The american agent, p.24
The American Agent, page 24
Maisie laughed with the women, but was anxious to proceed with her inquiries.
“I’d like to ask you some questions about Miss Saxon, and about the morning of her death.”
“Let’s sit down—sorry, we should have shown our manners,” said Elizabeth Drake, gesturing toward a small dining table. She pulled out a chair for Maisie, Richardson took a place opposite her friend.
“First,” said Maisie, “tell me about Catherine—when did you meet her? How well did you know her?”
“Cath was terrific,” said Richardson. “A real sport—and she made sure she introduced herself to us the very day she moved in.” She glanced at Drake, and then continued. “We’d heard some noise downstairs—you know, the sound of footsteps going up and down the stairs, and when I looked over the banister, I could see this woman coming up with a box.”
“She was making a bit of a racket, like you do when you’re moving in. Pam on the floor below was looking over the banister at the same time,” said Drake.
“Mrs. Lockwood?” inquired Maisie, taking notes on a small pad.
Drake continued the story. “Yes, she was at home that day. Then the noise stopped and before you knew it, there was a knock at our door and Cath was standing there—”
“Brandishing a bottle of wine,” finished Richardson. “Apparently she’d knocked on Pam’s door, but she’d declined the invitation to celebrate Cath moving in, so she worked her way up . Polly was out, so it was just the three of us—and Cath was great fun!”
“What did you talk about, during that first meeting?” asked Maisie.
“Well, first off we asked how she found out about the flat,” said Drake. “And it turned out she’d known someone in Paris who’d told her about the house, so she wanted to look it up. That’s what she said—’look it up.’ Then when she did her looking up, she saw the sign in the window, that there was a room for rent, so she jumped at the chance to live here.”
“Interesting,” said Maisie.
“She told us she was a news reporter, and that she was writing about London and the war—of course this was before the blitzes started, but as we all know, there had already been a lot of bombing following Dunkirk, when we were all expecting the invasion at any minute. I suppose nothing’s changed there, has it? The Germans could still walk all over us tomorrow.” Drake looked at her friend to take up the story.
“It sounds so brave and exciting, doesn’t it? Being an American in London, and writing about the war for the people over there. We asked her about her job, and how Americans felt about the war here, and she said people’s minds were changing, and she was going to do her part to make them see the truth of what was happening,” said Richardson. “In fact, I can remember exactly what she said, Miss Dobbs—‘Opinions are ready to be changed back at home, and I’m going to do my part to make sure Americans know what’s really going on in Britain and how people are bearing up, fighting Hitler with their spirit.’”
“Really?” said Maisie.
“She told us all about the other American newsmen—and a woman or two, I think—who were over here and bound and determined to make sure America came to the aid of Britain, at the very least with supplies, despite their neutrality acts,” Richardson continued.
“And she said she would do what Mr. Murrow was doing—reach the people through stories of the people, but she would do it from a woman’s point of view,” added Drake.
“It sounds as if you really admired her,” commented Maisie.
The women exchanged looks. “I suppose we did,” said Drake. “But it’s not as if we saw much of her after that. She was so busy, and working at unsociable hours. Just like Polly. When we had a get-together out in Isabel’s garden, we joked that Polly and Cath were the only ones to pass on the stairs, because they would both be coming in late, though I don’t think Polly ever went out early. Not like Cath.”
“Were you aware of any friends who visited, or family?”
“There was Stage-Door Johnny—an American airman,” offered Drake. “I bet Polly’s already told you about him. He was a bit of fun, if we saw him, but I was never sure about them—not that I saw them together much, but I always thought Cath had more feelings for him than she let on.”
“Oh, and there was that awful American—wasn’t he her brother or something? Or perhaps a cousin. Anyway, he was a relation,” said Richardson. “And he was shouting—talk about broadcasting!”
“Was it about her work?” said Maisie. “Did you hear or—”
“Did we hear?” interrupted Richardson. “The whole street must have heard him, going on about her letting her father down, running off and getting into all sorts of trouble in Paris and Spain and then going to Germany, where her father had business interests. He went on and on about the family name, about how their grandfather didn’t struggle to come to America with nothing in his pocket so she could squander it.”
