Katastrophe, page 40
Moncrieff described what he’d found in the gloom of Barton’s bedroom. The stench. The cat. The fact that she’d obviously been dead for some time.
‘How long, do we think?’
‘About a week.’
‘Golly. That’s truly awful. Any idea how she died?’
‘None.’
‘Nothing obvious? Nothing that caught the eye? She’d been under immense strain, of course. My fault, I suspect, and this bloody war of ours. She was a proud woman, Tam. Maybe she’d had enough.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Meaning she’d prefer to draw a line of her own before she went completely gaga.’
Moncrieff gazed at him for a moment, wondering whether to share the news from next door about a voice from her bedroom six days ago.
‘Suicide seems unlikely,’ he said instead. ‘I found no signs, no empty bottle of pills, no note of any kind, nothing like that. The only oddness was a little keepsake under her pillow. Photographs.’
‘Of?’
‘Mildred Gillars.’
Liddell at last met his gaze. Mildred Gillars was one of two American women who’d broadcast German propaganda from Berlin throughout the war years. Together, they’d become known as Axis Sally.
‘The Yanks will be issuing a warrant for her arrest,’ a voice said. ‘Are you aware of that?’
Moncrieff spun round. The last time he’d seen the Arab scarf was six days ago. Then, for Wednesday night’s revels at the Tower of London, Philby had worn it as a headdress. Now it was looped artlessly over his shoulders. He’s heard every word, Moncrieff thought. He’s privy to everything.
Liddell had already drifted away to replenish his glass and accept congratulations from a passing fan. Philby watched him with an expression, Moncrieff thought, that was close to fond. Then he edged a little closer.
‘They’ll trace Gillars in the end,’ he murmured, ‘and then they’ll try her for treason. One way or another, she may end up with a rope around her neck. Under the pillow, you say?’ He was frowning now. ‘Interesting.’
‘Interesting how?’
‘I suspect there were secrets that your Mrs Barton kept well hidden. Even from you.’
‘Meaning?’
‘Passion takes many forms, as we all know. Axis Sally wasn’t to everyone’s taste but even Mrs Barton might need a spot of consolation from time to time.’ He wetted a fingertip and picked a tiny speck of cork from the rim of his glass. Then he looked up. ‘Doesn’t that sound plausible? Or am I being unduly harsh?’
Moncrieff held his gaze.
‘Guy appears to believe this is some kind of suicide,’ he said carefully.
‘Suicide?’ Philby was looking pained. ‘I think he’s suggesting your lovely Ursula had thrown in the towel. She lived alone, Tam. She had no friends that anyone was ever aware of, and I gather her family have mostly passed on. Solace, whatever shape it takes, isn’t a crime. At least, not yet.’
‘You’re serious? You’re really telling me she was in love with Axis Sally?’
‘I’m telling you she’d lost her wits. It may be the same thing.’
‘And after that, she ended it all?’
‘After that, she saw no point in prolonging the agony. She was a woman of principle. You were very lucky to have her, indeed we all were.’ He put his hand briefly on Moncrieff’s arm. ‘Is that a version you can live with, Tam? I do hope so.’
*
De Vries arrived in London the following day. Moncrieff was back at his desk in St James’s Street and she phoned him from Salvation Army Headquarters.
‘They’ve given me a room for as long as I need it,’ she said. ‘Which is very Christian of them.’
They met in a Whitehall pub later that same evening. Street cleaners were still attending to the aftermath of yesterday’s celebrations, and Moncrieff apologised for being so late.
‘The work’s never ending,’ he said. ‘I thought war was bad enough but peace is far worse.’
De Vries put her arms around him, gave him a consolatory kiss. To Moncrieff’s relief, she wasn’t in uniform.
‘Don’t worry,’ she said. ‘I’ve already talked to the police. Tomorrow I’ll be picking up the house key. Leave it to me. I probably knew her better than anyone. Tidying up is the least I can do.’
‘And sending her on her way? Some kind of funeral?’
‘That, too.’
*
Over the days that followed, Moncrieff kept in constant touch. Guilty that he couldn’t offer more help, he wanted to know that De Vries had everything in hand. The answer, in conversation after conversation, was yes. She’d cleaned the house, emptied every drawer, disposed of all Ursula’s clothing, been in touch with her bank manager, and talked at length to her solicitor. She’d even made time to borrow a mower from the man next door and tackle the lawn.
In her will, she said, Ursula had left everything to an obscure Dutch charity charged with protecting birds of passage in a corner of the Zuiderzee. This bequest would probably run into five figures, and the more she thought about it, the more De Vries had been touched. Back before the war, she said, the pair of them had spent many weekends prowling the Dutch waterlands in search of trophy shots for De Vries’s camera, and the fact that these excursions had so obviously mattered had been a revelation, as well as a surprise. Birds of passage, Moncrieff had mused afterwards. Wildly appropriate.
