Farthing

  "The press are down there too, sir," Izzard finished. "On the road, like."

  "It's a public road," Lord Eversley said, in evident annoyance.

  Carmichael turned and saw a black closed Bentley that had to belong to a doctor crawling up the drive, following the same police van that had taken Thirkie's body away. He picked up the rifle, carefully, checking it was unloaded.

  "Royston, you take care of the bike, and tell the assembled gentlemen of the press that we'll be making a statement—Scotland Yard, tell them, in two hours, at the front gate. Izzard, help Inspector Yately with the corpse. When you've finished checking it here, it wants to go back to Winchester for an autopsy. Lord Eversley, the doctor's here, we should go back to the house. I'll want to talk to you when he's had a chance to patch you up a bit."

  "He fired at me, I fired at him, I was lucky, he wasn't, that's all there is to it," Lord Eversley said.

  Carmichael was horribly sure that he'd stick to just that, without detail. Yet bluff and bulldog-like as he seemed, he wasn't a fool. No fool could run several companies and help run the country the way Eversley did. Carmichael watched him riding down towards the stables as he followed him down towards the house. Not a fool, though his exterior made you think he was. What a pity he'd killed the rifleman.

  A motorcycle, he thought, was the perfect escape vehicle for these little country roads; it could go much faster than any car. Guerin/Brown had been intending to shoot and get away fast. How would he have hidden the rifle? How did he, when he came here in the first place? Better ask for anybody who might have seen him. That would be something concrete to ask the press to do, and it might lead to something.

  Back in the room he was already thinking of as his office, he immediately put a call through to the Yard. It rang through immediately. Police priority combined with a quiet time of day let him speak to London for once as easily as he might speak to someone on the same exchange. "We've had another death," he said.

  "That's too bad," Sergeant Stebbings said. "Who was it?"

  "It was a man with a rifle who was shooting at Lord Eversley and Mrs. Kahn."

  "Good gracious," Sergeant Stebbings said, his tone betraying no surprise whatsoever.

  "Lord Eversley shot him."

  "Clearly self-defense?" Stebbings asked.

  "About as clear as it could be—the man had a rifle, Lord Eversley and Mrs. Kahn are both wounded, and Lord Eversley killed him with a shotgun. I don't think there's any need for anything like an inquiry into it."

  "And the man?"

  "I want you to check two names for me. One is Michael Patrick Guerin, who has some kind of Bolshevik identity card with the number 1769830. The other is Alan Brown, of number 23 Sisal Villas, Bethnal Green. Brown's driving license claims he was born in Runcorn in 1925; perhaps you could check with the police up there too. There's also a snap of a young woman, which it might be possible to identify, and which I'll have sent up to you."

  "I'll get onto that straight away and get back to you," Stebbings said, reassuringly. "G-U-E-R-I-N?"

  "That's it," Carmichael said.

  "Should we check with the Garda?"

  "It might be worth asking them, but I don't expect anything to come of it," Carmichael said. "There's also a rifle. Can you check with the Mets whether Brown has a license for one—or anyone else of that address."

  "What kind of rifle is it?" Stebbings asked.

  "Perfectly ordinary Lee-Enfield," Carmichael said, glancing at it where he had leaned it in the corner behind the desk. He noticed something anomalous and picked it up to check. "Hold on—no it isn't, by God, it looks like one, but actually it's a .22."

  "A popgun?" Stebbings sounded a little taken aback. "You can kill someone with a .22, I suppose, but you don't need a license for one."

  "No," Carmichael said, putting the rifle down again. "It's still self-defense—when someone's shooting at you, you don't stop to ask the caliber of the weapon. But it's a funny thing to choose."

  "Perhaps it's all he could get hold of," Stebbings suggested. "You can buy one of those anywhere. Kids use them."

  "Ones that look like a real rifle?"

  "Anywhere. They're rather popular with villains, actually, people who want to intimidate with a gun but don't want the extra time they'll serve for having one. But mostly it's kids who want a rifle just like a real one."

  "It still seems like a funny choice for an assassin. Not much stopping power. You can buy a shotgun anywhere as well," Carmichael said, and sighed. "Well, check into all of that. They'll be sending you down the corpse's fingerprints from Winchester." He made a note to remind Yately about that. "Have you got anything else for me while I'm on?"

  "We're still working on things. We're not going to be able to do Kahn's flat before tonight."

  "Probably not important now anyway," Carmichael said.

  "You think the Bolshie gunman killed Thirkie too?"