“He might have been upset because of the German ancestors, something like that,” said Drake.
Maisie looked up from her notes. “German ancestors?”
“Saxon—Saxony. I mean, we don’t know for definite,” said Richardson. “Cath never said anything, but we were up here getting ready for an exam—we’ve been students, you see—and that’s what we suspected, that she had German ancestors. Though I suppose they could have been Anglo-Saxon. I read somewhere that the officials in America changed the names of an awful lot of people who went over there to build a new life in the last century. They did it so people fitted in. Or they might not have understood them and just wrote down something that sounded familiar.”
“I hardly think Cath’s family were descended from an Anglo-Saxon village idiot, Lena, so I am sure they were understood,” said Drake.
“I suppose it’s a possibility there was a German connection,” said Maisie, wondering if the supposition was pertinent to the investigation. “In any case, do you know if this Mr. Saxon visited more than once?”
“I think it might have been more than once—what do you think, Lena?” said Drake.
“Oh no, you’re getting him mixed up with that other man—the one in the good suit,” replied Richardson.
“You certainly see a lot from up here,” said Maisie. “Can you tell me more about the other man?”
“I bumped into him on the street, as he was leaving the house,” said Richardson. “I saw Cath waving him off. I was coming back from working in the college library. Oh dear, I hate to admit this, but it was about half past six in the morning. To tell you the truth, I don’t think the librarian found me because I’d fallen asleep at a desk behind a bookcase where I couldn’t be seen. It’s a wonder I managed to get out of the place when I did. The caretaker had to unlock the doors first thing, so I gave him sixpence not to report me! Anyway, this man I saw was very well dressed—you know, he was the Savile Row–suit type. Nice hat, carried a mackintosh—even though there wasn’t a drop of rain.” She shrugged. “I told Liz, after I’d seen him, that it wasn’t for me to pass judgment because Cath can walk out with who she likes when she likes, and more power to her for managing to get him past Mrs. Marsh.”
“Who, if truth be told, probably likes having her palms greased,” said Drake. “Nothing like a pound or two to keep someone quiet and happy, and Lena said he looked as if he had a pound note or two to spare.”
“More like the sort to have two hundred to spare! Anyway, I saw him a couple more times,” added Richardson. “Once when he was leaving and getting into a taxicab, and another time he was arriving at the house. I let him in, actually—I knew he was visiting Cath, so what was the point in him ringing the bell and waiting? I suppose that was about six in the evening, not much later. And I’m sure he visited her more often than that, if I saw him twice and we’re usually out all day.”
“And you don’t know his name, by chance,” said Maisie.
The women shook their heads.
“And on the morning of Catherine’s death?” asked Maisie.
“We’d been at a shelter,” said Drake. “When the blitzes first started, we ran down to the cellar here on the first night—it’s through a door next to Isabel’s rooms. No one ever used it, and it was very tight in there, but we knew it would be safer than being on the top floor, what with those bombers going over our heads. But it was also full of spiders and generally horrible, so we’ve been at different shelters since the blitzes got worse.”
Maisie asked a few more questions, and confirmed that Catherine Saxon’s mother had indeed paid a visit some weeks before her daughter’s death. Having exhausted the well of information offered by the friends, she took her leave, wishing the two women the very best of luck in the Wrens. As she made her way down the stairs, she glanced up and saw them looking over the banister. They reminded her of two young owls, wide eyed, peering down from their nest.
