The american agent, p.26
The American Agent, page 26
“I see,” said Maisie. “And to recap, the house was in fact your wife’s inheritance.”
“That is so, but I am a banker, and head of the household, thus certain decisions fall to me. And in addition, my wife’s uncle made certain stipulations in the will, so I was unable to sell. The area is subject to some quite antiquated land laws, as I am sure you have discovered.”
“Indeed,” said Maisie. “I own a property on the same street.” She would not as a rule have revealed such a detail, but she felt a certain pleasure in seeing a sharp raising of the eyebrow on the part of Tucker, indicating his surprise. “May I ask when you first met Miss Saxon?” she continued.
“She applied to rent the room,” said Mrs. Tucker.
“Beryl,” cautioned Tucker. “You do not deal with the day-to-day running of the property, so let me answer.” He turned to Maisie, uncrossing his legs, turning his body toward her, and resting his hands on the arm of the chair. “Miss Saxon submitted her application to Mrs. Marsh in the form of a letter of inquiry. She gave the information required and references, and after my accountants had checked all elements of the letter, I instructed them and Mrs. Marsh accordingly, and Miss Saxon moved in.”
Maisie judged Tucker’s position, and leaned forward, knowing that in so doing she had moved into an area that he considered his domain simply by dint of his posture. “Mr. Tucker, this is very interesting, because I believe Catherine Saxon came to London from France, having already traveled from Spain. Do you know how she might have heard about a room to let at Mrs. Tucker’s house?” She was well aware of her breach of conversational protocol, as Tucker had made it clear that he considered the house to be his property, and his alone. “Do you have any idea, Mrs. Tucker?” she added, leaning back and turning to Beryl Tucker.
“No, she doesn’t. As I’ve indicated, my wife does not have a hand in administration of the property.”
“But do you, Mr. Tucker? Do you know how Catherine might have learned about the rooms for rent?”
“I don’t. But you must consider her work—she was a reporter, so I am sure one of her American friends had seen the sign in the window, or read our advertisement in the Telegraph, and let her know. There are a number of them working only a few streets away, at the BBC.”
“Hmmm,” said Maisie. She let the sound hang in the air before continuing. “I wonder, are you familiar with Miss Saxon’s family connections?”
“I am now—it was mentioned in the Times. She’s the daughter of an American senator.” Tucker flapped his hand as if to dismiss the connection. “As soon as I read it, it was easy to see how she had gained such a reputation so quickly—her father obviously got her the jobs!”
“Actually, that’s not the case, Mr. Tucker. Catherine’s father was rather the opposite—he did everything he could to stymie his daughter and prevent her from continuing her work.” Maisie allowed only the slightest pause before moving on to the next question. “Did you ever meet her?”
“Well—” began Beryl Tucker.
“No, never.” Once again Tucker cut off his wife as she was about to speak.
“Mrs. Tucker?” encouraged Maisie.
The woman shook her head. “No, I never met her, though I heard from Mrs. Marsh that she was a lovely young woman. Quite lovely. It’s very sad, especially for her parents—her mother at least, if she’d upset her father.”
“Where does your daughter live?” asked Maisie.
“She lives overseas,” said Beryl Tucker. “Canada.”
“Oh, really—how interesting,” said Maisie. “I lived in Canada for a while. Not terribly long.”
“She’s a teacher, Miss Dobbs,” said Tucker. “My daughter chose to teach English and took up a position in Canada.”
“I do miss her,” said Beryl Tucker. “But then you do, especially after—”
“I think you’ve probably asked enough questions by now, haven’t you, Miss Dobbs?” said Tucker, standing up. “I know little about your trade, but it would appear to me that if you haven’t reached the end of your inquiry by now, surely you stand little chance of discovering who killed Miss Saxon.”
