A Donation of Murder Page 15

  He was grateful that the girls had enjoyed the celebrations. Violet had shown not the least bit of resentment when he and Dody announced their secret engagement, but had flung her arms around them both, making him realise how much she must have missed a happy home life since her mother’s death. Florence joked about how handy it would be to have a brother-in-law in the police force, and he made sure not to rise to the bait. It was a relief to know that on his resignation from the police he would never have to face the dilemma of such torn loyalties again.

  For Dody’s sake he did not mention the army a second time, although his determination to rejoin the Regiment had not wavered.

  Dody removed her engagement ring from her finger when they went to bed. Pike noticed its absence this morning. It was not even around her neck. He made no comment, despite his disappointment. She was her own woman, and should do as she saw fit — just as he was his own man and would do the same.

  They enjoyed a leisurely breakfast in the morning room, the few newspapers Fletcher could find for them on this bank holiday spread about the table.

  Dody looked up from the newspaper she was reading. ‘The Prime Minister admits there are war plans in place but is talking about “what if” not “when” there is a war,’ she said with satisfaction. ‘You see, Matthew, your source has to be wrong.’

  Pike smiled back at her. ‘Thank God calm has prevailed,’ he said, not believing a word of it. He had just read an article that favoured military conflict. The author had complained about the softness of today’s youth, arguing that a short bloodletting would do the nation good. Knowing as he did the true nature of war, ignorant attitudes such as this sent shivers of fear up his spine. Yet, still, in some strange illogical way, it bolstered his determination to rejoin the Regiment. But how could he expect Dody to understand him when he had enough trouble understanding himself? He put it down to the biological differences between men and women.

  Annie entered the room, wearing her morning uniform of mauve, and handed Dody a small wrapped package. ‘This just arrived for you, miss.’

  Dody picked up the package, glancing at Pike as she did so. ‘There is no post today. Who delivered this, Annie?’

  She looked up from the fire she was stoking. ‘A common-looking fat woman, miss. She wouldn’t say who it was from.’

  Dody pushed back her chair as if to rise. ‘Is she still there?’

  ‘No, she was in a hurry to get going.’

  ‘Thank you, Annie, you may leave us.’

  She handed the package to Pike once Annie had left the room. It was wrapped in red tissue paper and tied with green ribbon. He gently shook it then attempted to peep through the sides. The paper was stretched too tight to give him any hint as to what it might be covering. He put his nose to it and sniffed.

  ‘Is it a bomb, Matthew?’ Dody said with a tease in her voice.

  ‘I can’t smell gunpowder, or even perfume for that matter. There’s no note telling us who it is from, so it must be from yet another secret admirer of yours.’

  Dody pulled a face. ‘I hope not.’

  The last anonymous gift Dody received had almost caused her death. She teased open the wrapping, revealing a small box covered in red velvet, similar to the box holding her engagement ring, now secreted at the bottom of her bureau drawers.

  ‘Allow me,’ he said, relieving her of the box.

  ‘Really, Matthew, aren’t you over reacting?’ she protested.

  He took the box to the far corner of the morning room. When Dody attempted to follow, he told her to stand back. He took hold of his walking cane and pressed the button on the handle, ejecting the lethal blade from its tip.

  With his tongue between his teeth, he stood the length of his cane away from the box and attempted to prise its catch open with the tip of his blade. Soon, sweat was rolling down his face as if he were defusing a bomb. He hoped to hell he wasn’t.

  Dody pulled flowers from a nearby vase and stood poised, ready to douse the box with water. She was playing games with him.

  ‘Better to be safe than sorry,’ he whispered. The blade passed between the narrow crack beneath the box’s lid. He pressed the box against the skirting board, twisted the lid with the blade and heard the click of a small catch. The box overturned and something sparkling spilled from within it.

  He let go a sigh of relief. Jewellery, Dody had been sent jewellery. But who the blazes was it from?

  Dody replaced the flowers in the vase and moved over to the box.