Maisie made one stop before departing the house. Passing through the ground-floor entrance hall, she descended to the lower ground floor and just before reaching the door to Isabel Chalmers’s rooms, she opened another door to the right. A length of string brushed against her face, so she pulled it and a single light bulb came on, illuminating a very small, musty storeroom—only at a stretch could it be called a cellar. A couple of blankets had been pushed into a corner, and she estimated that no more than three people could lie down for the night, and it would be a tight squeeze. An old bicycle frame had been left propped against the wall, which was damp and indeed home to a few spiders. But people were bearing up in equally uncomfortable circumstances on the Tube platforms and in trench shelters. She was sure Isabel Chalmers would not use the cellar—after all, she was already in her lower-ground-floor rooms, and Mrs. Marsh would not come down. Polly often remained at work until the all clear, and Pamela Lockwood also sought refuge at her place of work, for the most part—and besides, Maisie could not imagine the very particular Mrs. Lockwood sharing such a confined space with any of her fellow lodgers. She took one final look around the cellar before turning to leave, when her shoe kicked against the bicycle frame and it fell against her leg. “Ouch!” she cried, and pushed it away. She bent down to rub her ankle and felt her fingertips brush against another piece of metal. Believing it to be part of the bicycle, she was about to pick it up and throw it to one side to join the rest of the frame, when she stopped and instead pulled out a fresh linen handkerchief from her pocket. Covering her fingers, she reached for the item. The shape was unmistakable. She departed the cellar, closed the door behind her, and joined Billy, who was waiting for her outside the house.
“What is it, miss?” said Billy.
Maisie opened the handkerchief and studied her find.
“I have a terrible feeling I have just found the weapon used to kill Catherine Saxon,” said Maisie. “It was in a small storeroom. The women upstairs told me about it, though they called it the cellar, so I thought I’d have a look.”
“Blimey,” said Billy. “Are you sure it’s the weapon?”
Maisie shook her head. “No, I’m not at all sure. But it looks like the sort of knife you would sharpen pencils with and it’s a very sharp knife indeed—I can feel it through the handkerchief.”
“What’s it doing down there? Why would a murderer put a knife in a storeroom—I mean, you found it easily enough, didn’t you?”
Maisie shook her head. “It wasn’t that easy, but I will add that it’s fortunate the bandage on my hand does not extend to my fingers. And I don’t know why someone would throw it in there—or leave it in there. I can only imagine that, if it is indeed the murder weapon, the killer panicked, and just wanted to be rid of it.” She passed the handkerchief-wrapped knife to her assistant. “Billy—could you hang on to this for me? I just have to run upstairs to talk to those girls again.”
Maisie tried to open the door, but it had locked behind her. She was about to raise the brass ring to knock on the door again, when it was opened by Mrs. Marsh.
“Left something, did you, Miss Dobbs?”
“I did—my notebook, would you believe? I would forget my head if it wasn’t screwed on! I just have to run up and get it.” Maisie rushed past the landlady.
“And I have to ask you, Miss Dobbs,” Marsh called out after her. “Will you be finished with your inquiry soon? Mr. Tucker wants to rent out Miss Saxon’s rooms again and he’s getting a bit anxious about it all. Doesn’t like to lose rent money.”
“Soon, Mrs. Marsh—soon,” said Maisie, without turning.
She was breathless by the time she reached the top floor, where the door was wedged open by a box of books.
“Hello! Elizabeth. Helena,” she called out, her hand to her chest.
The young women came from the bedroom, both carrying boxes.
“Did you leave something, Miss Dobbs?” said Drake.
Maisie shook her head and tried to catch her breath.
“That’s how I feel every day!” said Helena. “Puffed out! Give yourself a minute, we’re not leaving for a few days.”
“I’m sorry to bother you, but can you confirm something for me—and I apologize for going over this ground again—but did you retreat to the cellar just the once, on the night of the first blitz?”
“Only that once—too many spiders, though I suppose a spider isn’t as dangerous as one of Hitler’s bombs! So it was only on the seventh that we went down into the spiders’ lair! Since then it’s depended upon where we are—the college has a big cellar if we’re there late, and Isabel lets us bunk in with her if she’s at home, so no, we haven’t been into that nasty little cave since, though Mrs. Marsh said she would leave some blankets in there, just in case, but I don’t think anyone’s used it. Mrs. Marsh always says she’ll take her chances in her own rooms—you’d never get her out.”
“Did you take any utensils in there with you? A fork, knife, or anything?”
