The Regimental Murders

PROLOGUE

June 1918. Belgium.

    The four khaki clad figures stood silently, looking down at the corpse of the young officer, beaten and bloodied, no longer a person. The loss of identity that somehow came with death made him different things to each them. To some, he looked innocent, suddenly transformed by death into a victim, to others, just another corpse, insignificant in a sea of recent corpses. The silence of the dawn morning seemed to envelop the moment, stretching it, making it part of a dream.  For men used to seeing death, even for the most cynical among them, the moment was gradually taking on a greater significance for their part in it. The leader of the group sensed this subtle change of mind and immediately moved to nip it in the bud. Stroking the morning moisture from his moustache with a calloused hand, he took command of the moment. Controlled it, as he had been taught. He ordered them to pick up the body and roll it out of the trench. Towards the enemy. The snipers had stopped days ago. Chances were, there would be no sudden bullet from across no-mans-land to end another life. He made them climb up, tentatively, from their protective wall of planks and mud. Under his direction they rolled the body, heavy with the clinging earth that tried to claim it with each inch of movement, away from the sanctuary they all clung to daily. Towards an uncaring enemy. Just a few yards would do. Out of sight, out of mind. It was over. Justice had been done. A life that had ended, paid for other lives. A small price. Not, perhaps a fair price, but payment had been made. It was enough because it was the only price that could have been levied. 

    When the body was no longer within sight of their sanctuary, the leader ordered them back, and before they had a chance to dwell further on the personal significance of that single death, he ordered them to continue with more mundane tasks. The price had been paid for an outstanding debt, but for those who had exacted that price, payment must be delayed. There were still the dying days of a world war to survive.

Somewhere in England. Late 1914.

    ‘You really don't need to wait darling. I’m sure you’ll find it easier to get a cab if you leave now…’

    ‘Nonsense darling! Look, it’s what all the other wives are doing, besides, I may not see you for absolutely weeks!’ As she answered him she fussed with his collar, removed an imagined piece of lint from his smart uniform jacket, straightened his tie, all for at least the third time. ‘Besides, you promised Kenneth. He’s very proud of his father, Aren't you dear?’ She lowered her gaze to the small boy standing between them who was more interest in the piece of string he had found in his pocket a few moments earlier. Whilst trying to remember when he had put it there, he looked up at his father.

    ‘I’m very proud of you daddy.’ He stated particularly and correctly, with a thin lipped smile he thought might represent bravery. 

    His father looked uncomfortably down at his son, never entirely sure how to react when the child tried to engage with him. He returned the smile weakly and patted the boy on the head, rather like he used to with an old labrador he remembered having in his own childhood. 

    ‘Chin up Kenneth…’ He enthused somewhat flaccidly, but left the sentiment hanging in the air, having no idea what to add. 

    He was grateful to be saved at that moment by the sharp screech of the train’s whistle, accompanied by the call of the guard to board. 

    ‘I must go, darling.’ He said as emotionally as he could manage. He grasped his wife by the upper arms and planted what he assumed might be a passionate kiss on her lips, before bending down to hug young Kenneth. It felt strained. He did love them, he would miss them, undoubtedly, but he had no real concept of how to demonstrate the fact. He hoped his actions were appropriate, both for appearances and for their sakes. They seemed, he thought, satisfied. He threw his heavy military great-coat over one arm and touched his cap with the other. ‘Don’t worry, I’m sure I’ll be home in time for Christmas!’ He said. He had no reason to assume it was true, but he had heard another departing soldier say it a few moments ago, so it must be appropriate. 

    As he settled himself in the crowded carriage, he felt a sense of relief. For some reason going to war did not scare him. Failing to show the right level of affection to his family as he did so, filled him with dread. He picked through his bag to find his current book, he always felt more comfortable in a book than in the real world. He turned to the chapter that dealt with nutrition. He’d read it earlier that day but it was his habit to re-read everything at least twice. One could not be too careful in gaining knowledge, particularly when the outcome was for the benefit of others. Within a few sentences he was more comfortable, his family forgotten. 

CHAPTER TWO

10.38pm. Monday June 14th 1925. Clarges Street. Mayfair. London.

    Lord Bartholomew Tugwell of Chalfont walked as steadily as he could manage to his library on the first floor of his London residence. Now in his late forties, he had maintained his slim youthful figure but his indulgent lifestyle had left its mark on his ruddy vein-covered face. His nose, for reasons he could not fathom, had been gradually becoming more bulbous since the war. He had grown a thick moustache to distract from the visual effect, but ageing was not dealing with Lord Tugwell kindly. Though he steadfastly refused to wear spectacles publicly, his eyesight was blurry, his speech, he knew was regularly slurred. He had not made a speech in the House for over a year, fearing he would be dismissed and ridiculed as a drunkard.

    His obsession with the former Prime Minister, Lloyd George, (long since out of office), and his belief that the man had been the architect of the nation’s slide towards destruction, had become his regular theme.

    How could this ‘bloody little Welshman’ (as Chalfont had privately referred to the country’s former leader on more than one occasion), have been allowed to undermine the great nation of which Chalfont considered himself to be a staunch bastion?

    Whilst he, Major, The Lord Chalfont, had given two toes from his right foot, (thanks to a Hun machine gun), and a good thirty per cent of his lung capacity, (thanks to a gas attack), for his country in the shit-filled trenches of France, Lloyd George had been plotting to give away a third of the nation to the bloody Irish!

    This outrage had once again become his theme during a small dinner gathering earlier in the evening, which had for some reason broken up early, just as he had begun to get into full swing with his anti-Lloyd George speech, buoyed by the consumption of a bottle and a half of good port. Surprised that his half dozen guests had all coincidentally had after dinner appointments to attend, he had curtailed his speech, given the staff leave to go to bed and, clutching the remains of the port, headed for his library. 

    Whilst the library was well stocked with finely bound tomes suitable for the London house of a man of Lord Chalfont’s position, their contents were, for the most part, entirely unknown to him. Most had sat in their positions since being purchased by his grand-father, only touched periodically by the maid’s feather duster. What the library also contained however, was a growing number of glass-topped cabinets displaying his lordship’s collection of cricketing memorabilia. 