Maisie came to her feet, the words your trade echoing in her mind; the attempt at humiliation writ large. “Yes, indeed, I have asked enough questions. As you have no doubt realized, concerning Miss Saxon’s death, I am trying to put pieces of the puzzle in their correct place. You see”—she extended her hand to shake her host’s as she spoke—“if the murderer of a fine young woman is not found soon, I want to ensure I have done all I can before we consider the case cold. And at the present time it may be cool, but not cold—to my touch anyway.” She turned to Beryl Tucker, taking the woman’s hand. “And thank you so much for your time, Mrs. Tucker. I do, however, have a favor to ask of you—you have an absolutely gorgeous rose in your grounds at the front of the house. Would you be able to give me the name? My father has an enviable rose garden, and I would like to find one just like yours to give to him.”
“Let me get my secateurs, my dear—I’ll get you a cutting,” said Beryl Tucker. “If your father’s a rose man, he’ll know exactly how to propagate it.”
Maisie met Tucker’s frown with a smile and followed Beryl Tucker from the room.
“Ah, that one is a favorite of mine,” said Beryl Tucker. “A Bourbon rose—and I do love the traditional cabbage roses.” She leaned toward the pale pink rose, her gloved hands holding the secateurs steady as she took several cuttings.
“This is very kind of you, Mrs. Tucker,” said Maisie. “My father will be delighted.”
“I’ll just wrap them for you—I’ll prepare some damp newspaper to keep them fresh.”
Maisie watched as the woman led her to a potting table at the side of the house, where she wrapped the cuttings in damp newspaper, and placed them in a small bag made of sacking.
“There you are.” She handed the bag to Maisie, but as she did so, she touched Maisie’s hand. “And please forgive Jonathan, Miss Dobbs. My husband has not been quite the man he was since our son died. This business with Miss Saxon has upset him no end. Of course, he doesn’t show it, but I know it concerns him—as it has both of us. You don’t like to think of someone being murdered on your property. I’m sure if we could sell, we would. But the house will go to our daughter. And I doubt she’ll ever return home now.”
“It is a long way to come for a visit,” said Maisie.
“Eunice and her father don’t really see eye to eye. That’s why she went off in a huff and applied for a job in Canada. And she was so terribly upset when her brother was killed. But I am sure she’s happy over there, teaching in a girls’ school. She seems to have a very nice life, so I would imagine that, when we’re gone, she’ll just rent out the property again.”
“How did your son die, Mrs. Tucker?”
Beryl Tucker sighed, brushing soil from the potting table. “He died being a young man with a passion, I suppose. He was in Paris—he wanted to be an artist, you see. And you can imagine how his father took to that idea! Jonathan sees the world through very narrow glasses, Miss Dobbs, and he wanted Jeremy to be either a doctor, a barrister or a banker. Jeremy loved drawing as soon as he could pick up a pencil. I think Jonathan would have settled for an engineer or architect, but our son would not be fenced in. Off he went to Paris—about five years ago now, I would say. He would have been thirty years of age this year.”
“So he died in Paris?”
“Oh no—sorry, I must have confused you. No, Jeremy died in Spain, fighting with the International Brigade. He had made friends with a group of young people about his age, all of them artists of one sort or another and they decided to go to Spain to fight for the Republic.” She sighed. “And he was killed in Barcelona. But look at what’s happened here. Who knows what fate might have held for him by now, what with France invaded and young men going off to fight? I doubt he would have been an artist today—he might have been one of those boys killed at Dunkirk, or in the air, or with the navy.”
“I am so very sorry.” Maisie clutched the cutting, feeling the thorns against her palm, still so sensitive from the burns it was as if there was nothing between her skin and the rose. “Mrs. Tucker—do you by any slight chance think your son might have known Catherine Saxon in Paris?” She saw the woman’s brow furrow and her eyes reveal confusion, as if she could not countenance a new thought regarding her son’s death. “I’m afraid I must ask you this—you see, Catherine was in Paris a few years ago too, and then she went from there to Spain. Did he ever mention a young woman in the group? Some people call her ‘Cath.’ Does that help?”
“Oh dear—” Beryl Tucker leaned against the table.