Both women shook their heads. “Just ourselves and a blanket each. Didn’t even stop for a flask of tea,” said Elizabeth. “If you’re going to look, be warned, there’s an old bicycle frame propped up against the wall, and it’s a bit rusty—you don’t want to fall over it and get tetanus.” She looked at Maisie’s ankle—she had worn trousers that morning so the bandage on her leg would not be visible, but now a small rivulet of blood could be seen running into her shoe. “Oh dear. Warning came too late. Come on—let’s do our first aid bit, shall we?”
It seemed that in a minute a kettle was boiling, a bowl produced and salt mixed with hot water, and Drake was bathing the cut while Richardson prepared a bandage.
“There—all done,” said Richardson. “And you look a bit unbalanced. What with your hands and now one leg, perhaps you should put a bandage on the other leg, so everything’s equal! How did you do that to your hands anyway? We didn’t want to be rude and ask when you came up before, but we did wonder.”
“It’s nothing really,” said Maisie. “Now I feel rather stupid, because having other people tend my wounds is becoming quite a comical habit.”
“Have you found out something important, Miss Dobbs?” asked Drake. “I mean, the way you came running up here again made me wonder.”
“No. I ventured into the cellar and it occurred to me to confirm when you’d been in there, that’s all,” said Maisie. “Thank you very much.”
She smiled, pulled her notebook from her bag and held it in her bandaged hand as she ran downstairs again, knowing the two owlets would be watching her leave.
Running past Mrs. Marsh, she waved her notebook and called out. “All’s well that ends well, Mrs. Marsh. I’ll be back again soon.”
“What’s going on, miss?” asked Billy. “And I don’t think I should even ask why your ankle is bandaged—I can see it from here.”
They began walking along Welbeck Street. “I cut myself and the girls upstairs helped me out—that dressing can come off as soon as I get home. I went back up there because I wanted to confirm when they had used the cellar as an air raid shelter. Fortunately, it was before Catherine Saxon was murdered. And it hasn’t been used since—too many spiders and too small. If this is the knife used to kill Catherine, I’ll find out from the pathologist.”
“I had a glance,” said Billy. “It looks pretty clean to me. And if the killer had time to wipe it off, then he had time to think of a better place to get rid of it.”
“Not necessarily,” said Maisie. “If it was done in the heat of the moment and he was shocked by his actions, he might have wanted to dispose of the weapon as quickly as possible.”
“That means the killer knew the house—knew there was an old cellar there, and it was not used,” added Billy. “But there are only women living in that house.”
“I know,” said Maisie. “Come on, let’s get back to the office. Then I want to go over to the Barrington Bank, pay a surprise visit to Jenny Barrington’s husband.” She consulted her watch. “But I wonder . . . I’ll see if I can book a telephone call to Amelia Saxon. I’ll have to find out her number, and I do hope MacFarlane can help me there.”
“Haven’t the government stopped all trunk calls out of the country? Even if you can do it, you won’t be able to get a trunk call in until tomorrow, I shouldn’t wonder—I bet the lines are all spoken for. It’s going to cost you about ten quid for three minutes—and we know you’ll need more than that.”
“I’m not worried about the money, Billy.” She paused as they crossed Great Portland Street. “But back to you—did you notice anything?”
“I’d like to know one thing, miss. Did you take Catherine’s letters with you?”
“What letters? And no—I didn’t take any letters.”
“Are there any in the briefing notes from MacFarlane?”
“No—no letters. What are you getting at, Billy?”
“I don’t know much about being a writer, but when I came to think about it, I suppose I reckoned writers would write a lot of letters—and therefore, miss, they would get a lot of letters back from other people. If I was a writer, I think I’d want to keep letters. I mean, after all, there’s all sorts of belongings you like to have with you, especially if you’re a bit of a gypsy—which she was, you’ve got to admit it, miss. She got herself around a bit, traveling to Paris, Madrid, Barcelona, and Berlin, then London. I bet she kept people’s letters, and yet there wasn’t a letter to be found in her rooms.”
