Farthing

  "Report on shoe sizes," Royston began. "The big feet going up and down the drive are definitely Kahn's. I asked him point blank and he said he had walked down to the village on Saturday morning. When asked what he'd done there, he said he'd looked around. When asked why he'd gone, he said he'd wanted a breath of air."

  Carmichael laughed.

  "What's funny?" Royston asked.

  "I expect he wanted to get away from his in-laws, that's all," Carmichael said. "Anything else of note on boots?"

  "Nothing," Royston said.

  "Oh well, we thought it was probably nothing. What else?"

  "I had to call the Yard twice about Kahn's flat. The first time I couldn't get hold of anyone who could authorize it. Too early."

  "Shocking," Carmichael said, pulling a face.

  "The second time, I arranged for that to be done, and I spoke to Blayne, who had been working on the star."

  Carmichael sat up. "Yes?"

  "You can get hold of them in this country, from refugees, but they'd usually be in a used and tattered condition, unlike the one we found. Otherwise it must have come from the Continent. In the Reich, they are mass produced, and sold, not individually issued as such. However, they have serial numbers, and the Jews purchasing them must use ration coupons to do so." Royston grinned.

  "You think that's funny, sergeant?"

  "Making them use their ration coupons to buy their stars? Yes, sir. You don't?"

  Carmichael shook his head. "I think it must be a very black kind of humor."

  "Well, it's lucky for us that they do, because we'll be able to trace the purchase and find out exactly where this one came from. In any case, from the serial number, our expert was able to tell that this one was sold in France within the last year—so it'll be the Milice we need to ask, not the Gestapo."

  Sir Thomas had been to France, so had Normanby, and so had the dead man. It was his dagger—could it have been his star? But for what conceivable purpose would he have bought one? As a souvenir? A prototype?

  "Tell them to keep digging," Carmichael said. "Use my authority to make contact with the Milice."

  "Yes, sir," Royston said.

  "It wouldn't have to be a Jew who bought it, would it?" Carmichael asked. "I mean they have identity papers—would they have to show them to buy one, as well as handing over the money and the ration coupon?"

  "I'll inquire," Royston said. "Though I can't see who else would want one; anyone seeing you with it would think you were a Jew. They have to wear them, sir, all the time. If they're caught without them they're in trouble."

  "Spies," Carmichael suggested. "Or people wanting souvenirs. Somebody bought that one for something, and someone pinned it onto Sir James. It needn't be the same person, necessarily, but finding out who bought it might be very informative."

  "I'll get back to you on that, sir," Royston said.

  "Oh, and has anyone informed the dowager Lady Thirkie of her son's death?"

  "Surely the family will have done," Royston said.

  "Lady Thirkie was prostrate yesterday," Carmichael said. "How is she today, by the way?"

  "She hasn't been down to breakfast," Royston said.

  "Find out how she is and let me know. And find out if Thirkie's mother has been told. I know it isn't our job, but someone has to do it."

  "It's been my job more often than I'd like," Royston said. "I'll inquire. Though if she reads The Times she'll have heard this morning."

  "Poor woman, that's no way to hear of your son's death," Carmichael said.

  "Yes, sir." Royston put his hand on the door handle.

  "And get them to send in more tea," Carmichael said.

  He picked up the Eversley report again. Lord Eversley had been in politics for so long, had been in and out of power so often, that reading his file was like reading a political history of the last thirty years. Politics had never been Carmichael's favorite subject. The facts served to confirm the general impression that the Farthing Set as a group within the Conservative Party had been out of power during the war, come back into power triumphantly with Thirkie's return with peace terms, been a little eclipsed in the last few years under Eden, edged out, and were hoping to return to power. What the devil any of it had to do with Thirkie's death, Carmichael couldn't say.

  He read quickly through the reports on Richard Francis, MP, and his wife. He'd met them the night before. Clarinda Francis, née Darlington, was almost as much a bitch as Lady Eversley. Francis himself was charming. Carmichael had liked him immediately. They were part of the Farthing Set, he'd held positions in government—Carmichael skimmed faster and faster. He was expected to move up in the coming reshuffle. He was also noted as being ambitious and good with people. Ambitious, yes, very likely. What politician wasn't?

