The Scandal At Bletchley (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 1) Page 13

  I only just managed to stop myself from laughing. I didn’t want to offend the fellow, but going for a walk in the freezing cold at this time in the morning sounded about as attractive as a dose of syphilis. That said, I was curious to learn more about Harry’s trip to France, now that he’d told me about it, and Lefranc might well be the man to fill in the details. ‘Why not?’ I agreed, with the closest approximation of a smile my haggard face could manage. I would leave Harry to confess his sins to the Colonel. ‘Just give me a minute,’ I said, nipping back into the vestibule to grab a hat and coat.

  Lefranc waited politely for me to return.

  ‘Poor old Dottie,’ I said, reappearing in the porch way and buttoning up an overcoat. ‘I can’t quite believe she’s dead.’

  Doctor Lefranc took another puff from his pipe. ‘It comes to us all, alas. At least she did not suffer.’

  I stepped forward and we set off across the lawn towards the lake. The doctor walked with a slight limp, but he moved with the confidence of an educated man.

  ‘Can we ever be sure of that?’ I wondered.

  ‘In this case, Monsieur. Her death was instantaneous. She would have known nothing about it.’

  That was probably true. Fast asleep and then a bullet through the brain before she’d even heard the shot. Not that there was much of a shot. ‘That’s hardly a consolation,’ I muttered. A sudden anger gripped me. ‘How could anybody do that? How could anyone put a bullet through the head of such a harmless, timid creature?’

  ‘Human nature is a perplexing thing,’ Lefranc said. ‘Professor Singh believes there is no underlying logic to human behaviour. I am inclined to agree with him.’

  I snorted. Philosophy I could do without just now, particularly the arcane viewpoint of some jumped up foreign academic.

  Lefranc could see my distress. ‘The Colonel will find out the truth, Monsieur.’

  ‘I damn well hope so.’ I shivered again. Even with the great coat on, it still felt bloody cold. What was it, forty-five degrees? Not much more than that, I reckoned. How the doctor was managing in nothing more than a jacket I had no idea. He didn’t seem to feel the cold at all. ‘You say he’s over in the servants’ quarters?’

  We had reached the trees and moved on to the gravel path which fringed the south side of the lake.

  ‘Talking to the staff. They will be having breakfast about now,’ the doctor explained. ‘The Colonel will send them up to rouse the guests in the next half an hour. It will need to be handled delicately.’

  ‘I’ll say. A few sore heads this morning, I shouldn’t wonder. And they won’t be in the best of moods, being dragged out of bed. Some of them didn’t get upstairs until half past three, so my man said.’ I had been lucky to get as much sleep as I did. ‘Is the Colonel going to make an announcement? About Miss Kilbride, I mean?’

  ‘I believe so. At breakfast. But he wishes to speak to Lady Fanny first, before making a general announcement.’

  ‘That’s decent of him.’ The lady of the house deserved the courtesy, though I didn’t envy the Colonel having to pass on the news. What would Lady Fanny think, to know that her house had been the site of such horrific events? The house her late husband Sir Herbert Leon had spent so much of his life designing and building. The poor fellow was probably spinning in his grave.

  A bench loomed ahead of us. We moved towards it and sat ourselves down, looking out across the lake. There were several trees overhanging us and frogs were ribbiting in the foliage.

  Lefranc produced a box of matches and relit his pipe. For a moment, we gazed out in silence across the water. It was not a large lake – the size of a rugby pitch perhaps – but I could see a host of brightly coloured fish streaming beneath the surface. A few ducks were swimming across the water too and a couple of geese sat quietly preening themselves on the far bank. The whole place had a pleasantly rustic feel.

  ‘What about Miss Jones?’ I asked suddenly. Felicity Mandeville Jones was the unknown factor in all of this. If she really had been the intended victim in the second murder then there was a chance the assassin might have another go. And the Colonel could hardly broach that particular possibility without warning the girl first. How would she react? I wondered. Was it better to be suspected of murder or to be considered a potential victim?

  ‘I believe he will speak to her too, in private.’

  ‘There was nothing going on, you know. Between her and Mr Sinclair.’