*
Nearly a week later, Moncrieff found an opportunity to leave his desk at a reasonable hour and take De Vries for an early supper. He wanted, above all, to know about the police.
‘They went through the house before they let me in.’ De Vries was examining a plate of stew. ‘Proper search, fingerprints, the lot.’
‘And?’
‘They say they found nothing.’
‘Post-mortem?’
‘Congestive heart failure. I’ve seen the death certificate. It’s there in black and white.’ She paused, looking up. ‘What do you think she died from?’
‘Disappointment.’
‘You’re serious?’
‘I am. I think it started with a V-2 rocket. It blew up a market in Farringdon and killed a man she sort of knew.’
‘Sort of?’
‘She was a customer. He was a butcher, had a stall in the market. She must have seen him once a week but what she saw, she really liked, and that was enough. When he died, she was distraught, and after that she simply lost interest.’
De Vries nodded, said she understood.
‘You mean that?’
‘I do.’ De Vries nodded. ‘She believed what she believed. She was unbending. She set the bar very high. That can be hard to live with, especially if you happened to be Ursula. Disappointment is a good word. In fact, it’s perfect.’ De Vries gave the stew one last prod, and then pushed the plate to one side. ‘I met the couple next door,’ she said. ‘They told me about hearing someone in Ursula’s bedroom. Days and days before you turned up.’
‘That’s right.’
‘So why didn’t you tell me? And why haven’t the police interviewed them?’
Moncrieff looked away across the crowded pub. London, in barely a matter of days, had come back to life again. Laughter, he thought. Opportunities. Even a little spare cash.
‘You were in this game,’ he said. ‘One question answers the other. Ursula deserves a little peace. That’s the least we owe her.’
Among the handful of documents De Vries had recovered from various corners of the house were instructions that she no longer wanted a Christian funeral. The flame that was her faith, she wrote, had flickered and died. Cremation would do fine, the hotter the better, and afterwards, if her friend De Vries was minded, she’d like her ashes scattered on the Zuiderzee, preferably on a day when the sun was out, and definitely in the company of tufted ducks.
De Vries, only too happy to oblige, had made arrangements for the cremation but had then discovered that taking a casket of ashes through customs wasn’t quite as simple as she’d thought. After six years of slaughter, any evidence of the dead in transit had to be twice certified, once in the country of origin and again on arrival.
‘So what will you do?’
At De Vries’ insistence, they’d arranged to meet at one of London’s many Salvation Army citadels. The closest was in Southwark, across the river, and Moncrieff had made his excuses at lunchtime to be there.
The citadel, when De Vries let him in, was empty. Her single suitcase lay beside a row of chairs at the back. She was booked on a ferry to Ostend which sailed at seven in the evening. Her train from Charing Cross left at half past two.
‘I’ll cheat,’ she said. ‘I managed to lay hands on a big tin of Cadbury’s Roses. Soldiers in my line of work have a sweet tooth. I got rid of the lot in less than an hour.’
‘And the ashes?’
‘In there,’ she nodded at the suitcase. ‘I wrapped the tin up as a present.’
Moncrieff nodded. The prospect of Agent Clover smuggling her earthly remains into Europe in an empty tin of chocolates would, he thought, have amused Ursula Barton.
‘So this is goodbye?’ He was already stooping for the suitcase.
‘Not quite. Come with me.’
De Vries extended a gloved hand and led him towards the stage. The big wooden cross on the back wall loomed over everything. Beyond the front row of seats, she nodded at the low padded bench.
‘The Mercy Seat,’ she said. ‘Here’s where we remember Ursula.’
‘I have to say a prayer?’
‘You have to give thanks. If not for God’s benefit then for yours, and for mine. She was a good woman. We need to pay our respects. An adieu would be fitting, if you could manage it.’
Moncrieff didn’t know quite what to say but then, unprompted, he sank to his knees. De Vries, beside him, had bowed her head. Her lips were moving and Moncrieff caught a whisper or two of prayer but nothing made much sense. Then he felt a stir of movement, and he accepted her hand again, and they both got to their feet.
‘Easier than you thought?’ She was smiling.
About the author
GRAHAM HURLEY is an award-winning TV documentary maker and the author of the acclaimed Faraday and Winter crime novels, two of which have been shortlisted for the Theakston’s Old Peculier Award for Best Crime Novel. His Second World War thriller Finisterre, part of the critically acclaimed Spoils of War collection, was shortlisted for the Wilbur Smith Adventure Writing Prize.
www.grahamhurley.co.uk
An Invitation from the Publisher
We hope you enjoyed this book. We are an independent publisher dedicated to discovering brilliant books, new authors and great storytelling. Please join us at www.headofzeus.com and become part of our community of book-lovers.
We will keep you up to date with our latest books, author blogs, special previews, tempting offers, chances to win signed editions and much more.
Get in touch: hello@headofzeus.com
www.headofzeus.com
@headofzeus
@HoZ_Books
@HeadOfZeus
Graham Hurley, Katastrophe