“Mrs. Tucker—are you all right?” Maisie reached for the woman, steadying her.
“What on earth is going on here?” Jonathan Tucker approached the women from the front garden. “I wondered where you’d gone, Beryl, and there you are, playing with your infernal flowers again.” He pointed at Maisie. “And I hope you haven’t bloody well upset my wife. You police and inquiry agents are all the same. You should have solved this case days ago, and here you are on my property when I told you I had nothing more to say.”
“But Jonathan—”
“Beryl—do go inside, wash your hands and make yourself presentable,” said Tucker. He turned to Maisie. “And I would appreciate it if you left my property immediately.” He pulled his pocket watch from his waistcoat, and squinted at the dial. “If you hurry, you’ll catch the twelve o’clock train. Good day.”
“Thank you for the cuttings, Mrs. Tucker,” said Maisie. “And to you, Mr. Tucker, I thank you for your time. I will be in touch.”
Maisie turned and began walking along the path toward the gate, though she looked back once to see Tucker take his wife by the arm and lead her to the back of the house.
Once on the train, she consulted her own watch. Yes, she would have time to visit the Barrington Bank, where she wanted to speak to Jennifer Barrington’s husband. But in the meantime, the seed of an idea had been planted in her mind—that Jeremy Tucker might well have been the man whose initials Catherine Saxon had tattooed between her toes, where no one but herself and someone very close to her would see them.
The Barrington Bank was encased with sandbags to protect the large panes of glass used in construction of the building, which was situated close to the Aldwych Theater. Lights were on in a reception hall that would, before the war, have been flooded with natural illumination. Now it was like entering a cave. She approached a reception desk formed in the shape of a half-circle, beyond which was a curved staircase of wood and stainless steel.
“I’d like to speak to Mr. Miles Barrington, if I may,” said Maisie. She gave her name and added, “Please inform Mr. Barrington’s secretary that it’s regarding a Miss Catherine Saxon’s estate.”
The receptionist placed a call to his office, and without a noticeable delay Maisie was informed that his secretary would be down shortly, and to take a seat.
“Thank you very much,” said Maisie, smiling at the receptionist. “Would you mind doing me a favor before I go up to Mr. Barrington’s office? I’d appreciate it if you could look after this for me. It’s a rose cutting. A business associate just gave it to me as a gift, so I would not want to mislay it—or kill it.”
The woman looked at Maisie and took the small sacking bag with her forefinger and thumb, as if it held a substance emitting a pungent smell. “Don’t forget it,” she said. “I’ll have to throw it out if you don’t collect it.”
At that moment a woman descended the staircase and, standing on a landing, summoned Maisie to join her with a curt, “Miss Dobbs? This way, please.”
The staircase curved up and around to a corridor on the left. The secretary opened another door to the right, whereupon they were in an outer office. The secretary, who had not introduced herself, knocked on double wooden doors framed with stainless steel, and entered.
“Miss Dobbs for you, Mr. Barrington.”
Barrington turned away from the window where he had been standing, looking out, and smiled at Maisie.
“Thank you so much for coming to see me, Miss Dobbs,” he said, stepping from behind his desk toward Maisie, ready to shake her hand. He looked up at his secretary. “That will be all, Miss Barker.”
Barrington was an imposing man, not tall, but broad in the shoulders, and with a stance indicating he was used to being in control of all he surveyed. Yet there was something else about him that Maisie had seen often in men of his age—his was the face of a man who had known pain, grief and disillusionment; a man who had lost something of himself on the battlefield, and had never quite regained the blind optimism that had accompanied him into war. She wondered if the fact that his dark hair was longer than the accepted norm for men might be a mark of rebellion against all that had been expected of him, even, perhaps, his position at the helm of the family business.
Maisie shook Barrington’s hand, hearing the door close behind her. “I’m very grateful for your time. No doubt your wife told you about our meeting, and that I am conducting an inquiry into the death of her dear friend, Catherine Saxon.”