    In his darker moments, Lord Chalfont ruminated over the fact that, being childless, no son would inherit his love of the game. His title would, he knew, go to his feckless and, in his Lordship’s opinion, somewhat effeminate nephew. His greatest pain lay in not being able to sire a son that could actually play for England at the glorious game. 

    As he worked his way carefully towards his writing desk, something seemed awry, his slightly addled brain could not quite process what exactly, it was.  Reaching his desk he leaned on its edge as he worked his way around to the leather chair behind it. In doing so he realised he was not alone. Looking up he saw that one of his cabinets was open. Standing beside it was a figure he recognised, it’s face in shadow. 

    ‘Good Lord!’ Exclaimed Chalfont, his heart quickening its pace, a surge of adrenalin competing with his fogged, alcohol-addled brain…’What the devil are you doing here?…’ 

    In answer, the figure stepped forward, holding, his Lordship realised, the bat used by Carl Willis from the 1919 Australian Imperial Forces Tour, with which Willis had scored one thousand six hundred and fifty two runs. Seconds later the bat hit his lordship in the left temple with enough force to send him sprawling across his desk. As he lay there, close to death, Carl Willis’s bat reigned down another seven blows to his Lordship’s head before its wielder was satisfied with the innings. 

CHAPTER THREE

Wednesday June 16th 1925. 06.30. Clapham, London

    King, looked at himself in the shaving mirror. As usual, he was less than impressed with the face that looked back at him. The blue eyes, once shining with youth and hope, were now bloodshot and ringed with dark shadows. The handsome face of that youth was still under there, but the weight of pain and sadness, disappointment and bitterness, self-loathing, anger, incomprehension, served as a mask to his younger self. He bared his teeth. More yellow than before? Perhaps. He brushed them, methodically, going through the motions. Before he began to shave he lit a Gauloises cigarette, taken from the wooden box that sat beside the basin. The first of the day. Always the worst. A daily rite of passage, accompanied by the disgusting taste, the cough, the spitting, the certain knowledge that they made him ill. Added to the list of ailments he coped with daily, he thought those self same thoughts every morning, and daily, dismissed them. That first cigarette might be awful, but he knew those that followed would help him get through. 

    He dragged the razor across his skin. The water, as always, was not quite hot enough. It hurt. The second pain of the day. He didn't count the ache in his left hip that seemed to get worse with sleep when the rest of his body was busy regaining strength. He glanced down and caught sight of his growing paunch. Automatically he averted his gaze, focusing on the face he thought some might still call handsome. He was right, in the eyes of most people who met him. At twenty eight years of age, King was still an attractive man, somewhat out of shape, his face thinner than the rest of his body, which could still be hidden by a well tailored suit. Just another day. 

    How much scotch had he polished off last night? He wasn't sure, for the briefest of moments. Then as always when he focussed his mind, he remembered exactly. He was still at the stage when he felt the need to think about the excesses of the night before each morning. And he was thankful for it. He didn't really have a choice. He knew the daily hangover might have been his personal normality but that didn't make it normal. 

    The second coughing fit of the morning briefly served the beneficial purpose of taking his mind away from the daily self-analysis. He stubbed out the Gauloises in the sink, through watering eyes and racking coughs.  The second one would be easier. He returned to his bed and sat as the coughing fit subsided, running his fingers through his hair and wiping the tears away from his eyes. He looked towards the drawer in the bedside cupboard and, after a moments hesitation, opened it. The small silver box was there, where it always was. He opened it and looked at the white powder inside for a few moments. closing it, with a determined mind, he shut the drawer and carried on dressing.

    An hour later, after a plate full of bacon and eggs, and three more cigarettes, each easier than the last, he put on his hat, decided against the coat, and with a nod of thanks to Simmonds, his septuagenarian valet, stepped out into the smoggy London morning. 

    Simmonds, was in the twilight years of his life, far from at his most productive. With failing eyesight, an almost daily descent into forgetfulness, and with no close family to support him, he would, but for the continued support of his employer, be likely to spend the latter days of his life in relative poverty. Lonely, rejected, unessccesary. King was determined to not let this come to pass. He had considered buying his faithful servant a cottage in the country, to pay him a generous pension and let the old man live out the last of his days in rest and comfort. He had been on the point of making the arrangements when another member of his ‘staff’, Ignatius Dent, had pointed out, in his usual direct, abrasive manner that, 

    “The old bugger would be dead of boredom within a fortnight..”

    King was glad he had taken Dent’s advice, the thought leading him tangentially to briefly wonder where Dent was this morning. King’s sometime car mechanic, driver, and former batman, Dent was often, though not always, outside the house having one last tinker with Marie before King set off for work each morning.

    Marie, his yellow Citroen C3 Cloverleaf, sat waiting for him at the kerb, giving him his first (and sometimes, it was true), only genuinely pleasurable moment of the day. Marie, had been named for the wife of it’s first owner in Paris, and had been shipped over five years ago from the continent at considerable expense. In a world of pain and uncertainty, King always relished the time he was able to spend with this mechanical love of his life. Having started the motor, he sat back for moment to appreciate the rumble of the French engine. He was halfway through another Gauloises before he put the car into gear and started off on his short but sometimes tediously traffic-filled journey to Scotland Yard.

    He usually enjoyed his drive to work each morning, regardless of the traffic. A short blissful escape from the realities of life. Though his short time at the wheel of Marie gave him respite, it was all too brief. As he crossed Westminster Bridge his thoughts soon returned to his less than satisfactory working life as an Inspector with the Metropolitan Police. In the seven years since leaving the army his early success in the role had been short lived. King had easily acquired the position, in part due to his earlier service in the Victorian Police Force in Australia before the war, but equally, he knew thanks to the influence of his uncle and main benefactor, Sir Arthur Lancelot King. Seven years on he was no longer the ‘bright young hope’ his superiors had anticipated. A series of minor failures, at least in his superiors’ eyes, had tainted his reputation. Questions had been raised about his health, and his suitability to best serve the force. There was no shortage of eager young men, keen to find a niche  in the force after serving in the war. A burgeoning supply of former military officers struggling to transition to a suitably senior peacetime job were constantly snapping at the heels of older detectives who had filled those roles whilst the younger men were away fighting. They were just as keen to replace those who had first managed to secure a position at the war’s end if the incumbent was not up to the job. 

