The Scandal At Bletchley (Hilary Manningham-Butler Book 1) Page 19

  ‘I am sorry about your master,’ I said, as we passed down a back corridor towards the kitchens. Jenkins would be looking for a new job soon, I realised. And Anthony Sinclair would not be able to provide a reference. ‘It must have been a shock, finding him lying there this morning.’

  ‘I’d never seen a dead body before,’ the servant admitted. He was too young to have fought in the war, of course. ‘And when it’s your own master...’

  ‘Dashed awkward,’ I agreed. ‘Still, you’re young, Jenkins. You’ll get over it. And you’ll find another position easily enough.’

  ‘I hope so, sir. But it’s Mrs Sinclair I feel sorry for. The mistress was devoted to him. She’ll be devastated when she hears the news.’

  That was a point. I hadn’t really thought about the man’s family. For all I knew, there might be a whole host of little Sinclairs running around, waiting for their daddy to come home. I scowled. The last thing I needed was more guilt piling up. I felt bad enough about the whole affair already.

  ‘The Colonel and Lady Fanny say we have to keep quiet, about how he died. They’re going to say he was taken ill.’

  ‘Probably for the best,’ I agreed. There would need to be some kind of cover story, if the Colonel really was intent on covering everything up. I wondered what fantasy he would concoct for dear old Dottie. ‘And you’re happy to lie about it?’

  ‘Not exactly happy, sir. But it’s probably kinder in the long run. And if it’s a matter of National Security...’

  ‘Well, quite.’

  We had arrived in the main kitchen but the place was deserted. Most of the servants had accompanied Lady Fanny to church. Only Mr Townsend, my man Hargreaves and Samuel Jenkins had remained behind. It was rather lax of Lady Fanny to allow the chamber maids to go to church before all the bed sheets had been changed but, in the circumstances, the women probably needed a little divine reassurance.

  The kitchen was a large, practical workspace, with a tiled floor, innumerable cupboards and several long surfaces running along the exterior walls. Ovens and wash basins shared space with a sizeable central table. Sharp kitchen implements could be seen hanging from one wall. It was an orderly, well run place, by the looks of it, but it was eerie to see it so empty. Ordinarily, a kitchen is the heart of a great house, the engine that drives the beast along, if you’ll forgive the mixed metaphor.

  ‘I thought you said Doctor Lefranc would be here?’ I turned to Jenkins, unable to hide the irritation in my voice. The death of a master was no excuse for sloppiness. He would have to buck his ideas up if he wanted to find a new position.

  ‘This is where he asked to meet you, sir.’ Jenkins insisted. ‘I spoke to him not five minutes ago.’

  A voice piped up from a far doorway. ‘Over here, Sir Hilary.’ I recognised the over-enunciated French vowels.

  ‘Doctor Lefranc?’ The voice was coming from the butler’s private office, just across the way. I moved over to join him.

  The door to the office was open. It was the first time I had been inside, though I had stuck my head through the door earlier on when Hargreaves and I had been looking for the house keys. This time, the keys were hanging in place, on the hook above the bureau.

  Lefranc was squatting down in the middle of the room, his back to the entrance. A small stream of light filtered in from a window at the far end. A pair of legs was sticking out from behind a chair on the floor where Doctor Lefranc was crouching.

  I came forward, a sudden chill descending upon my already strained nerves.

  Lefranc looked back at me, his face suffused with sadness. ‘I am very sorry, Monsieur.’

  I leaned forward to get a better look at the owner of the legs.

  It was my man, Hargreaves. He was lying dead on the floor, with a piece of thick gold-coloured rope wrapped several times around his neck. His familiar middle-aged face was frozen in an expression of undiluted terror.

  Chapter Twenty

  There are some things a woman should never have to see. Thomas Hargreaves had been my valet for over twenty years. To see him lying there, the faded remnants of his hair surrounding that familiar balding pate and with a grotesque, flamboyantly coloured rope wrapped around his neck, it was almost too much to bear. Anger boiled up inside me. ‘Who did this?’ I demanded. ‘Who did this?’ My body was shaking with rage. The pointlessness of it all infuriated me. Hargreaves had never harmed anybody. He had been the perfect manservant. I could scarcely believe I would never see that eager, nervous expression again. In killing Hargreaves, it felt like somebody had hacked away a piece of my soul.