  ‘Oh my goodness!’ she gasped, picking the box and its contents off the floor. She turned one of the earrings around in her fingers and the colour leached from her face. ‘I’ve seen these earrings before. They belong to that woman Margaret Doyle I told you about, the woman I wanted you to meet. She seemed to think she owed me something for bringing her back to life — all nonsense, of course. I admired her earrings and she must have decided to give them to me. I wonder why she didn’t leave a note?’

  At least they weren’t from a man. Pike put out his hand. ‘Do you mind?’

  Dody gave the earrings to him and he walked over to the bay window. In the weak grey light he examined the ruby pendants, turning them over in his palm.

  He recognised them at once. Dismay on Dody’s behalf struck him like a blow to the guts. ‘Dody, my love, you cannot accept this gift.’

  ‘No, of course not, I will do my best to give them back. I admired the earrings when she showed them to me, but I never expected to be given them. The problem is, Matthew, I don’t know where she lives, other than somewhere in Dalston.’

  He turned the jewels over in his hand. ‘I think these were stolen last year from Selfridges. They were part of a select haul taken by a gang of professional shoplifters. I’m sorry, my dear, they must be returned to the shop and this Lazarus lady of yours must be questioned.’

  Dody appeared to sway. Pike thought she was about to faint and led her by the arm back to the breakfast table. He sat her down and poured her a cup of tea strong enough to power a small motorcar.

  ‘Don’t fuss, Matthew. You know me well enough by now. I am not a fainter. I am shocked, that is all. But just because Margaret was in possession of these stolen jewels — if they were stolen, you do not seem completely sure — does not mean she thieved them herself. That dreadful lover of hers could have pinched them. Else he might have bought them in total ignorance.’

  Dody nibbled on her lip, a sign, Pike knew, that she was weighing something up in her mind. ‘I have another problem, though.’

  ‘Go on,’ he prompted her.

  She opened her mouth to speak then waved her hand. ‘Oh, it’s nothing, let’s not worry about it.’

  Pike regarded her for several seconds. ‘Tell me about this lover, then,’ he asked. He must be patient. She would tell him what else was on her mind when she was ready.

  Dody shrugged. ‘There is not much to tell. They don’t live in the same house, but they often visit each other. She implied that he occasionally beat her, then played it down when I questioned her about it. He must have money, don’t you think, to buy her such jewels?’ she asked. ‘His name is John, I know that much.’

  ‘No last name?’

  ‘That is all she called him.’

  ‘And her last name, you said . . .’

  ‘Doyle, Margaret Doyle.’

  The name was familiar, but Pike did not let on, despite the cold patch forming in his stomach. Surely it wasn’t ‘Diamond’ Peggy Doyle, the notorious shoplifter?

  ‘Good, you have her last name and you know she lives in Dalston,’ he said calmly. ‘If the information is genuine, she should be easy enough to trace.’ He slipped the box and their contents into his inside jacket pocket.

  She put a hand on his arm. ‘Please, Matthew, let me keep them, just for today.’

  Pike tried to read his lover’s face. ‘Why?’

  Dody hesitated. ‘I would like to show them to Florence when she returns.’

  What was she playing
at? Pike shook his head. ‘I can’t let you do that, my love.’

  ‘You think I will give them back and warn her. Don’t you trust me?’

  ‘Of course I trust you,’ Pike said, trying and failing to understand her reasoning.

  Despite their brief acquaintance, he knew that Dody had become fond of Margaret Doyle. He hoped she wasn’t thinking of giving them back to her, after all. She felt she owed the woman a debt for almost flaying her open on the autopsy slab. But he knew all about honour and he knew all about debt, perceived or otherwise. And he also knew when it was being misdirected.

  ‘You don’t owe that woman anything,’ he went on. ‘Your involvement in Margaret Doyle’s mishap was merely the last in a long chain of unfortunate circumstances. I will hand the earrings in and their origins will be investigated. I might even be wrong, your Margaret might own them legitimately, but until I can be sure, they will be kept at the Yard. Once they have been cleared you can give them back, keep them or do what you like with them.’ Pike carried on despite Dody’s sigh. ‘I have a meeting with Shepherd this morning about La Peregrina. While I’m there I’ll make some enquiries about Miss Doyle.’ He patted his pocket. ‘And these.’