  None of them had anything to gain by killing Thirkie, so far as he could make out. In fact, they lost, all of them, lost prestige that Thirkie, with his reputation as the man who made peace and his "noted personal integrity" brought to them. He tossed the Francises onto the "cleared" pile on top of the Hampshires.

  There was a knock on the door, and a maid came in with a tea tray. Carmichael surveyed it with displeasure. "Could you bring a jug of hot water?" he asked.

  "Would you prefer a China tea, sir?" the maid asked.

  "Yes, in fact I would, thank you very much," Carmichael said. "What's your name?"

  "Lizzie, sir. It's just that Miss Lucy, I mean Mrs. Kahn, and Mr. Kahn too, they both like China tea, with extra hot water, so we have it in the kitchen if you'd like it. The other policeman should have said that's what you wanted. Mrs. Smollett thought policemen always liked strong Ceylon tea, with plenty of sugar and milk."

  "In general they do, Lizzie, but I am an exception." Carmichael smiled at her. Poor girl, running to and fro with trays all day, beset by Lady Eversley, and taking time to consider her employers' preferences in tea. "Why don't you take this tray to Inspector Yately, who will doubtless be delighted with it, and bring me a fresh tray of China tea when you have a moment."

  Lizzie gave a quick bob and vanished with the tray. The Eversleys certainly had excellent staff. Carmichael spared one thought for Jack, languishing in London, and picked up the next report, a single sheet.

  "Eversley, Lady Margaret Violet Elizabeth, née Dorset, born November 4, 1900, Wessex House, London, parents, the Ninth Duke and Duchess of Dorset, both decd."

  If she was the daughter of a Duke, shouldn't she be Lady Margaret, rather than Lady Eversley? Dukes outranked Viscounts, surely? Not that it mattered—they were both courtesy titles.

  "Siblings, Peter Alan, 1904–, Tenth Duke of Dorset. Millicent Florence, 1906–. Married, 1918, Lord Charles Caspian Eversley, MC. Children, Hugh Caspian, 1919–40, Lucy Rowena, 1926–. Educated privately."

  Carmichael turned the paper over, but that really was all there was of it. Lady Eversley's political career had not been a thing of statistics, of positions held and relinquished, elections lost and won, but of influence, through her husband, her brother, her friends, her money. All officialdom recorded of Lady Eversley is that she was born, married, and had two children.

  The door opened again, and Carmichael looked up, expecting Lizzie with his tea, and was surprised by Yately in a state of high excitement.

  "You're right," he said, without preliminaries. "The gas in the blue dressing room hasn't been turned on since January, as best we can tell. The taps are very stiff. But his car—it's a closed car, and there was a hose in the boot that could have been fitted to the exhaust pipe to bring it inside the car."

  "That doesn't sound like an accident," Carmichael said.

  "No, not in the least," Yately said.

  "How would you induce a big healthy man to sit in a car to be gassed?" Carmichael asked.

  "Could he have been knocked out first?" Yately hazarded.

  "You'll have him killed three times, then? Knocked out, gassed, and then stabbed."

  "The stabbing wouldn't have fooled a child on close
examination," Yately said, defensively.

  "Is there any evidence that he might have been knocked out before being gassed?" Carmichael asked.

  "No," Yately said. "Though Dr. Green wouldn't have been looking for that."

  Carmichael did not snap that he should have been looking for anything unusual. "Get him to have another look," he suggested, mildly. "Meanwhile, I want to talk to Normanby."

  "I've interviewed Mr. Normanby," Yately said.

  Carmichael raised an eyebrow and said nothing, a technique a master at school had used to quell disruption. Carmichael had practiced it in front of the mirror and always found it very effective.

  "Here?" Yately asked, reduced to meekness.

  "Is he up yet?"

  "He's finishing his breakfast," Yately said.

  "Yes, send him in here then," Carmichael said. Lizzie came back as Yately left. He held the door for her with old-fashioned courtesy.

  "Sorry about the delay, only we had a rush with breakfasts and we needed to boil the water fresh," Lizzie said. She set the tray down before him. There was a saucer with lemon slices, and a plate containing butterfly cakes.