  Doctor Lefranc rose to his feet. ‘Perhaps you should come through to the kitchens and sit down, Monsieur. You have had a big shock.’

  I brushed Lefranc’s arm from my shoulder. ‘I don’t need to sit down,’ I snapped. ‘I need to find some answers.’

  I looked around the study. There was a bureau on the far side. The top of it was unlocked and Harry’s revolver was lying there, exposed to the elements. The gun had a shiny silver barrel and a carved white handle. It was smaller than I remembered, almost like a toy. The Colonel had said it would be here, but it was supposed to be under lock and key.

  Why didn’t the murderer just shoot him, I wondered, if the revolver had been lying there when Hargreaves had entered the room? The silencer had been detached from the barrel of the Newton – a thick metal tube lay next to it on the desk top – but it would have been the work of a moment to screw it back into place.

  Lefranc crouched down again and began to remove the rope from around Hargreaves’ throat. It was an elaborate gold bell pull, hardly an ideal murder weapon.

  I shuddered at the sight of the gash cutting across the valet’s neck. It didn’t need a doctor to determine the cause of death. This was no silent, quick demise, like the revolver had brought to Dorothy Kilbride. Thomas Hargreaves had suffered every moment of it.

  ‘When did it happen?’ I asked.

  ‘Recently. Within the last fifteen or twenty minutes. The body, it is still warm.’ Lefranc cradled Hargreaves’ head in his hands and peered closely at the face. The eyes were staring vacantly. He closed the lids with his fingertips and gently laid the head back on the floor. ‘I found him like this, just a few moments ago.’ He looked back at me. ‘Mr Townsend has gone to inform the Colonel.’

  I wondered briefly where Sir Vincent had got to. Where had everybody got to, come to that? I hadn’t seen Professor Singh since I had woken up in the library and as for Harry...

  ‘Why would anyone do it?’ I asked. ‘Why would anyone want to kill my valet?’

  The doctor shrugged. ‘It is difficult to say. It may be he discovered some evidence that was incriminating. It is possible he deduced the identity of at least one of the murderers.’

  I nodded. Typical Hargreaves. Always noticing every little detail. My hand went instinctively to the cut on my lip. He had certainly worked out the identity of the first murderer. Perhaps he had also deduced the identity of the second.

  ‘Someone must have seen something,’ I muttered, clenching my fists tightly. ‘Killing somebody in the middle of the night is one thing, but strangling someone in broad daylight, in the middle of the servants’ quarters...anyone might have seen it.’

  ‘Our murderer is becoming careless,’ Doctor Lefranc agreed.

  ‘Or desperate.’ And now he had made one mistake too many. This murder would not go unpunished. Even if I had to reveal my own guilt in the process, I would make damned sure the villain was caught and hanged.

  Lefranc had completed his examination of the body. He shifted the legs and laid out the corpse respectfully on its back. Then he rose to his feet and disappeared for a moment to find an appropriate shroud. In the short time he was gone, I moved across to the bureau and surreptitiously slipped Harry’s revolver into my jacket pocket. No one was going to bump me off like that, I resolved.

  By the time the doctor returned, I had resumed my original position by the door.

  Lefranc lai
d out the sheet across the floor and Hargreaves disappeared underneath the white cotton. A simple shroud for a simple man. I stared down at him sadly. Good servants are difficult to find and you never really appreciate them until they are gone.

  The doctor rose to his feet. ‘Did Mr Hargreaves have any relatives?’ he asked, clearing his throat.

  I struggled to remember. ‘An aunt, I think, in Eastbourne. She’s senile, though. I don’t think they were close.’ I stared down once more at the small body, visible now only in outline beneath the cotton sheet. He looked just like Sinclair had, over at the cottage, only with smaller shoes sticking out the end. I shuddered. Hargreaves had always been there for me but he would never be there again. ‘I need a drink,’ I said, stepping away from the silent shroud.

  Doctor Lefranc accompanied me back to the kitchen.

  Samuel Jenkins had been hovering on the edges of our conversation, not wanting to intrude. The mention of drink gave him a useful cue. ‘I’ll put the kettle on, sir.’

