thing, fists ready for action, squaring up to a woman old enough to be his granny, and just because she’d tipped a bucket of water on him? It was only because our side stood for common decency that he got away without having his hide tanned.”

Toby whistled “It must have been awkward when you first saw him here.”

“Not for him it wasn’t, because he didn’t recognise me. I don’t suppose he really saw any of us that night. We were just a group of people he’d never met but decided he didn’t like. I’m not Jewish, and that’s just stating a fact, but I was standing shoulder to shoulder with my friends. I guess to Mr Salt and the rest of them we were just a mass of vermin.” The story was related with a surprising lack of rancour, a simple account of what had happened. “It wasn’t awkward for me, either, because I know what he is and I’m keeping a watch on him. I daresay they’re all cut from the same cloth up there on the third floor.”

“I daresay you’re correct. Do they ever have visitors out of hours or hold other meetings in their offices? Lloyd’s little group of followers excepted, because they seemed a pretty decent lot to me, if a bit odd.”

“They do hold meetings in the evenings and the odd weekend afternoon, Mr Bowe. Seeing clients, they tell me, if it’s one of my shifts, so I can make sure the visitors get up there all right. Not sure what happens if it’s one of my colleague Ted’s shifts. We Cox and Box in here, which suits us fine, both being widowers. We Fred and Ted you could say.”

Toby chuckled, pleased both that he’d come on the right day and that he’d been right about out of hours business. “What happens when one of you is on holiday? Do they find a chap called Ned or Red to fill in?”

“They use an agency. I like your idea though. Maybe I should tell them to make sure the names of the blokes they use rhyme with ours.”

“Do you think these folk visiting out of hours really are clients?” Toby asked, feeling he was making progress.

“Some may be, because they must have some who don’t want to be seen sneaking in here.” Fred tapped the desk. “One of your lot was here. Charles Carberry. No. Carstairs. Something like that. I’m better with faces than names. I did see him on the stage, in The Merry Wives of Windsor and he was very good.”

Toby hid his surprise at the choice of play. Why shouldn’t Fred enjoy a bit of the bard? “Was it Charles Carstone?”

“That’s the fella. He was here a good few months back, a couple of times, including a Monday evening when Conway’s lot weren’t in. He had to ask where to go, like you did, so he mustn’t have been here before. Carstone gave me the impression he was trying to pretend he was still Falstaff, but underneath that jolly exterior he seemed like a worried man. Scared, if that’s not going too far.” Fred paused, scratching his head.

“Scared?” Toby could understand anxiety, if there was the risk of these divorce cases blowing up in the press, but would that go as far as fear? Yet Fred didn’t seem like the sort of bloke who’d exaggerate.

“I could have been wrong, but that’s what I thought at the time. Maybe that should be no surprise, because it wasn’t just Billy Chapman in there with him. Salt as well. Perhaps he had as little time for Mosley’s mob as I did.”

Toby didn’t share what he’d been told about Carstone’s former political leanings. “I’m glad I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting either of those gentlemen. Is there a chap called Archer who also works for Herbert and Chapman , would you know?”

“There isn’t, as far as I know. There’s a Mr J Archer who’s in the theatrical agent’s office, because I see post for him when it’s my shift and I’m on sorting duty. One of the agents in training, if they have those things.”

“I believe they might.” That was annoying, although this Archer could know Salt through working in the same building. Unless the newspapers—by their own error or by someone else’s manipulation—had stated his initial wrongly, or he even used his middle name in everyday conversation and signed in with his other initial. Was that clutching at investigational straws? Best to press on. “Changing tack, does Lloyd Conway ever come here apart from his Monday meetings? Or do any of the others from that little gang,” Toby added, for the sake of completeness: no point in being blinkered.

“Conway does sometimes, of an evening. I don’t know what he does up there: it’s been when the partners have both been working late and that’s all I can say. The others I’ve not seen, although they might have dropped in here when Ted’s working. Anyone else I can help you with?”

“A young woman called Alexandra Munsey. Or possibly Cummings. She seems to go by two surnames and we don’t know if one is her maiden name and one her married, for example. She used to come to Conway’s meetings—she worked for Herbert and Chapman , too,” Toby raised his eyebrow in a manner that would have done Alasdair proud, “but she left.”