  "Thank you, Lizzie," he said, in deep appreciation. "Who's having breakfast now?"

  "Mrs. Francis, the Earl of Hampshire, Lady Thirkie, and Miss Dorset," she said, after a moment's thought.

  "Has Lady Eversley breakfasted yet?"

  "Oh no, but she never does, she never touches breakfast, she says that's what keeps her slim!" She grinned at him, and left.

  The cup was large and flowered. It matched the pot, the milk jug, the sugar bowl, and the saucer with the lemon slices. It still amazed Carmichael sometimes that this kind of luxury should exist, side by side with the world he usually saw where most people barely had enough to eat. His own Japanese teapot had cost him nearly a month's wages. He put a slice of lemon into his cup and poured out the tea slowly. Before he had finished, Jeffrey knocked at the door.

  "Mr. Normanby, Inspector," he announced.

  "Thank you, Jeffrey."

  Mark Normanby came into the room with the air of a man used to taking command of a situation. He looked slightly smaller than Carmichael had expected from photographs. Also, in his presence, almost as soon as he was properly in the room, Carmichael had no doubt whatsoever as to Normanby's sexual orientation. Normanby was queer all right. That didn't mean that he and Thirkie had been up to anything, but it made more sense of why he had been in the room. Ah well. Carmichael began to have a little more sympathy for the wife who stared out of the window.

  "Good morning, Mr. Normanby." They shook hands. Carmichael stood until Normanby was seated. "Can I offer you some tea? I could ring for another cup."

  "No thank you, Inspector, I've just had my breakfast," Normanby said, with a charming smile. "I have already spoken to Inspector Yately."

  "I'm afraid there's always some necessary duplication in a business of this sort," Carmichael said.

  Normanby nodded ruefully. "I don't envy you your job, Inspector. Very well, what do you want to know?"

  "I understand it was you who found the body?"

  "Yes. I went in to see if James was ready for breakfast. I knew he didn't have his man with him, he'd mentioned it the night before, so I looked in on him."

  "Didn't you knock?" Carmichael asked.

  "I knocked, but there wasn't an answer, so I opened the door to see whether he was inside."

  Carmichael didn't believe a word of it. It was all too pat, and not because he'd had to tell the story too many times. It was a lie, he was sure of it. Was Normanby the murderer? Could he be? Why? Or were he and the dead man lovers, was it a tryst, and was he entirely innocent? He couldn't tell.

  "So you went inside, and what did you see?"

  "James, on the bed, blood all over his chest, and a dagger sticking out of him."

  It wasn't the kind of distress a man would feel on discovering his lover dead, Carmichael thought. There was something too offhand about it, almost as if he was rehearsing events that hadn't happened. Who could he be covering up for? Or could he have done it? He was likeable, friendly, queer, but that didn't mean he wasn't a murderer.

  "Did you see that from the doorway, or had you advanced into the room?" Carmichael asked.

  Normanby had to stop to think. "I saw the body and the blood from the doorway; then I went closer and saw the dagger," he said.

  "Did you see anything else?"

  "I saw the damned Jew star, if that's what you mean, stuck on him like a bloody calling card."

  That seemed genuine, Carmichael thought. He had been in the room at least.

  They went through it again as Carmichael drank his tea. "To go back to the night before," he said. "Are you absolutely sure what time it was you escorted Sir James Thirkie to bed?"

  "Not absolutely, no," Normanby said, frowning a little. "It was after midnight. I remember hearing the clock down in the village striking midnight while we were still in the billiard room."

  "Was anybody else with you?"

  "No, we went up alone."

  "I meant in the billiard room, anyone who might have noticed exactly what time you left."

  "I don't remember," Normanby said, almost peevishly.

  Carmichael was astonished. "You don't remember?"

  "People were in and out. I don't recall if anyone was still there."

  "How long were you playing?"

  "I don't know. An hour, longer probably. What does this have to do with anything?" Normanby seemed very uncomfortable now.

  "It's just that the doctor has established the time of death as not long after you left Sir James Thirkie, so if we can find out when that was exactly, we might be able to be closer to pinning the murderer down."