  ‘Not that kind of drink!’ I growled. ‘I need a whisky.’

  Jenkins looked to Doctor Lefranc, who nodded quietly. ‘I believe there is a bottle of malt whisky in the butler’s office,’ he said. ‘In the circumstances, I do not believe he will object.’

  The valet went to get it.

  I sat myself down on a wooden chair opposite the kitchen table. The sturdy work surface was clean and well polished. The caterers had tidied up after themselves even if the housemaids hadn’t.

  Doctor Lefranc took a seat opposite me. He was a strange looking man, short and plump, with thick curly hair and a rather bland face. A small moustache added a little character but it was in the eyes, as always, that the warmth of the man was most evident. He was a decent fellow, I thought. Probably the closest approximation to a gentlemen the French nation had ever produced.

  ‘This has gone on long enough,’ I told him bluntly. I pulled out my cigarette case and offered it across to Lefranc. He shook his head, but I grabbed a cigarette myself and lit it with nervous, trembling fingers.

  ‘I agree, Monsieur,’ he said. ‘The time has come for answers.’ The doctor’s expression was commendably serious. ‘And I believe I may be in a position to provide them. That is what I wanted to see you about.’ Lefranc had sent Jenkins to fetch me before the body of my valet had been discovered.

  I took a puff of the cigarette and exhaled gently. The Frenchman’s moustache was beginning to twitch slightly. It always seemed to do that when he was about to broach a difficult subject. ‘What do you mean?’

  ‘I believe I now know who murdered Dorothy Kilbride,’ he announced, with understandable solemnity. ‘And the same individual of course was also responsible for the death of your valet.’

  I blanched. ‘Who was it?’ I would damn well throttle the bastard.

  The doctor’s moustache twitched again. ‘I am sorry Monsieur. It was your friend Harry Latimer.’

  I laughed. For a brief moment, I had really thought the Frenchman had solved the puzzle. But this was no solution. Lefranc’s imagination was running away with him. He had always disliked my American friend. ‘Harry had nothing to do with this,’ I insisted.

  ‘I believe you are incorrect, Monsieur. It was Mr Latimer, after all, who brought the revolver to Bletchley Park this weekend. None of the other guests felt the need to arm themselves.’

  ‘Yes, but he’s an American. You know what they’re like. They always carry guns. It makes them feel safe.’ I had been through all this with the Colonel. ‘Harry has dealings with a lot of shady characters. You know that as well as anyone. French communists. All sorts of disreputable Continental types. Sometimes he needs a little insurance.’

  Lefranc acknowledged the truth of that. ‘But one does not need a silencer for self defence.’

  Jenkins had returned with the bottle of malt and two crystal tumblers. The doctor waved his glass away but the valet filled the other and I gulped down the whisky in one. The liquid burnt at my throat with a reassuring intensity. Jenkins quickly refilled the glass.

  ‘He also arrived with a considerable sum of French Francs in his holdall. Somewhere in the region of twenty thousand pounds, I believe.’

  ‘Yes, but...’

  ‘A sum of money, as I understand it, completely unconnected to his work in southern France.’

  ‘Well, yes...’ Harry had certainly been rather coy about the origin of that cash, but then he always was secretive when it came to business connections. When your work is often on the wrong side of the law it doesn’t pay to advertise. I had simply assumed the money was counterfeit and Harry had done nothing to disabuse me of the notion.

  ‘You knew about the money?’ Lefranc asked.

  ‘I...yes, I saw inside the holdall. How did you...?’

  ‘Mr Townsend discovered it. He and some of the other valets conducted a search of the guest rooms this morning.’

  ‘Yes, of course.’

  Jenkins, who was hovering by the window, still holding the bottle of whisky, confirmed this with a nod. ‘I searched your room, Sir Hilary,’ he confessed, looking slightly shame-faced.

  I put down my tumbler and took another puff from the cigarette. So he was the one who’d left my door unlocked. ‘All right, so Harry had a large pile of cash in his bag. But that doesn’t mean...’

  ‘I believe, Monsieur, that Mr Latimer was brought here deliberately to kill Dorothy Kilbride. I believe that someone paid him that money as an advance for the murder.’