  Carmichael hesitated, and the line to London hummed in his ear as the wind blew through the wires connecting them. "No," he said. "Maybe, though if he did I don't know how, or why he used the method he did. It doesn't fit. There's something that isn't right about all of this."

  "Well, one other thing," Stebbings said. "It's very small, but you never know. You asked if any of the people on your list had criminal records, and we said they don't. That's true as far as it goes, but one of them would have, except that he got it erased. I happen to remember it because I was involved. Mark Normanby, MP—he was one of those arrested and brought in when the Metropolitan force did that big sweep in Charing Cross Underground that time, remember?"

  "Oh yes." Carmichael did remember. Charing Cross Underground station was a notorious haunt of men looking for youths, and of youths from the slums who were prepared to go with a man for money, or perhaps beat him up and steal his valuables if they saw their way clear to doing that. The victims in those cases would not complain. They could not afford to say why they had invited someone of that nature into their home. The police raided the Underground station frequently, without making much of a dent in the traffic that went on. Then, two years ago, the Mets had gone in in force, at all entrances, and arrested hundreds of people. For several weeks, the station returned to respectability. Then of course, they started to come back, those desperate enough to risk it at first, and then more and more as they started to feel safe again.

  He especially remembered the raid because it had led to a quarrel with Jack, who had seen it as a sign the laws against homosexuality were about to be enforced. Carmichael had argued that these men who preyed on youths were no brothers of his. The youths might not even be queer. Some of the men, he had heard, preferred it if they were not, if they hated what they were doing. He said it was more in the way of a crackdown on prostitution. He said there was no purpose in feeling solidarity with men who exploited others that way. They had made it up at last, but not before Jack had called him a policeman, which of course he was.

  "Normanby was one of those caught in flagrante, in the bathroom, with his pecker in the mouth of a boy no more than fifteen. The boy's in prison now, but Normanby pulled strings and insisted the evidence against him disappear—he's down in the records as an innocent bystander. I was the one who had to destroy the Yard's copy of the file. So in case it makes any difference to anything, you can take it as absolutely proven that he's a sodomite." Stebbings's tone did not vary as he said all this.

  "A powerful sodomite who can pull strings," Carmichael said.

  "That's just it," Stebbings said. "I don't like seeing justice made a fool of that way."

  "One law for the rich and another for the poor," Carmichael said, sourly.

  "The boy's guilty of no more than being poor enough to agree to do something disgusting, and he pulled five years hard labor," Stebbings said.

  Carmichael wondered if Normanby was one who preferred boys who didn't want to do what they were doing. He could easily imagine the man being like that, the power being as much of a thrill for h
im as the sex. It made him feel queasy. "Thank you for telling me, sergeant," he said.

  "Not that it probably means anything to your case," Stebbings said. "Not now you have a Bolshevik gunman tangled up in things."

  "Then why didn't he shoot Thirkie as well?" Carmichael wondered aloud. "There's something about all of this I don't like at all. I don't like the smell of it."

  "Would that be a hunch, sir?" Stebbings asked.

  "No it would not," Carmichael said, grumpily. "I'd appreciate it if you'd get me any information from the files as soon as possible, Guerin or Brown. And please send someone down to Bethnal Green to check out Brown and any associates, right away. Also get someone digging on the Bolsheviks in London and why they might be wanting to kill off the Farthing Set. Oh, and whether there's been any stir among the Bolsheviks recently, or at the Russian consulate or anything like that."

  "What are you going to tell the press?" Stebbings asked. "They've been ringing up."

  "I've announced a press release in two hours, which will give me time to talk to Mrs. Kahn and Lord Eversley," Carmichael said. "I'm going to have to tell them the truth, so far as Guerin/Brown goes, anyway. Some of them seem to have heard the shots, and it's possible that someone might have seen him on his motorcycle with the rifle."

  "Good luck," Stebbings said. "Don't get yourself shot by any Bolsheviks."

  "I won't, thank you, sergeant."

  Carmichael put the heavy black receiver down carefully and rang the bell.

  "Tea. China tea," he said to Jeffrey when he came. "And ask Mrs. Kahn if she has the time to speak with me."

  15

  Inspector Carmichael opened the door to me and ushered me into Daddy's little back office, which he'd quite taken over. He had papers all over the desk, which Daddy never would; Daddy's terribly tidy and always uses folders and clips for everything and puts them away as soon as he's done. The Inspector had them in little piles, and he had notes everywhere too.