“I remember her. Cummings. Not married, because there was no ring, and not the sort you would forget in a hurry. The kind of girl you might call ordinary until she smiled then you realised how just pretty she was. Nice with it, always finding the opportunity to pass the time of day with me. I thought she’d seen the light, got fed up with them and found a better placement. She said as much when she left although I don’t know where she’s working now.”

“When did she leave here?” This case was perilously short on actual dates, as opposed to vague mentions of “a couple of months ago” or similar.

“February. I know because it was around my birthday.” Fred left his seat, then flicked back through the brightly coloured calendar that hung on the wall. “Friday the twentieth and my birthday was the nineteenth. I made a joke about it not being the present I’d have chosen, one of my favourite customers going. She said she might be back with a better present but she hasn’t produced one yet.”

“She still might.” Did that imply she’d return with a ring on her finger and a baby in her arms, for him to coo over? Toby jotted down the date: solid confirmation that any plot being hatched in this building must have been gestating a while. Interesting also to compare that with their other definite date, the fifth of February, when Carstone had gone under the train. Were the two events linked or merely coincident? “That February was an awful time for us at Landseer. Not one I’d want to repeat. Did you read in the newspaper about Carstone’s accident?”

“He fell under a train?” Fred had raised his eyebrow on the word “fell”. “I did. Not speaking ill of the dead, but just being honest, I assumed he’d jumped. Because of whatever he was having to consult Billy Chapman about.”

“Not an unreasonable assumption. I wonder—” Toby paused. A visitor had arrived and Fred needed to deal with him. Once the man had signed in and begun to climb the stairs, Toby emerged from the inner sanctum. “I’ve been keeping you from your duty. I’ll resume my rightful place the other side of the desk.”

“You sounded like you were about to ask me something when we got interrupted.”

“I was leading up to doing so, yes. I was wondering how many folk have formed a similar opinion on Carstone’s death. I know I used to think the same, but I’ve revised my opinion.” Toby leaned forward. “How far can I trust you, Fred? We’re entering murky waters and while you seem a decent bloke but the war taught us that didn’t necessarily mean a jot.”

The doorman drew himself up in his chair, his back ramrod straight. “I hope I know when to keep my mouth shut and my ears open, sir.”

“Good man.” Toby dropped his voice once more. “I’ve been re-reading the reports on Carstone’s inquest. One man tried to save him, and then another chap had to save the would-be rescuer. They were called James Salt and Robert Archer.”

Fred frowned. “Now I see why you asked about them. That’s either a big coincidence with the name Salt or it’s our pal upstairs. Not the chap from the agents, though, unless the newspaper got the name wrong.”

“You’re right.” Toby sighed. “May I have a look through the visitors’ book? I promise that you can rely on my discretion if I see any names that I recognise. I’ll forget them immediately unless they’re relevant to our investigation.”

“I shouldn’t really, but if you take it through the back into my cubby hole, where you’ll be out of sight, I’ll sit here and act like nothing’s going on. I can come and get the book if I need it.”

“You’re a Christian, sir. Much obliged.” Toby turned to the start of the book, to find the entries beginning at the start of March. That was after the relevant date, but in the interests of doing a complete job, he decided to scan it, although that proved unsuccessful, with not a single name of interest turning up. He stuck his head round the door, then handed Fred the current signing-in book. “Sorry to be a pain, but I think I really need to see the previous volume, if you have it?”

“It’s on the shelf, in date order and labelled, Mr Bowe. Help yourself to whichever you need.”

“Much obliged, once more.” Due to Fred and Ted’s efficient system, Toby soon found the relevant volume, and a quick scan of the first and last entries showed it would likely cover the period he needed. He worked through the pages speedily but efficiently, once again scanning every entry—particularly the visitors to Herbert and Chapman —looking out for any names of significance.

There was no mention of Carstone, so he must have attended out of hours or met them off site.

Toby was delighted to find an entry on January the twenty second that read, Name: Mr R Archer. To see: Herbert and Chapman . It might still be merely coincidental, but he couldn’t help a sense of excitement mounting at having potentially fended off the death blow to his idea. The secretary who had blundered into a discussion about an upcoming violent act: what if that had been a murder rather than a terrorist attack?