  *

  Before ascending to Shepherd’s eyrie, Pike called in at the records department in the bowels of the Yard. This was where the mugshot albums, fingerprint records and case files were stored. The collection went back thirty years, from the date when old Scotland Yard had almost been destroyed by a Fenian bomb. Pike estimated the case files outweighed the identification documents by about ten tons of paper to one.

  Photographic and fingerprint identification was in its infancy and villain recognition was still a huge problem for the Met. Too often, hardened criminals appeared before the courts under aliases, and the authorities, none the wiser, handed out trivial sentences to the ‘first timers’ or had their cases dismissed.

  Rumour had it that John Giblett himself had once testified as a character witness for one of his men who was standing trial. Giblett had worn a false beard and presented himself as a jeweller named Goldstein. Disguised thus, he’d managed to get his gang member off scot-free. The helpless police only realised the trickery after the event and could do nothing about it.

  Pike asked a bald-headed records constable to dig up what he could about the robbery at Selfridges and to see what he could find out about Dody’s Margaret Doyle. He handed the earrings over to be placed in the custody safe and informed the constable that he would return for the information after his meeting with Shepherd.

  Pike wended his way up towards Shepherd’s office. He paused to rest his knee outside the ‘makeup’ room on the fourth floor. He used to visit the room often during the early days of his undercover work. Over the years, as he’d become more experienced, he tended to rely less on artificial props such as wigs and false beards (which had an embarrassing — if not dangerous — tendency to fall off during scuffles) and more on his ability to take on a role as an actor would. His was an ordinary face that could blend into most levels of society, and he had a facility with accents. He used to worry that his limp might give him away, but when one looked around at other men of his age, so many had similar afflictions that Pike had ceased to be concerned. Better still, since his knee had been repaired thanks to Dody’s intervention, his limp was barely noticeable.

  He prayed to God that would be the case when he was examined by the army medics.

  Upstairs, Shepherd greeted him with uncharacteristic warmth, ushering him to his visitor’s chair. A char wearing a handkerchief knotted around her head was tidying Shepherd’s desk. Strange, Pike thought to himself. Nothing odd about a policeman working on New Year’s Day but one would have expected the civilian staff to be given the day off.

  Shepherd said nothing to the woman, but shooed her away as if she were a pesky dog. Pike eyed the young woman as she exited the room, noting the cessation of her footsteps as soon as the office door had closed behind her. Might she be part of Callan’s scheme to uncover Shepherd’s corruption?

  ‘A celebration’s in order, Pike,’ the Superintendent smirked, oblivious to Pike’s slight frown of suspicion. ‘What’s your poison? May I tempt you to a Cognac? They say we still have a long winter ahead of us.’

  Pike accepted the drink even though it was a tad early for him. He had a feeling he might need some kind of internal boost in order to receive the ‘good news’ that Shepherd seemed so eager to convey. Good news for Shepherd invariably meant bad news for Pike.

  Shepherd raised his glass. ‘Well done, Pike, the case is now officially closed. The necklace that female saw-bones of yours extracted from the boy’s throat is nothing other than the missing La Peregrina.’

  If Pike had not heard about the counterfeit necklace from Sachs and witnessed the old jeweller’s reaction to the empty strongbox, he might have accepted Shepherd’s conclusion without question. His conversation with Callan at the Rag, however, only reinforced his belief that his superior’s celebrations were unjustified.

  And Pike was not surprised to hear that Shepherd was closing the case. It was a clever plan of Giblett’s — or was this James’s idea? Murder poor Tommy and place the fake necklace in his throat where it would be found. Then convince the authorities that the fake was the genuine article and have the hunt for the real necklace called off — as was happening now.

  Pike’s dislike and distrust of Shepherd escalated to utter contempt. The man had either been easily hoodwinked or was part of the deception himself.

  Shepherd took a large slug of brandy, swallowed then exhaled with satisfaction.