  Lefranc’s eyes narrowed. ‘How do you mean, Monsieur?’

  ‘Well, thinking he might have something to do with the murder. A lovers tiff or whatever.’ That was what the Colonel had seemed to suggest.

  ‘There were reports of an argument between the two of them.’

  ‘Yes, but I was speaking to Harry – Mr Latimer – and he’s convinced there was nothing going on between them.’ Anthony Sinclair had not been romantically involved with Felicity Mandeville Jones, despite the evidence to the contrary, a fact which unsettled me more than a little. The man might have had some rather unsavoury opinions, but he was not the monster I had taken him to be. An unscrupulous journalist, to be sure, but not a woman-beating cad. I had lost my temper with Sinclair for no good reason and now he was dead.

  The awful image of his head hitting that wooden pillar was replaying in my mind over and over again.

  And now somebody had shifted his body. That was the most difficult part to understand. Someone had moved the corpse and was keeping quiet about it. Could that somebody also be the murderer of Dorothy Kilbride? It was always possible. One thing was clear, however. If the guests were being woken then Sinclair’s absence would soon be noticed. His valet, Mr Jenkins, would find an empty bedroom and then things would get really tricky. I would try to deflect attention from that for as long as I could. Better for now if everyone focused on the identity of Dorothy Kilbride’s murderer. There at least, as the Colonel had confirmed, I was clear of any suspicion.

  Doctor Lefranc was thinking about Anthony Sinclair and Felicity Mandeville Jones. He sucked at his pipe, considering Harry’s assessment of their relationship. ‘That may be true, Monsieur,’ he conceded, ‘but it may not be. I am sorry to speak out of turn, but I do not think your friend is wholly reliable. I am not sure I would take his word in this matter.’

  I nodded. Harry had been telling the truth – Sinclair and Miss Jones had never been an item – but I could not blame the doctor for doubting Harry’s word. And I couldn’t exactly tell him how the American had come by the information. The less people who knew about that little tryst the better. ‘From what I hear, you have good reason to distrust him. He’s told me all about France,’ I added, curious to learn more. ‘About his communist connections.’

  Lefranc smiled quietly. A fish flipped up on the surface of the water and then disappeared from view. ‘Ah yes. Your friend certainly likes to play with fire. Luckily for him, the Colonel is a very forgiving man.’

  I laughed. ‘Typical Harry, getting involved with that kind of thing. But I was surprised to hear about your connection with the Deuxième Bureau.’ I was not sure how much the Frenchman would be willing to tell me, but it was worth a try. He already knew everything about me, after all.

  ‘It is not much of a connection now. I am semi-retired, but I help out where I can. I am a patriot, Monsieur. The French communists are harmless, for the most part, but it helps nobody if arms are sold to the more extreme elements. There are always “young Turks” taking things too far. Thankfully, that issue has now been settled. I do not believe it reflects on the current matter.’

  ‘Lord, no. At least I hope not. Except for one thing.’

  ‘Monsieur?’

  If I couldn’t tell the Colonel, I might as well tell Doctor Lefranc. He had examined the crime scene, after all. ‘Harry brought a small revolver with him, this weekend. You know what Americans are like. They always carry guns. But I was up in his room not a quarter of an hour ago. And it’s gone missing.’

  Lefranc raised an e
yebrow. His moustache twitched slightly but he did not seem overly surprised. ‘So we have a murder weapon, then.’

  ‘It looks like it, though lord knows where it is now. Good grief,’ I said, the absurdity of it all suddenly striking me. ‘A murder weapon and a house full of suspects. It doesn’t bear thinking about.’

  The doctor nodded. ‘And the murderer could be any one of us.’

  ‘You speak for yourself. I was fast asleep at the time.’

  ‘Of course. But anyone else.’ He tapped out the end of his pipe on the arm of the bench. ‘Mr and Mrs Smith. Lettie Young. Your friend Harry. Even the Colonel is not above suspicion.’

  Now that was going too far. ‘The Colonel? You can’t be serious!’

  ‘He worked very closely with Miss Kilbride for many years,’ Lefranc insisted, wiping the end of his pipe and pocketing it quietly. ‘Who knows what jealousies or awkwardness existed between them.’