    King’s own Detective Sergeant, Albert Darlington, had served as a subaltern during the last year of the conflict, at the second battle of Cambrai with a tank regiment, just a month before the war’s end. Younger than King by five years, Darlington had only served for a year and had only seen victory. One of the lucky few to come through the conflict unscathed, both physically and mentally, indeed positively buoyed by the experience, he was, in King’s eyes a constant threat to replace the older man. Life was full of challenges.

    Finally getting through the heavy traffic on the bridge, King pulled into Derby Gate, with a nod from the constable on duty outside Cannon Row Police Station which sat opposite the main New Scotland Yard building. The two parts of the building that Derby Gate divided formed a great red brick and Portland stone canyon, joined to each other on an upper level by a great arch. This had been the home to Scotland Yard since soon after the turn of the century but already there was a good deal of rivalry over a parking space as more of the building’s inhabitants became private car owners, competing with the official police vehicles that generally filled the street.

    King was lucky today. He managed to squeeze Marie into a spot just east of the archway. It was common for him to frustratingly find himself reversing back out onto Victoria Embankment and leaving Marie parked under the trees when no spaces were available. Something that infuriated Ignatius Dent, who swore, in all senses of the phrase, that the sap from the trees was like poison to Marie’s fine yellow paintwork.

    Lighting another cigarette from the butt of the last, King headed into the main building, acknowledging with a series of nods a handful of familiar faces he passed on his was to the main staircase, which he descended towards his basement office. The gloom of this lower level settled over him like a blanket as he headed off down an ill-lit corridor painted in a shade of green apparently designed to install discomfort in anyone foolhardy enough to venture along it. The ninth door on his left was his destination, the door marked “INSP I. K. KI_G” one of the letters having mysteriously disappeared over a year ago and having never been replaced.

    As always, no matter what time King arrived it seemed, Detective Sergeant Darlington was already at his desk. A tiny slab of functional timber pushed against the wall at ninety degrees to King’s own slightly bigger workspace that had the honour, due to his senior status, of having the room’s only window behind it. A window, whose frame was thoughtfully coloured a darker shade of the ever present green. So many coats of paint upon it that opening it would have been an impossible task, even if one had wanted to do so, considering that its aspect was a twelve feet square courtyard with seven other identical windows looking on to it, the only purpose of which was to deliver the tiniest amount of natural light to these dungeon-like offices. It also conveniently served as a place for the various pipes and ducts headed vertically to better places, which did nothing to add to its charm. 

    ‘Good Morning Sir.’ 

    Chirped Darlington, a close-mouthed smile on his slightly smug (King always thought) face. Darlington was slim, which served to accentuate his impeccably cut suits, and sported neatly trimmed moustaches, as black as his slicked-back, ever-so-slightly-too-long hair. 

    King grunted as polite a reply as he could muster.

    ‘Any tea?’

    He asked hopefully.

    ‘On it’s way Sir. Janice is popping some along. I caught her in the corridor earlier.’ Replied Darlington with a tiny hint of salaciousness in his tone. His accent said Home Counties. Eton. Oxford. Superiority. Whatever his words said.

    ‘The Boss wants to see you, Sir, up on the fifth.’ 

    Darlington chirped happily, referring to the floor where the great and the good of Scotland Yard held court. The undertone was, ‘have your tea later…’

    King was looking out of the window by now, focussed on the corpse of a pigeon that had made it through the tatty netting ten feet above his head. The rats had already got to it, half of its head was missing. 

    King looked at his sergeant but could gain no further information from the younger man’s face which was studiously and conveniently staring intently at the contents of a buff folder on his desk.

    ‘Any idea what for?’

    ‘Hmm? Oh. No Sir. None whatever.’ 

    Darlington answered distractedly. False distraction. King decided.

                ***************************************************

    King always felt uncomfortable in the office of Detective Superintendent Stephen De Lacey. It wasn't the decor. King had spent much of his life surrounded by a level of opulence and style that would make the ‘average joe’ feel awkward. De Lacey’s workspace was filled with decorative pieces and objet d’art that would convey to his peers impeccable taste, and to everyone below his class, the riches of Croesus. Though they would, of course, have no idea who Croesus was. The discomfort that overcame King was based entirely on the man De Lacey, himself. 

    De Lacey was ‘old money’, without the ‘old’ money. The hint of poverty and Catholicism in his background had, thus far, done little to damage the Superintendent’s career, mainly because he had a reputation for ruthlessness and productivity unequaled by anyone else. He had regained a fortune, very few could figure out where exactly from, and lived accordingly. He had no friends, only contacts. De Lacey was, to all intents and purposes, a private business enterprise that operated within the confines of Scotland Yard. Nobody further up the tree complained because of the results he achieved, nobody below complained because to do so was to seal the fate of ones’ career. 

    A physically small man, with a resemblance to a nineteenth century businessman with a pallid, vampiric visage, De Lacey reigned over his department with an iron fist clad in a gothic horror costume. A thin, balding head, the skin pulled taught and pale like a corpse, topped a stick thin body clad in suits from the past century, regardless of the wearer being a mere thirty years old. His eyes, like his skin seemed bereft of colour. It was as if De Lacey’s life was lived entirely in the monochrome tones of the moving picture house. Looming out of reality like a slightly comedic villain, about to tie the helpless heroine to a railway track. He positively oozed nefariousness. 

    Sitting opposite his superior officer, in a poorly stuffed chair apparently design entirely with the intention of bringing discomfort to its occupant, King looked across an enormous desk of teak to De Lacey who sat, entirely by design King believed, in a great curved backed chair that sat at least a foot above his own. King could not help wondering if the diminutive figure across from him was swinging his feet above the floor like a child, though he would not dream for one moment of ever looking beneath the desk to find out. The ticking of a tall case clock was the rooms only indication that time had not in fact, stood still.

    Superintendent De Lacey flicked through papers that sat before him, apparently oblivious to King’s presence. A brief, phlegmy cough alerted the junior man that his interview would commence shortly. 

    ‘You have disappointed. Of late.’ Said De Lacey, in a reedy voice. A statement. No hint of a question.

    ‘Are you a dipsomaniac, King?’

    ‘Sir?’

    ‘A drinker. King. Do you find yourself addicted to drink?’ 