Indicating a leather armchair situated to one side of the desk, he waited until Maisie was seated and sat down opposite her. Maisie noticed his position was an open one—legs crossed in an easy manner, arms on the arms of the chair, hands not clenched, but at rest. His charcoal gray suit was well cut and his shoes expensive. His tie indicated he had studied at Cambridge, and his shirt was starched. If she had wanted to invest her money, she might have chosen the very dour Jonathan Tucker before Miles Barrington, for she suspected he was a gambler with other people’s funds, a banker for those who could remain calm while treating investing as something akin to roulette.
“Now then—fire away, how can I help you? Jenny has been absolutely shaken to the core about Catherine’s death, as am I, so we’re both anxious to see whoever killed her at the end of the hangman’s rope.” He began to drum his fingers on the arm of the chair.
“This hasn’t been a straightforward inquiry, Mr. Barrington, as you can imagine. Catherine was a vibrant young woman, accomplished, and she knew a lot of people. She was not on good terms with her father—or her brothers—so there was family discord, and—”
“And it wasn’t hard for them to get over here—think upon that, Miss Dobbs. Think upon that! Those Saxon men saw Catherine as a thorn in the side. I wouldn’t put it past the old man to arrange for someone to scare her, and then it all went wrong. Is that something you’re looking into?”
Maisie inclined her head, “Well, it’s interesting you should mention her father and brother—do you know them well?”
Barrington nodded. “Oh, I’ve met them socially. Jenny was Catherine’s very best friend—they were like two peas in a pod, those two. Sisters not of the same blood, that’s what Jenny said. So of course our paths crossed at a party or two when I was over there, in New York.”
“Your wife told me you’d met in New York—you seem to have picked up as much of her accent as she has of yours. And regarding the Saxons, I would imagine your family name was attractive to them.”
“Yes, I suppose it was. Connections are important to those sort of people. Even Catherine was not shy about using connections—but in her work, that’s what you have to do, I suppose. Rather like my work, if I’m to be perfectly honest—perhaps that’s why I picked up a bit of an American accent.” He raised his eyebrows. “Perhaps I should watch that so our son doesn’t pick it up—otherwise he’ll be in for a dreadful ribbing when he starts school. Anyway, in terms of using contacts, Catherine wasn’t much different from the men in her family.”
“It would seem not,” said Maisie. She noticed him begin to knead the back of his right hand with the fingers of the left, and saw that an ink stain where he had held his pen had rubbed across the opposite knuckles. “I know you’re a very busy man, but could you tell me anything at all about Catherine that I might not know? How often had you seen her since she came to England? And what did you think of her?”
Barrington rubbed both palms together. “Gosh, let me see. Hmmm. First of all, I’ve only seen her a couple of times since she came to London—of course, she saw Jenny more than me, but she came to dinner once or twice, and as you know, she was a very, very committed news reporter. Wanted to make her name, did Catherine. And what did I think of her? She was ambitious. Incredibly witty, and of course an attractive woman. I know very little about her men-friends, though I know she had seen an Australian a few times.”
Maisie nodded. Was this the right time? She would chance revealing Catherine’s secret. “Did you know, Mr. Barrington, that Catherine had delivered a child, some three years ago?”
He rested his hands on the arms of the chair again. “Oh, yes, of course. I was sure you would know about that. Jen told me about it. The child was stillborn, in Spain. Those two told each other everything, and Jenny must have cried buckets about it—her best friend, losing a child. She protected Catherine’s reputation, though—she only told me because I insisted upon knowing why she was so upset.”
“What did you think about it?”
He shrugged. “To tell you the truth, my main concern was for Jenny. Sometimes I thought she was more like a mother to Catherine than a sister figure, and she was so worried about Catherine, I thought it would make her ill. And what did I think of the situation? Frankly, the loss of the child was probably a godsend. I know that sounds rather strong, but she had no husband, and she refused to tell even Jenny who the father was—so what would she have done? Lugged a child around the world while she reported from every embattled city on her way to fame?”