  ‘That’s ridiculous! The Colonel is the most honourable man I know.’

  ‘People can do the most terrible things, Monsieur, given the right circumstances. Professor Singh was saying...’

  ‘I don’t give a damn what Professor Singh was saying!’ I was adamant. ‘The Colonel had nothing to do with any of this.’

  Lefranc raised his hands. ‘I have offended you. I apologise.’

  ‘No, no, I’m...I’m just a bit on edge.’ And shouting at a man who already knew far too much about my own life was not a good idea. One word from Lefranc and my reputation would be in tatters. ‘It’s me who should apologise. You’re...quite close to Professor Singh?’

  ‘I have corresponded with him for some years. Alas, we rarely have the opportunity to meet in person. You surely do not suspect him?’

  ‘No, but I was thinking. He’s in the room next door to Harry’s.’ On the other side from Anthony Sinclair. ‘There’s an adjoining door between the two. He could quite easily have slipped in and stolen the revolver.’

  ‘If he had known it was there. And there are several of us on the same landing.’ Most of the male guests were sleeping in the old family rooms, at the front of the house.

  ‘I suppose so. You don’t think the professor might have some reason for wanting to kill anybody?’

  ‘It is difficult to think of one.’

  I wasn’t going to let the idea go that easily. If Lefranc could suspect the Colonel then I could damn well suspect his friend. ‘Do you know what Professor Singh does? For the Colonel, I mean?’

  The doctor nodded. ‘He does nothing now. He is retired from intelligence work. But he was active in India for a couple of years, I believe. And not that long ago. 1926 and 27.’

  ‘Do you know what he was doing in India?’

  ‘We have discussed the matter.’ The Frenchman was hardly likely to tell me, however.

  ‘Need to know, I suppose.’

  Doctor Lefranc shook his head. ‘It is not a particularly sensitive subject. The Colonel and I have talked about it at length. It is in the past now and the Colonel assures me you are a man to be trusted.’ He glanced back along the pathway, just to make sure no one was else around. ‘Professor Singh was a case officer,’ he said. ‘He was running a small network of agents, infiltrating the Independence movement on the sub-continent. It was a joint MI5/DIB operation.’

  ‘DIB?’

  ‘The Delhi Intelligence Bureau.’ India was part of MI5’s remit, as it was still British territory, but the DIB handled a lot of work on the ground. ‘There were concerns that the Russians were trying to stir up trouble with the movement. Professor Singh was tasked with discovering the truth.’

  ‘And did he?’

  ‘That I do not know, Monsieur.’

  I sat back against the hard wooden bench. All these people, all these possible connections. It was too much to take in. I was suddenly feeling very tired.

  Doctor Lefranc stretched out his arms above his head. ‘It is a little chilly this morning,’ he said, only now beginning to notice the cold. It was the wooden bench that did it; it cut straight through the fabric of one’s trousers. ‘Shall we return to the house?’

  I nodded. We rose up and slowly began to make our way back along the pathway towards the mansion. A breeze was blowing through the trees, adding to the coolness of the air. Clouds were gathering in the sky, not quite blocking out the sunlight, but it looked as if it might rain later on. It had certainly been a wet October so far.

  ‘Do not worry, Monsieur,’ Lefranc reassured me. ‘These situations always resolve themselves in the end.’

  I wondered for a moment just how many murders the good doctor had been involved with. Then I remembered he had been a battlefield surgeon. This was probably a walk in the park for him. I smiled at the appropriateness of the phrase. It was literally a walk in the park at the moment. Lefranc must have seen some dreadful sights in the trenches. No wonder he wasn’t flustered by a little case of domestic murder. Or even a severe case of sexual deviation. I have never much warmed to Frenchmen, but I had to admit, Doctor Lefranc was one of the better Frogs I had met. In the entire time we had been together he had made no reference to our own prior meeting and his unfortunate knowledge of my physiognomy. The man had impeccable manners. He was a gentleman through and through.