    King was taken aback by the directness of his superior’s question. 

    ‘No, no Sir, I don’t..’ 

    De Lacey did not wait for King to finish his denial,

    ‘The Americans have dealt with the problem admirably. Prohibition, at all levels. Remarkable. An example to us all what? Hmmm.’

    The question, King knew, was nothing of the sort. It was a statement of position. As far as he and apparently everyone in law enforcement with the exception De Lacey had discovered, Prohibition was a disaster. 

    ‘Yes Sir.’ He replied, hoping to deflect to the point of the meeting.

    Superintendent De Lacey returned his gaze to the papers in front of him just long enough to leave King time to wonder where this was going, before continuing in time to interrupt the detective’s thoughts.

    ‘Sure you’ve heard of last night’s, incident…’ King had no idea what, exactly, “last night’s incident” was…

    ‘Inspector Saunders death was a shock to us all. Bad business. But our business must, of course, continue.’

    King was left reeling in confusion, Jack Saunders? Was, ….had been, an Inspector with a good deal of seniority over King, a man in his forties who had been too old to serve in the war. Of some considerable skill, respected by his peers, derided by those younger than him, for his somewhat plodding methodical approach to police work. 

    ‘No, ……I mean no Sir, I had no idea..’

    ‘Well, it is of no consequence.’ Interrupted De Lacey once again.

    ‘I need to redistribute his case load. You were a military man I gather?’ Even this most admirable of biographical indicators, De Lacey managed to deliver with a hint of derision.

    ‘I have a case for you to deal with. Saunders was to have dealt with it but his demise seems to have coincided with that of the victim. I’ve had the file sent to your sergeant, Darlington, isn’t it? Good chap. Good family. Excellent prospects. Thought you two might be able to  get to the bottom of things. Military backgrounds et cetera….’

    ‘Yes Sir. Thank you Sir.’ answered King, still entirely flabbergasted by the whole short interview. 

            *************************************************************

    King stalked angrily back into his office, fully prepared to give Darlington a piece of his mind for not preparing him for his meeting with De Lacey but was immediately disappointed and deflated to find the sergeant absent.

    ‘Bloody man!’ He grumbled half under his breath. Looking at Darlington’s desk he noticed the file the sergeant had been studying earlier was sitting closed atop it. The only item not lined up like a series of little paper and card soldiers in Darlington’s usual fashion, King turned it towards him and realised this was the case file his superior had mentioned. Grabbing it angrily he took it to his own desk, lit a cigarette and had just opened the cover when Darlington kicked the door open, two tea cups, one on top of the other in his right hand and a plate of bacon sandwiches in his left.

    ‘Bit of breakfast sir?’ Darlington asked cheerily, plonking his burden down onto King’s desk unceremoniously.

    ‘Strong as an Ox, three sugars…’ he said as he pushed one of the cups towards his senior officer with a grin before perching on the corner of the desk himself and grabbing one of the sandwiches.. ‘Oh, you found the file, jolly good!’ he mumbled through his sandwich. 

    ‘Get off of my bloody desk, Sergeant!’ Snapped King, 

    ‘And please have your damn breakfast on your own time rather than that of Scotland Yard!’

    ‘Sir, of course Sir. One of them’s for you…..’ Darlington replied weakly, his voice trailing off to  join his smile that had scarpered at the first sign of trouble. He stood awkwardly, half devoured sandwich held down by his side, unsure for a moment what to do with it. With a burst of inspiration he stuffed it into his jacket pocket.

    Looking back down to the file in front of him and trying to digest it as he spoke, King found his anger immediately replaced with a tiny hint of amusement at Darlington’s rare display of discombobulation. 

    ‘Before we address the fact that you let me head off to the fifth floor unarmed, undefended and intellectually stark-bollock-bloody-naked, tell me what happened to Jack Saunders!’ 

    King was finding it hard to remain angry at all now, but refused to look up from the file in case his Sergeant should realise this fact.

    Already distracted by the realisation that putting the bacon sandwich in his jacket pocket was not his cleverest move, Darlington tried to concentrate on regaining his well practiced, trade-marked cool head. Let the old bugger have his fun.. he thought.

    ‘Well, Sir, I gather he topped himself, that is, committed suicide, Sir. Blew his brains out with a police revolver….. erm….’

    ‘Yes, go on…’ demanded King, his voice having lost much of its anger with the shocking news.

    ‘Well Sir, he chose a somewhat public arena for the act. The public bar, in fact, of the 

Red Lion.’

    ‘The Red Lion?’ Asked King, astonished..

    ‘Yes Sir.’ Answered Darlington, now warming to his story, ‘Apparently he managed to get bits of himself over three MPs, two off-duty police officers and a barmaid called Letty. Letty copped the bullet on its way out Sir. Through the left shoulder. Just a flesh wound, Sir, but she’s quite upset.’

    King sat back in his seat and put his hands behind his head. ‘Jesus bloody Christ. Anybody have any idea why yet?’

    ‘He’d been acting very agitated the last few days according to other officers, Sir, but other than that, no.’

    King rubbed his temples in disbelief, trying to refocus on the job in hand. ‘Right, go and get us a car, and a driver. You can fill me in on this bloody murder on the way.’

    ‘Yes Sir. Where are we going Sir?’

    King looked down at the file in front of him once more and pointed a nicotine stained finger at an address. ‘Here, Darlington, number twelve Clarges Street, Mayfair. The scene of the crime. Obviously.’

    ‘Yes Sir.’

    Once Darlington had left the office, King took one of the remaining sandwiches and bit into it. He was delighted to find that the bacon was complimented by an extremely runny fried egg, and hoped very much that the half eaten sandwich in Darlington’s pocket was also thus adorned.

CHAPTER FOUR

Wednesday June 16th 1925. 9.00am. 12 Clarges Street. Mayfair. London.

    There was a police constable waiting outside the door of number twelve Dover Street. PC 357, Constable Daffyd Williams, King noted. A slightly corpulent young man with red hair and a redder face that King had met twice before. Engaged to be married to Dorothy. Son of a grocer. 

    ‘Morning Williams, how’s young Dorothy?’ He asked with a casual air.

    PC Williams beamed instantly, pleased to be recognised by the senior officer. ‘Fine thank you Sir!’ He responded, ‘Three months till the big day!’ He announced proudly.