  ‘No!’ I insisted, vehemently. ‘That can’t be true. Harry’s not an assassin. He would only ever kill in self defence.’

  ‘But perhaps he would also kill to protect his own interests. I am sorry, Monsieur, but the evidence is very strong.’

  I wasn’t having that. ‘The Colonel said the revolver was found under a pillow in Professor Singh’s bedroom.’

  ‘That is correct. In the room next door to Mr Latimer’s own bedroom. And Mr Latimer would naturally wish to divert suspicion.’

  I was aghast. ‘You honestly think somebody paid Harry to kill Dorothy Kilbride? And then...and then he killed my valet to keep him quiet?’

  ‘It would appear so, Monsieur.’

  ‘But who...I mean, who on earth would do that? Who would pay him to...?’

  Lefranc’s moustache was twitching even more heavily now. He raised a hand to his lip to steady it. ‘It pains me to say this, Monsieur, but I believe the murder was commissioned by none other than Sir Vincent Kelly himself.’

  My mouth fell open. The suggestion was preposterous.

  ‘You don’t know what you’re talking about,’ I laughed. Sir Vincent Kelly was the most honourable man I knew. Trust some damned Frog to get the wrong end of the stick. ‘Do you have even the slightest evidence...?’ Jenkins had placed an ashtray on the table in front of me and I tapped out the end of the cigarette.

  ‘The bank notes, Monsieur. The Security Service keeps a supply of foreign currency for certain important operations. The serial numbers are carefully recorded. And I am reliably informed that the currency in Mr Latimer’s holdall originated from the reserves of MI5 itself.’

  There was a shocked silence. Harry had said the Colonel knew nothing about the French Francs. But if it was MI5 money...

  I gestured Jenkins forward and grabbed the bottle of whisky from his hands. Then I poured myself a double.

  ‘You’re seriously suggesting the Colonel arranged for the murder of his own secretary?’

  ‘It is an explanation that fits the facts, Monsieur.’

  ‘But what motive would he have?’

  ‘The head of the Security Service, he must occasionally bend the rules. He must make compromises to achieve a particular aim. Sometimes, a line may be crossed.’

  ‘And if Dottie found out and thought he had gone too far?’

  ‘She might feel it her duty to inform their superiors. The Security Service, as I understand it, is not very popular with the new administration. The government are dee
ply suspicious of MI5 and perhaps with good reason. The secret service has many informers working in the trade union movement and it is the unions who finance the Labour Party. The Colonel cannot afford any controversy, Monsieur, no matter how slight. He must tread carefully if the organisation is to survive.’

  I sat back in my chair. ‘No, I don’t believe it. If the Colonel wanted to kill his own secretary, why would he bring us all here? Why the anniversary weekend? You can’t seriously be suggesting he organised all this with the intention of bumping off his secretary. That’s absurd. No one would go to those lengths.’

  Lefranc shrugged. ‘Perhaps the anniversary was already arranged. Bletchley Park merely provided a convenient setting.’

  I shook my head vehemently. ‘That’s utter nonsense. Other people might have got hold of that money. We’re all veterans. Everyone here has worked for the service at one time or another.’

  The doctor inclined his head. ‘That is true, Monsieur. But the Colonel saved Harry Latimer from a long prison sentence. He rescued your friend from the French police. Why would he do that, if he did not want a favour in return?’

  I took a final drag of my cigarette and stubbed it out in the ashtray. For the life of me, I couldn’t think of a decent response.

  The Colonel’s valet chose that moment to crash into the kitchen, his expression as grim as ever. ‘I’ve searched the house,’ he informed us, arriving at the foot of the table. ‘I can’t find the Colonel or Mr Latimer.’

  ‘They have left the building?’ Lefranc asked, with some surprise.

  ‘It looks that way, sir,’ Townsend admitted. ‘The Colonel wasn’t in the morning room. I spoke to Miss Jones and Miss Young in the billiard hall, but they hadn’t seen him either.’

  The Frenchman raised an eyebrow. ‘So they do not yet know about the murder of Mr Hargreaves?’

  ‘I’m afraid not, Doctor Lefranc. A dreadful business,’ the valet added, glancing at me.

  ‘Did you check upstairs?’ I asked.