  Up ahead of us, as we moved from the pathway onto the lawn, I saw the Colonel’s valet coming out of the house, his great granite bulk dominating the porch way and rather putting the griffins to shame. ‘Doctor Lefranc,’ he called, as we came near enough for him not to have to bellow, ‘the Colonel asks if you could join him? He’s about to speak to Lady Fanny.’

  The doctor nodded, heading towards the arch. ‘Excuse me, Monsieur,’ he said. I waved a hand good-naturedly and the Frenchman disappeared inside. Townsend acknowledged me with a polite nod and then followed Lefranc back into the house.

  I lingered in the driveway for a moment. One of those griffins was giving me the eye. Damned ugly thing, with elaborate wings and a head like an eagle. There were two statues in place, standing guard either side of the porch, like Cerberus protecting the gates of Hades, albeit with one head rather than three. It might just as well be the entrance to Hell, I thought, with all that had been going on in that house over the past few hours. The screams of the damned were notable by their absence, however. The place was too damned quiet.

  I glanced across at the bay windows to my right. The sun had disappeared behind the clouds and the windows were shrouded in darkness. If the Colonel was heading upstairs, as Mr Townsend had said, there would be no one looking out from the drawing room just now. I could skip past the windows and take a look at the ground outside the dining hall. Curiosity was bursting inside me. I couldn’t help thinking of Anthony Sinclair’s body being dragged out through those large exterior doors. How anyone could have managed that on their own I had no idea. Perhaps it was more than one person. Whatever the truth, there was bound to be a trail. And it wouldn’t hurt to have a quick look.

  I shuffled across to the far side of the house. There were no scuff marks on the gravel here that I could see. The dining room doors were overhung by three archways supported by marble columns. The two doors, I noticed with some surprise, had completely different handles from the ones on the inside. These were circular and much easier to grasp.

  I stood for a moment with my back to the entrance, trying to imagine what might have happened here during the night. What would I have done, if I had succeeded in opening the doors? Where would I have dragged the body? There would have been too much light spilling out onto the carriage turnabout to risk dragging him towards the lake. Better to move left, I thought. There was a path around the side of the building, leading to the garages where all the automobiles were parked. But that would also be too exposed. Another path ran parallel to the front of the building, heading roughly north, towards the maze and the stable yard. That might prove a more attractive proposition for any prospective body snatcher.

  I pulled out my pocket watch. It was just gone twenty past
seven. The guests were probably being woken around now but it would be a few minutes yet before anyone came down for breakfast.

  I took a chance and strode a little way along the northern path. A row of trees were planted to my left but within a minute I was on the outskirts of the stable yard. I ignored the rather impressive hedgerows of Sir Herbert Leon’s maze up ahead and instead looked west along the short track leading into the square. The horses were stabled at the back of the enclosure and several small buildings stood between the pathway and the far side of the yard. There was a cottage at one end, next to the tack and feed house, and nearer to hand, a large fruit store on the left hand side. The estate had several glass houses and a fair bit of produce was grown over the course of the year. With most of the staff away for the weekend, however, the buildings surrounding the yard would be empty right now. A single groom had remained behind to look after the horses and, as he had been roped in to the festivities the previous evening, it was likely he would have joined the rest of the staff at breakfast.

  The stables would be a good place to hide a body, I thought. There was an awful lot of hay in there. I had seen it first hand during the treasure hunt the previous morning. Lord, that seemed like a lifetime ago now. But a corpse might go unnoticed for days buried underneath a large stack of hay.

  I hesitated at the corner of the yard. Should I have a look at the stables, or head back to the house and get myself to the dining room before any of the others arrived? It might look suspicious, me wandering around here on my own at this time in the morning. But I was not feeling particularly sensible just now.

  A noise from the cottage robbed me of any choice. I ducked back out of sight behind a large tree.

  A door slammed and I heard footsteps across the yard. I waited a couple of beats, then took a chance and peered around the edge of the tree trunk. A man was making his way across from the cottage towards the clock tower at the far end. His back was to me, but I recognised him nonetheless. It was Anthony Sinclair’s valet. What was his name? Jenkins. Samuel Jenkins. A rather lanky Welshman in his mid twenties. He had helped serve the drinks in the ballroom last night. He’d made a better job of it than the regular servants, I recalled.