    ‘Good man.’ Responded King with a close lipped smile and a touch of his his hat.

    Sergeant Darlington shook his head slightly and grinned inwardly, he had learned very quickly his senior officer’s ability to present an affable, friendly face to others regardless of who they were. It was one of the character traits Darlington knew, would often enable King to gain a deeper insight into those around him and their inner thoughts. He envied this apparently natural talent and tried to mimic it where possible but where King always had the edge was in his incredible ability to remember the tiniest of details that seemed insignificant but which were, to the individual, enough to elicit an immediate feeling of camaraderie and respect between themselves and the Detective Inspector. Initially Darlington had thought it a clever trick, a method for gaining peoples trust that King had perfected over time to his own advantage, but he was beginning to think King, himself had no idea he was doing it. 

    Darlington knew one thing for sure, he wanted to get to the top in Scotland Yard, and though he could never outwardly show it, for fear of appearing sycophantic, being attached to Detective Inspector King was quite possibly one of the greatest opportunities available in the entire police force to learn how a natural born detective operated. He could see the limitations of the man, his heavy drinking, his political leanings that conflicted occasionally with his professional role, and often with his personal social standing. His weakness when it came to beautiful women.     But his ability to simply be liked, coupled with his insight into what made others comfortable and his incredible memory for every detail, was a gift that any budding detective would be a fool not to try to tap into. 

    Having been shown into the library of the house by another constable, one that, much to Darlington’s pleasure, King did not know, the pair of detectives stopped just inside the door. Both of them were experienced enough to know that disturbing a crime scene was the highest on the list of mortal sins for their profession. They each looked around the room for a few moments, letting their eyes become accustomed to the subdued light. 

    King, for his part took the time to take in as much of the room as he could before allowing his attention to be drawn to the corpse that lay a dozen feet away. From his vantage point he could only see the legs of the deceased, the rest of the body being shielded from view by an ancient wing-backed armchair that faced, at a slight angle, the rooms single desk. He noted the floor to ceiling books, just in front of which sat a series of expensive, probably purpose made, glass panelled cabinets that stood at waist height. All were closed, and appeared to be latched shut, except one that he discerned was unlatched, the lid of which stood no more than aa eighth of an inch proud of its closed position. 

    Darlington craned his neck to see the corpse first, enabling him to take in the body up to the  waist. He saw the handle of what appeared to be a cricket bat lying alongside the bodies left side. The body itself was face up. He looked to his senior officer who nodded ascent and both detectives stepped further into the room, taking care to disturb nothing. 

    Darlington fought to keep down his breakfast as he viewed the top half of the corpse from his new vantage point. The head lay facing the detective, slanted to it’s right. The entire left side of the skull was decimated by what must have been a series of vicious blows. Blood formed a circle around the head and shoulders of the body and radiated out over three or four feet, spattering the lower part of the desk and the armchair that had earlier blocked the detective’s view. It was, he now saw, definitely a cricket bat that lay beside the body, its bottom four inches covered in blood and matted hair. 

    King was still studying the rest of the room, Darlington noted, apparently indifferent to the corpse. Darlington stepped closer still, standing directly over the body now, he took out his notebook and began to scribble his thoughts into it. He’d learned to make copious notes at a crime scene, since King had an unnerving habit of making virtually none. 

    Finally the senior detective stepped gingerly towards the body and stood staring, his eyes taking in the scene whilst his hands absently fumbled in his jacket pocket and produced a silver cigarette case and matching lighter. He lit his cigarette and inhaled deeply, not moving his head an inch from its studies. As he exhaled he spoke, still not averting his gaze.

    ‘Well, we can probably eliminate Carl Willis from our enquiries.’

    ‘Sir?’ Responded Darlington, somewhat confused.

    ‘Carl Willis, Australian cricketer and footballer. The former owner of that bat.’ said King matter-of-factly.

    Darlington was nonplussed, ‘How can you possibly know that?’ He asked, forgetting, as he often did to address his superior as ‘Sir’…

    ‘You doubt me Darlington?’ answered King, lifting his gaze to the sergeant with a solid stare. ‘Ten bob says I’m right.’

    Darlington hesitated briefly, King had a habit of doing this. What had he missed? He asked himself, but could find nothing. 

    ‘Sir?’ He asked rather weakly, not wishing to lose a bet, but having no clue what his superior was on about.

    King, still staring at his subordinate, gestured with his cigarette to the cabinet behind him. ‘It says so on the plaque in that cabinet over there. The one with the cricket-bat-sized gap in it. Go and corral the witnesses will you? You start with the servants. I’ll take the widow.’

    Shoving his hands into his jacket pockets rather petulantly, and finding the eggy residue once more, Darlington stalked from the room with the briefest hint of a ‘Yes Sir.’ escaping his lips. 

    King did not hear the response. He crouched down next to the body and tilted his head slowly from side to side, taking in every detail. Then, slowly and meticulously he began to delve into the victim’s pockets. The contents were of little importance, he decided quickly, but committed them to memory anyway. Turning his attention away from the body he looked to its left, where a decanter lay on its side, the remnants of its contents, port, it seemed, soaking into the carpet beneath it. He glanced around and found what he expected, to the right of the body, poking out from beneath the armchair, a glass with a small amount of the same liquid still nestling inside. 

    He stood upright and turned his attention to the desk and the clutter of papers on its surface.

    Taking a pencil from his inner pocket, King began to push the various papers around, reading a line here and there. Within a few minutes he had ascertained that much of the paperwork  seemed to be in the nature of an early draught of a regimental history of the Royal Sussex Fusiliers, interspersed with documentation regarding the purchase of cricketing memorabilia. A scan of some photographs and ephemera around the room confirmed to the detective that his lordship was formerly with the aforementioned regiment during the war. King compartmentalised the information in his mind carefully. He was highly prone to self-analysis whenever references to the war arose. He had his demons on the subject, but a number of years practice had enabled him to develop a reasonable level of distance between his own experiences of the conflict from those of other people. 

    As he studied the scene in deep thought, he took another cigarette from his case, picking up a book of matches from the desk to light it, he turned the book over and took in the business name imprinted on the front momentarily. He slipped the matchbook into his jacket pocket. Another thought filed and compartmentalised. 