Toby resisted going straight to the date Carstone was killed, leaving the potentially best bit to last. So, keeping that page unread, he ploughed his way to the end but nothing else sprang out at him, apart from the lack of further visits from Archer. Now it was time to open the special page and see if his theory could be revived.

“Fred!” Toby leaped off his seat and into the lobby. “Look at this and say my eyes aren’t deceiving me.”

“If you’re reading the name R Archer, who’s come to see them upstairs at three in the afternoon of February the fifth this year, then you’re not mistaken.”

“Thank you.” It was only one of the names he’d been hoping to see, though. “I was half expecting to read that Carstone was also here on February the fifth, which would fit in with him being at Chancery Lane tube station on the way home when he was killed. Alas, he isn’t listed there.”

“What time would that have been?” Fred asked.

“He was killed around six o’clock in the afternoon.”

“Ah. If he’d been here first his name should be in the visitors’ book, as long as he didn’t find a way to sneak in without me or Ted knowing. To give him time to walk there, he’d have still been within business hours.” He checked the page again. “That would have been Ted on duty then, because he’s signed the bottom of the page as being a true record. He’s sharp as a tack, so if Carstone was here on that day, he’d surely be in the book.”

“It’s rather rude of me to ask, but what happens if you or Ted have to answer a call of nature? Could anyone sneak in then? I’m just covering all angles.”

“Quite rightly, but we’ve also covered all angles. There’s an arrangement with Brown and Bassett, who have offices on this floor. We ring over to them and young Billy, the office boy, or one of the others comes across and covers for me if I have to nip off. Otherwise, I have my lunch or a cuppa in my cubbyhole and keep an eye out. Same applies with Ted.”

That was that, then. Unless Carstone had done something like clamber up the fire escape—if there was one—but that seemed unlikely.

“Then we must conclude that Carstone couldn’t have been going home from here with Salt and Archer for company. I’d got it into my head that they were maybe deputed to keep an eye on him in case of him doing something silly.”

It seemed like his lovely theory about Salt and Archer being involved in Carstone’s death had been prematurely resuscitated, even if Toby could equate the Archer in the book with the Archer at Chancery Lane. Because if the murder was set up in advance, rather than being opportunistic, how could they have known that the victim would be at that station at that time? Still, he wasn’t going to give it up just yet. What if the end of official office hours was five o’clock, thus giving ample time for Carstone to have been briefly here before he was killed?

“What time do you shut your signing-in book for the evening?” Toby asked.

“Six o’clock on the dot Monday to Friday, one o’clock on Saturdays.”

Damn.

“It looks like I gave you an answer you didn’t want to hear, Mr Bowe.”

“You did, Fred, but if it’s the truth I have to accept. I’d made the mistake of putting together a theoretical sequence of events without much in the way of evidence and the time the book shuts was vital.” Toby sighed, deciding it the only hope was to take a different tack and that hope looked slim, as well. If only he could find, instead, a convincing reason why Archer and Salt could be sure their intended victim would be on that platform when they wanted him to be. “How can you arrange for a man to be in a certain place at a certain time? It’s not like putting an advert in the paper to notify Joe Bloggs that if writes in he’ll hear something to his advantage.”

“I’d fix him up a date with Fiona Marsden,” Fred stated, without hesitation. “Make it plausible that she’ll be waiting for him at such a place at whenever o’clock and most men would grab the chance of being there. Even if it’s only to have a look at her close up and see if she’s as lovely in real life.”

“She’s a total peach, Fred: Alasdair’s a lucky boy when he’s filming with her.” Toby paused: weren’t there reports that Carstone had been talking to a woman on the platform shortly before his accident? “I like your idea though, so I’ll expand on it. Why would you arrange to meet Fiona on a crowded platform rather than in some intimate little restaurant?”

“Because it possibly looks more innocent, for one thing. If you had a table for two at you swanky café, with the whole candles and violins nonsense, everyone would know you were up to hanky-panky.” Fred grinned. “I knew a bloke who used to meet his fancy piece where it was crowded but not on home turf. Told me it was in case he was ever spotted, so he could say it was total coincidence that he and the bird were both there, and then he planned to follow that up by asking whether it wouldn’t have been more sensible to choose somewhere quiet if he was playing about? Easier to brazen it out in those circumstances.”