  Now was not the time for accusations, Pike reasoned; Shepherd was but a minor cog. If he were apprehended now they might lose the big wheels, Giblett and James. Best to humour the old blaggard. He stood up and clinked his balloon against Shepherd’s. ‘Well done, sir.’

  ‘Well, it was a team effort — to a degree. A grand start to the New Year, what?’

  ‘Where is the necklace now, sir?’

  ‘Hatton Gardens. In the strong room of the jeweller chap who verified its authenticity. He telephoned the news through first thing this morning and I immediately organised an armed guard.’

  ‘May I ask this jeweller’s name?’

  Shepherd waved his hand. ‘Goldstein, Silverstein, Copperstein—’

  ‘Goldstein?’ Pike queried.

  ‘Yes, that’s the chap.’

  One of Giblett’s aliases. Pike fought the urge to leap to his feet and give Shepherd one between the eyes. He folded his arms to keep them under control.

  ‘The documentation’s not come through yet, but you will be the first to see it, Pike, when it does.’

  In other words, when one of Giblett’s famed counterfeiters had finished with it. ‘And does His Majesty know about the find?’ Pike asked.

  ‘Yes, and he wants nothing more to do with it. Hardly surprising, really. Wants the necklace sent back to the Duke of Abercorn.’

  A curt knock and the office door opened. Shepherd’s male secretary entered and requested the superintendent’s attendance to the telephone in the outer office. It appeared that someone from a courier service wished to speak with him. Pike took a large swallow of Cognac, his mind racing.

  ‘Don’t hurry off, Pike, there’s more to discuss. Just wait a moment.’

  Through the open door, Pike stole a glance into the outer room. The char had vanished.

  As soon as Shepherd left the office, Pike hurried over to the desk and rifled through the desk drawers. He was looking for anything that might incriminate Shepherd: a photograph, a receipt, money. Shepherd’s voice continued to boom down the telephone in the outer office. Pike moved swiftly to an imitation Stubbs hanging on the wall above a sideboard. Pushing the painting aside revealed Shepherd’s wall safe. From his months occupying the office he was familiar with the simple lock and he opened it in a heartbeat. Behind the usual wads of stacked banknotes he found a pouch of gold sovereigns, but no necklace. Where the
hell was Shepherd hiding the fake necklace? Had he been telling the truth about it still residing with the jeweller who’d verified its ‘authenticity’?

  He had just finished readjusting the painting when Shepherd ambled back into his office like a well-satisfied bear filled with honey. ‘That was the courier service. We’ve organised the transportation of the necklace back to Abercorn.’

  ‘Courier, sir? Isn’t it an established truth that the postal service is the safest way to send valuables?’

  Shepherd touched the side of his bulbous nose. ‘Exactly what any potential thief would think — double-bluff, my boy. Ha!’

  ‘Well done, sir, a brilliant plan,’ Pike said through clenched teeth, his acting skills never so tested.

  *

  Superintendent Callan was not in his office when Pike called in, his secretary saying he was under the weather and staying at home for the day. Pike returned to the records department. The clerk slid a stack of information on the Selfridges jewellery theft along the counter towards him and Pike signed the documents out.

  ‘Nothing on a Margaret Doyle from Dalston, sir,’ the clerk explained, ‘but this lady here,’ he handed Pike a single slip of paper, ‘also lives in North London, and has a few things in common with her. Might be the same woman, might not.’

  Pike glanced down at the document headed ‘Diamond’ Peggy Doyle. Looked like his suspicions were realised. The woman had been an initial suspect in the Selfridges heist, but investigations had stalled due to her sound alibi. Pike slammed his fist in his palm. Good God, what had Dody got herself involved with this time?

  With the documents tucked into his briefcase he caught a motorised taxi — public transport being thin on the ground this snowy New Year’s day — and asked to be taken across the bridge to Callan’s residence in Southwark. There were no hold ups and it was a pleasant drive. There was little water traffic and the river, weighted with cold, appeared to be marching at half time. The snow had purified the muck-encrusted city streets, icing the horse droppings, dirty grey pavements and piles of rubbish, and piping the brackets of the street lamps in brilliant white.