    The library door opened and Darlington peered around it.

    ‘Doctor’s here Sir.’ The sergeant stated matter-of-factly before stepping aside to allow the said doctor entry. The doctor stepped into the room and immediately looked down at the body of his lordship for a few seconds before looking up at King and proffering his hand to the detective.

    ‘Doctor Weeks. I was summoned by Lady Chalfont. I was acquainted with his lordship’. The  doctor offered by way of explanation. He was a young looking man, who, King thought was probably a little older than he actually appeared. Slight of build but of average height, his blonde hair seemed to be the cause of his deceptively youthful appearance. A few lines about his face told the tale of yet another young man who had had a part of that youth ripped away by the war. 

    King accepted the hand of greeting, 

    ‘Inspector King. Scotland Yard. Kind of you to attend doctor, though I will of course be asking an official doctor to do so… unless, of course, you would oblige me…?’ 

    King let the sentence hang in the air, an early official declaration and certification of death would, he knew, save him a little time in establishing his investigation. 

    ‘Oh. Of course. Happy to help!’ Replied Doctor Weeks with a forced smile. ‘I wasn’t actually his lordships personal physician, we were acquainted by the nature of his work, the regimental history. But I’d be happy to help out. Such a dreadful thing….’

    Recovering a professional air, Weeks turned his attention to the body. He kneeled beside it and, checking for all vital signs, of which there were clearly none, gave an official verbal determination as to the corpse’s status as being, deceased. 

    While Dr Weeks carried out his duties, King once again studied the surroundings. When the good doctor had fully established that his profession could do nothing of benefit for the man before him, King gestured for them both to leave the room. 

    Once in the hall, King could see Darlington busying himself organising a number of uniformed constables to in their turn, organise the various staff and witnesses to be interviewed. There were invariably a larger number of persons within such a household than would be particularly helpful to the police in such a case. Most of whom would know nothing, would have heard nothing and would quite likely be unwilling to reveal anything even if they had. Servants had, in King’s experience, a peculiar quality of being protective of their masters and mistresses business, even beyond their demise. 

    Darlington caught sight of his senior officer and stepped over abruptly.

    ‘Her ladyship is in the drawing room ready to be interviewed, sir.’

    ‘Thank you, sergeant. Could you have a chat with the doctor here? Seems he knew the deceased. Find out the circumstances of their acquaintance please.’ Dismissing the doctor with a nod.

    Darlington acknowledged the request and showed King into the drawing room, closing the door behind the inspector as he entered. 

    The room was exactly as King had expected. Edwardian opulence and style with occasional hints of more modern fashion, a common enough juxtaposition in the homes of the wealthy in these changing times. Tradition standing not quite resolutely enough against the gradual incursions of modernity. 

    What King had not been prepared for was Lady Chalfont. The very recently widowed lady sprung to her feet to greet him as he entered. Dressed in an immaculately tailored red suit, the skirt of which fell to mid-calf, her hair cut severely short and wavy, shimmering in deepest black, standing starkly against milk-white skin, impossibly sharp cheekbones, either side of a small delicate nose. Her eyes were dark blue, almost black. She could not, King thought, have been much beyond twenty five years of age. Her reddened lips parted in a gracious smile, worthy of any introduction, other that following the recent death of one’s husband. As she approached him, King realised she was short, perhaps only five feet in height. Her suit was tailored to hide an unfashionably large bust. She seemed to glide with cat-like grace towards him. 

    She offered a hand, hanging limply, appearing too weak to shake properly, causing King to respond with an oddly emasculating, equally weak and ineffectual shake in return. 

    ‘Can I offer you tea, Inspector?’ Lady Chalfont offered, gesturing to a tray on a side table, as if they were meeting to discuss the village fair or a church donation. 

    King was already in danger of letting this interview slip from his control, he knew, and it annoyed him. He had, he was aware, extreme difficulty interviewing women he found attractive. His usual defence was to act more brusquely than was necessary. To adopt an air of mild aggression. He felt his face beginning to flush and immediately let his standard ‘cover’ come to the fore.

    ‘That won’t be necessary, thank you Lady Chalfont. I just have some questions to ask you.’

She smiled again, and gestured for him to sit, doing so herself.

    ‘No, thank you.’ He replied, shoving both hands into his jacket pockets. He found his cigarettes and lighter and immediately took them out. ‘Do you mind?’ He asked, already moving to light one.

    ‘Not at all. Can I trouble you for one?’ She asked, with that smile again. He offered her one and lit it for her. She maintained eye contact the whole time. 

    ‘So..’ She began, exhaling smoke immediately, ‘How can I be of assistance? My husband is dead. Obviously I’m devastated.’

    She looked anything but devastated, King thought.

    ‘What were your movements yesterday evening Madam?’

She carefully picked a piece of errant tobacco from her crimson bottom lip before offering a response.

    ‘Evening or night Inspector?’

    ‘Both, if you’d be so kind Madam.’

    ‘Really Inspector, you make me sound ancient. Please call me Lucie.’

    ‘I’d appreciate it if you just answer the question, Madam.’

    ‘Very well. Inspector.’ The final word was delivered with a hint of sarcasm and the smile

momentarily quivered, but only momentarily.

    ‘I spent the night at my club. The Caligo, on Dover Street.’

    King raised an eyebrow involuntarily. 

‘Caligo as in the “Mother of Chaos”?’

    ‘Oh Inspector! How delightful! You’re a man of some education in the classics. It was named by our founding lady as a humorous reference to the social activities of her three errant sons.’

    She smiled the full teeth-revealing version of the expression once more, leaving King unsure what balance between genuine respect and mockery her phrase carried. 

    ‘I’m sure there must be any number of people there who could vouch for my presence Inspector.’

    ‘I don’t doubt that for a moment Madam.’ It was King’s turn to allow a little sarcasm into his tone. ‘Could you think of anyone in particular?’

    ‘Oh I’m sure I couldn’t. One takes so little notice when one is seeking peace and quiet, don't you agree Inspector?’

    ‘I wouldn't know about that Madam. I was under the impression such clubs were social in nature?’

    ‘You clearly are not a frequenter of the male versions of such establishments if you believe that to be the case.’

    She had a point. King had not attended ‘his’ club in years, mainly as it was more his uncle’s club than his own. His membership had been a familial rite of passage rather than a personal choice.