That idea could be feasible. Especially if the person concerned was already in disgrace with his wife and needed his excuses ready. Although who could have played the “Fiona” role in Carstone’s case? Toby eyed the visitors’ book again. “You’ve no record of employees coming in and out?”

“I’m afraid not. Their firms might have. Why? Are you still thinking about Mr James Salt?” Fred’s hint of insult flavouring the title “mister” would have done credit to the best low comedian at Landseer.

“No. I was wondering if Alexandra Munsey, sorry, Alexandra Cummings, is somehow tied up in this. Given how her leaving the firm was hard on the heels of Carstone’s death. Would she be the kind of girl who’d let herself be used as bait if her employers—or her colleague—asked her to? I don’t mean bait to entrap some chap into, if you’ll excuse the crudity, dropping his pants when he shouldn’t. Simply to get him to the right spot at the right time.”

Fred ran his fingers through what was left of his hair. “If you’d have asked me that before today I’d have said you were barking up the wrong tree. She was too nice. But while you were working through the visitors’ books, I’ve been having a think. I still think Alexandra wouldn’t do something like that of her own accord but she might have been persuaded. Before she left, she seemed out of sorts so I asked her if she was all right. She said she didn’t know if she was or not. She’d been asked by her boss to do something that she thought was above board and had ended up involved in matters she wouldn’t have touched with a barge pole if she’d known beforehand. At the time I thought it was to do with one of their clientele because I know that Herbert and Chapman sail pretty close to the wind when they’re defending someone. The nastier the case, the closer they sail. Maybe it wasn’t that.”

“I fear you might be right. No proof of it, though, until and unless we can get her to tell us.” Seemingly evidence that she felt betrayed by her boss, however. “One final question and it may seem bizarre. This time when Alexandra was upset, did she make any reference to the upcoming coronation? Or, indeed, did she say anything peculiar about it at any other time?”

“I don’t think so, Mr Bowe, but it’s funny you should say that, because another thing came to my mind when I was having a think. Not the coronation, but the month of June. The day Alexandra left, when she came to say goodbye to me, remember I told you she said something along the lines of having made the wrong choice in coming to work here?”

“Yes.”

“Well, there was more. One of those throwaway lines like you have in your Sherlock Holmes films that turns out to be a big clue to what was going on. I always think I’ve scored a hit if I spot one.”

Toby nodded. “Landseer has some clever script writers. And you’ve picked up one of those clues in real life?”

“I’m not promising I have, because I can’t see how it could apply to Charles Carstone or the coronation but I’ll tell you anyway. ‘I don’t want to be in those offices come June,’ she said. Meaning her former employers.”

“Interesting. Perhaps she planned, once she was well clear of this place, to tell the police something she knew about Carstone’s death.” Toby didn’t believe that to be the case, but he’d realised he was at risk of spreading rumours if he kept plugging the coronation issue. If the public needed informing of a potential threat, that was up to Matthew, Bruce and the like.

“Ah, it’s easy to tell you’ve got practice at this, because you could be right about her reporting something, sir. See, she also made a remark about how if the whole thing blew up in their faces it would serve them right, and she’d be laughing. I assumed she was talking about one of their unpleasant cases coming to court, but now I see it could be to do with that actor’s so-called accident.”

“It could. Only let’s keep mum on that for the moment, shall we? In fact, I’d rather you didn’t say anything to anyone about what we’ve discussed. Except the police, of course, if they come calling. We don’t want to flush out the game before we have the guns lined up.” Toby grinned, pleased at the analogy, even though he wasn’t a hunting or shooting man himself.

“You have my word on that. And you can be certain I’ll make a statement or stand in court and swear to everything I’ve told you so far. Every word’s been true.”

“Thank you for the reassurance, Fred, although on first impressions I’d expect nothing less.” More than satisfied with what he’d learned, Toby fished a pound note out of his pocket. “Please don’t be offended at being offered this. Treat your mates to a pint and think of both justice and Britannia. You might have acted in their interests today.”