  Normanby shrugged. "I'm sorry, I can't help you there," he said. "Sometime around one, I think."

  "That's all for now then," Carmichael said. "I may have more questions for you later."

  "I'll do my best to help," Normanby said, standing. He shook hands with Carmichael again, then looked down deliberately at the teacup. "I see you drink it with lemon, rather than milk," he said, smiling.

  "Yes." Carmichael smiled back.

  "At Eton, we always used to call that the girls' way," Normanby said, still smiling.

  "I wasn't at Eton," Carmichael said, holding onto his smile grimly.

  "Oh, I know that, Inspector," Normanby said. "It's just a silly thing people used to say, and that I remembered because I always take tea that way myself." He smiled again, deliberately charmingly, and left.

  So, Carmichael thought, sitting down again, you know something about me and I know something about you, but does it get me any closer to knowing whether what you've told me is lies and what is truth? Was that intended as intimidation or seduction? He shook his head and made several notes on his pad. "Check billiard room, ask all guests about billiards. Determine all bedtimes." He looked at these a moment, then added: "Ask Lizzie about Normanby's tea." She'd know.

  He was just picking up the last of his papers when he heard the shots outside.

  13

  The thing itself was over in minutes; the fussing afterwards took forever. I wanted to go back up right away and see the dead anarchist, but of course they wouldn't let me, and my being wounded gave them an excuse. The bullet had whizzed past my cheek and torn it open. The wet stuff on my face was blood, of course. Head wounds bleed a lot, even when they're not very serious—I remembered Abby telling me that.

  "Get her inside," Daddy said, peremptorily. The sergeant from Scotland Yard put his hand up to help me dismount. Daddy, on Trafalgar, and all the other policemen, on foot, went tearing back up the hill. I slid down from Manny's back, although it was nonsense— really it would have been far quicker for me to have ridden back to the house. We were just the other side of the ha-ha. I let Manny loose to graze with her reins on her neck; once Trafalgar had gone, she wasn't likely to wander far. My legs were shaking a bit. I'd have been far better to stay up.

&nbsp
; The sergeant drew an extremely clean white handkerchief out of his pocket, a real snowy white, I almost didn't like to mess it up. "Stand still, miss," he said.

  He dabbed at my cheek, getting some of the blood off, and making it sting rather worse than it had done before. I don't know when I started feeling it. I know I hadn't felt it at all at first. I could feel it before the sergeant started doing his stuff, though. Even then it wasn't all that painful, similar to, but nothing like as bad as, being stung by a bee.

  "It's just a scratch," the sergeant said after a moment, and I laughed, because that's what manly heroes in stories always say about the most terrible things that they're making light of. A scratch, or a flesh wound, and I supposed it was a flesh wound as well—a cheek is definitely flesh. He looked at me for a moment as if I was mad, then he got it and laughed too. "Just a scrape, then, a graze," he amended. "You were very lucky. Rifle wound, that is. A couple of inches and it would have been through your head."

  "Or Daddy's," I said, sobered. "I suppose it was Daddy they were shooting at. Nobody would want to shoot me."

  "I wouldn't know about that," the sergeant said. "Better not to worry about that side of it yet, the why and wherefores of it, not until after you've seen to the practical side. You'll want to wash that now, and get a doctor to look at it to see if they can do something to stop you scarring, and then you can start worrying about what he wanted and who he was aiming at. If you want to worry about it at all, that is, because by then it might be better to put it behind you if you want to sleep at night."

  "I suppose it might," I said. "Just at present I'm fearfully curious though."

  "Right now you've got things to see to and no time to be thinking about it," he said. "Wash the wound. See the doctor when he gets here. You don't want a scar, pretty face like you've got."

  The scarring didn't matter, but washing it was a good idea. I didn't want it to get infected. He handed me the handkerchief, which I'd already made rather a mess of. "I could tell people it was a dueling scar," I said, wadding it up and holding it pressed to my cheek.

  "Young ladies don't duel, miss," he said, and looked at me consideringly. "Anyway, that's not a place a rapier would get you. Knife, maybe, not that young ladies knife fight either. Going to tell them you were a lady pirate?"