    ‘So you spent the night at your club?’

    ‘Yes. I returned this morning to find your colleagues already here. Apparently Nevis had called them.’

    ‘Nevis?’

    ‘The butler.’

    ‘Of course.’

    ‘I say, you don't think old Nevis might have killed him? That’s the common form in the popular novels these days isn't it?’ She asked with a hint of a smirk.

    ‘This isn't a novel Madam.’

    ‘No. Quite.’

    ‘Do you often spend your evenings at The Caligo?’

    ‘Quite often. My husband and I tend to live our own lives, Inspector. Lived. I should say. I suppose.’

    ‘And what were your husbands plans for last evening?’

    ‘Oh, I think he had a handful of cronies over for dinner. Political types. Types that would put up with his boring rants for the sake of a passable meal and a dip into an excellent wine cellar. He often holds, sorry, held, his little soirees to preach on his obsessions.’

    ‘What obsessions would that be exactly?’

    ‘Well, if it wasn't cricket, or “the regiment”, it would be how much he detested Lloyd George. I was never entirely sure why. He’d always seemed like a friendly old boy to me. Bit of a flirt actually. I think Barty, that is, my husband, still had a bee in his bonnet about the whole Irish thing. You know, independence and all that. He didn't think that was ’cricket’, I suppose.’ She took a deep draw on her cigarette before dropping it into her tea cup which she then placed on to the table next to an empty ashtray.

    ‘Barty could be a terrible bore. He never seemed to be able to let anything go. The war. You understand? Yes. Of course you do. All men of your age do.’ That smile again. This time lips closed.

    King stubbed out his own cigarette in the ashtray and a tiny part of his mind was already considering the next one.

    ‘So you last saw your husband, when? Exactly?’

    ‘Yesterday. Just after lunch. Then I took a cab to the club.’

    ‘Do you know who his guests were last night?’

    ‘Not a clue, I’m afraid. You’ll have to ask Nevis.’

    ‘And Nevis, and the rest of the staff, have they been with you long?’

    ‘Oh an absolute age. Most of them since before I married Barty.’

    ‘When was that?’

    ‘Nineteen-nineteen. We met in Belgium after the war. My father was French and my mother English, but I was brought up in Belgium. Daddy was something in manufacturing. They both died in nineteen-eighteen. Spanish flu. I was eighteen years old and reasonably independently wealthy but couldn't touch any of it until I reached twenty-one. Unless I married. So I met a dashing British army officer and married him. Barty was a good stick at first. At least until we found out I was barren. I wonder, could I have another of those cigarettes?’ King offered one from his case and lit it for her, quickly followed by another for himself. She paused in silence as he did so.

    ‘Your accent is very good considering your upbringing.’ King commented as he exhaled a cloud of smoke.

    ‘Isnt it? Mother insisted on an English education. Roedean. I became a proper little English lady. Popped back to the continent during the holidays. That was until the war. I stayed on in England until the end. Went home in November, parents dead within a month.’

    ‘I’m sorry.’

    ‘Yes. Thank you. So many people died. Sometimes two more doesn't seem all that significant.’

    For the first time in the interview King noticed a hint of vulnerability in her. A slight downturn of the head. the eyes closed briefly. A forced recovery. The smile once again.

    ‘Still. One tries not to dwell. But, Inspector, correct me if I’m wrong. You’re not entirely British either?’

    It was King’s turn to smile briefly. 

    ‘I’m Australian by birth. My father is British. I rather thought my accent no longer gave me away. Now, are there any other family?’ King asked, deflecting the conversation away from his own life.

    ‘Of my husbands? There’s a nephew. Jonathan Tugwell. Lord Chalfont now, I would assume. Is that how these things work? I’m never entirely sure.’

    King reached over and stubbed out his cigarette. 

    ‘Did your husband have any enemies do you think?’

    ‘Ha!’ She threw back her head theatrically. ‘Other than half the men in his own party and everyone in opposition you mean? Or perhaps rival collectors of cricket bats? Who knows. My husband wasn't a very likeable man at times, Inspector. God knows he was an absolute arse to me on occasion. But no. I couldn't think of anyone I’d call an enemy. Don’t get the wrong impression, Inspector. My husband and I may have lived seperate lives but I was never unfaithful to him. There are no secret lovers waiting in the wings, and I seriously doubt Barty had a mistress. Unless you count the English cricket team or his bloody regiment.’

    King got to his feet.

    ‘Thank you for your help Lady Chalfont’, he smiled closed-lipped as he thrust out his hand.

    ‘No please, don't get up, I’ll see my self out.’

    Ignoring  his plea, she stood offering her hand in response, this time both shook more firmly, as if two combatants had sparred briefly and earned one another's respect albeit temporarily. 

    ‘I do hope you can deal with this matter quickly Inspector. I will have my people put you in touch with my solicitor should you need anything else.’

    ‘Your solicitor. Lady Chalfont?’

    ‘Why of course. However could I be expected to settle my husbands affairs without one, Inspector?’

    King nodded in answer, a thin smile once again, before turning to the door and leaving the room, shutting the door again, gently, behind him. He stood for a few moments with his back to the door, absently fumbling in his pockets for another cigarette. He lit it with the book of matched he had picked up earlier and threw the spent match into the soil around an aspidistra that stood guard over the door. 

    Darlington stepped back into the hallway at that moment, interrupting King’s train of thought. 

    ‘Sir?’ He asked, knowing from experience that King was about to give him the leg work to flesh out the short interview that had just taken place.

    ‘The Caligo Club. Dover Street. Her Ladyship’s alibi for last night. Have it checked out. Send someone competent… no, wait, do it yourself, Darlington. Use some of that charm of yours on a maid or two.’

    ‘Anything else Sir? That is, where will I be able to get hold of you?’ 

    King sighed inwardly. Of course Darlington had to know what his senior officer was up to, impertinent little bugger.

    ‘Ehh? Oh I’ll be finding out exactly who Lady Chalfont was before she was Lady Chalfont. Make sure you compile the witness statements here. Find out where the body is taken and who conducts the post-mortem examination for me would you? I’ll be back at the Yard at some point. You can catch up with me there this afternoon perhaps. Oh, and put together a list of everyone who dined with the deceased last night. And their drivers. Find out where they all went afterwards would you?’

    ‘Yes Sir, but.. well that could take all day Sir.’

    ‘Well it’s bloody lucky you work full time for The Yard isn't it Sergeant? You’ll have nothing else to distract you.’

    As King strolled towards the door, Darlington groaned inwardly.

CHAPTER FIVE

Wednesday June 16th 1925. 12.20pm. Clapham, London.

    Timmy couldn't wait for his lunch. It was still forty minutes away from the offical lunch bell, but he had been set to tidying the loose timber that was stacked behind the lunch shed, close to the entrance of Crossfield’s Timber Yard in Clapham. This was the gold-class job, as far as Timmy was concerned. Away from the busy end of the yard and out of sight of the office where Old Mr Crossfield sat, holding court over his domain, and no doubt, thought Timmy, holding Gladys Holland, Old Mr Crossfield’s ‘secretary’ as he called her. Gladys was a friendly girl, more friendly to some than others. She would gently tease young Timmy sometimes, but never in a nasty way. The other men at the yard would talk dirty about her during the lunch break. Not, of course, when Old Mr Crossfield was around, or when his son and heir, ‘Young Mr Crossfield’ was hanging about the sheds, trying to spot the latest bout of ‘revolution’. Young Mr Crossfield was obsessed with the idea that his father’s workers would rise up one day, like the ‘ungrateful masses’ of Russia as he called them. Thus denying him his birthright when his old man finally died. 

    Timmy didn't care much for politics. He didn't really understand it. What he did understand was that Gladys Holland had a pair of knockers he couldn't get out of his mind, and that he was hungry. He even forgot Gladys’s knockers when he was hungry. 

    His Mum had made him cheese and ham sandwiches today. Proper doorsteps. Two rounds! All he’d had for breakfast when he left the house this morning had been a cup of tea and a slice of bread and dripping, left over from last night’s tea. His stomach ‘felt like his throat had been cut’ as his Dad would say when he got home from work every evening. There was never, Timmy had decided, a better opportunity to get an early lunch than right now. If he slipped around the front of the shed, without disturbing old Wally, the gatekeeper, who was invariably asleep, he could nip in, get one of his sandwiches, and be back amongst the off-cuts before anyone would notice. 

    His task set in mind, his courage strengthened by his rumbling stomach, he set off. With the air of a man set to a specific legitimate task, he moved around the shed. Marching smartly towards the shed door looking far more confident than he felt, he opened the door and stepped in, shutting the door behind him.

    Seconds later, having peered through the crack of the door, with a quarter of the wonderful sandwich tucked into his waistcoat, he stepped out once again and began to strike out for the off-cuts stack from where he had begun his mission.

    ‘Hey. You lad.’

    The sharp summons stopped young Timmy dead in his tracks. He froze for the briefest of moments before spinning smartly on his heel, a last desperate attempt to seem as if he had every right to be here, in his mind. Before him he saw a man he did not recognise. A working man, threadbare clothing, wide cloth cap pulled down over his eyes, a sack slung over his shoulder casually like a tool bag. A few yards further on he could see old Wally, slumped in his wooden shelter by the gate, apparently dead to the world. 

    ‘I’m looking for work lad.’ Said the stranger. ‘Heard an old army mate o’ mine worked ‘ere. Name o’ Parsons.’

    Timmy looked back once more at Wally. Not wanting to wake the old codger for fear of being discovered skiving off. 

    ‘Yeah.’ He’s down the back there’, the boy said, gesturing loosely to the rear of the yard.

    The stranger stared at Timmy for a moment before grunting thanks and heading off into the yard. Timmy turned abruptly, guiltily, and, re-adopting an air of a man with a purpose, marched off to the back of the shed, where he sat himself down, heart racing, and set about the sandwich he had acquired with such stealth.

    The man set off towards the back of the timber yard with the same look of purpose that Timmy had shown, to all the world like a man meant to be there. He passed a number of workers as he walked on, none of them noticing him, all of them being noticed by him, his eyes, shadowed by the cloth cap looking each of them over, seeking recognition. He saw none, so on he continued. The stacks of cut timber grew higher the further he progressed. To his left and right stacks of it created shadowed passageways. Now and again he would pass men in pairs, pulling lengths of the wood together from various stacks, filling orders. They paid him no attention, he discreetly looked each over and dismissed each face in turn. Soon he came to the end of the stacks, a wide passage opened up both left and right, down which, he could see with a glance yet more materials were stored. Some distance off, down the right branch, a lone figure worked. Checking a clipboard then marking certain timbers with chalk. The stranger continued down this passage towards the man. Quietly. Occasionally looking over his shoulder. He removed the sack as he walked, reaching inside, he pulled forth a steel pipe, around three feet in length. He discarded the sack as soon as the pipe was free and held the object close to his right leg to conceal its presence. 

    Within three feet of the chalk-marking man, the stranger stopped. The chalk man was humming to himself. The stranger’s breath was trying to run faster now, but he controlled it, though it felt to him that all the world might hear it bellowing forth from him. He wet the inside of his mouth before speaking.

    ‘Parsons. Jacob Parsons.’ The stranger stated more than asked. 

    Jacob Parsons turned, chalk in one hand, clipboard in the other, a look of surprise on his face. 

    ‘Yes.’ He said, more a question that a statement.

    Before any other question had full formed in Jacob Parsons’ mind, he was stuck on the left temple by a steel pipe with enough force to break his skull. As he collapsed before his attacher, another blow struck him on the return swing, across the top of his head. Jacob knew nothing of the next steps in the assault. The attacker discarded the pipe, bloodied and matted with Jacobs hair. He reached into his jacket and pulled out a beer bottle, stoppered with a wedge of paper. He pulled out the stopper and spat it at Jacob, before pouring the contents, not beer but petrol, onto Jacobs head. He dropped the bottle casually, before pulling out a book of matches and lighting one. When it was fully aflame he lit the rest of the book and, after holding the small inferno in his hand for a second, he dropped it onto Jacob Parsons’ petrol soaked head. There was a ‘woosh’ as the petrol caught alight, but the stranger was already stuffing his hands into his jacket pockets and walking away. He did not see Jacob struggle, but then Jacob was already long past struggling consciously.