  He rang for Lizzie, and when she came, asked her for a tray of China tea. "You needn't, just for me," I said, though I was touched and surprised. "I don't mind Indian for once."

  "The Inspector prefers China too, madam," Lizzie said.

  "Really?" I asked, surprised. He didn't look one bit like a man who'd care about his tea.

  "Is it such an unusual taste?" Inspector Carmichael asked. He turned to Lizzie. "Are we really the only ones in all of Farthing who prefer it?"

  "Yes, sir, at least, there's Mr. Kahn as well, but otherwise everyone wants their tea strong, or they prefer coffee."

  "Barbarians," the Inspector said, but he was frowning. He made a tick against something on one of his piles of notes.

  "I wanted to say, madam, from me and the rest of the staff, that we're very glad indeed that you're all right," Lizzie said.

  "That's very kind of you, and really, I'm fine. I was more shaken up by the whole thing than hurt. It's just a . . . a graze really."

  Lizzie went off to fetch the tea. I could see I'd be swimming in it by the end of the day, but it was all meant very kindly.

  "So tell me exactly what happened, Mrs. Kahn," Inspector Carmichael said.

  "I don't know. I didn't see anything. My horse did."

  "Unfortunately, we can't question her," he said, with a funny little smile. "How do you know she did?"

  "She checked her stride, and whickered, as if she heard something. Then the next thing I knew the bullet passed between us."

  "You were riding close together?"

  "Quite close, yes, perhaps six feet apart, maybe closer. I'm not exactly sure. After the bullet, or maybe there were two, because I thought I heard the sound after it hit me." I stopped. "I'm sorry, I'm not being very clear. Did Daddy show you where it happened?"

  "Lord Eversley was kind enough to show me, yes. I could also see the prints of the horses quite clearly. You checked, you heard at least one shot, one certainly scored your cheek, and then you galloped down towards the house?" When he said "Eversley" he sounded very Lancastrian all of a sudden.

  "Daddy told me to run, and I didn't do anything, but he gave Manny a great wallop that sent her charging off downhill," I said.

  "Manny's your horse?" he asked.

  "Short for Manzikert," I said, laughing a little. "It's a battle, but don't ask me who fought in it or what year it was. Practically all our horses are called after battles. I learned to ride on a pony called Hastings."

  "Manzikert was 1050, in Anatolia, Greeks versus Turks," he said, surprisingly, because I wouldn't have thought he was the kind of man to know about battles either. He was a surprising sort of man altogether. "I'm sorry. Your father cuffed your horse, and she ran away with you. What did he do then?"

  "Didn't he tell you?" I asked.

  "He told me—now I want to know what you saw." The Inspector was watching me very carefully.

  Of course, this was where Mummy wanted me to be very clear and lie if necessary to get Daddy off any hook he might be on for having killed the terrorist. I decided I was going to tell the complete truth and not a word beyond that. "I didn't see anything," I said. "I'm sorry. Manny took off, and I was trying to get control of her. Daddy was behind me. I didn't see him or anything he did until I turned around again, and by then he was coming down towards me, with a bullet in his arm."

  "Did you hear any more shots?" Again he looked at me with that wary look.

  "I heard the shotgun, definitely. I think I may have heard more rifle shots."

  "You were aware it was a rifle?" He pounced on that.

  "Not at the time, no. Your sergeant told me afterwards."

  Carmichael looked a little irritated. "So how many rifle shots would you say were fired?"

  There was a knock and Lizzie came back in and set the tea things down. I poured, asking the Inspector about milk and lemon, and there was all the paraphernalia of cups and saucers— she'd brought the best china, Mummy's Spode. Mummy would have a fit if she knew it was being wasted on a policeman, even such an unusual one as Inspector Carmichael. Not that Mummy would have appreciated his unusual qualities—knowing about battles and drinking China tea wouldn't have cut any ice with her; indeed, it would probably have made the ice deeper, if I know Mummy.

  We settled back down, with our tea, and he asked me again: "How many rifle shots, Mrs. Kahn?"

  "I definitely heard one, after the bullet scraped my cheek," I said. "Then I'm fairly sure I heard another as I was going down the slope, just before the shotgun blast. That's all I could swear to."

  "But there might have been more, before, and when you were going downhill?"

  "There might have been the whole Battle of Mons up there," I said, in a shaky kind of way. "I couldn't see, and I couldn't get Manny turned around. I thought they'd killed Daddy."

  "That was a very reasonable thing to think, because the intruder had a rifle, and your father only had a shotgun. A rifle has a much longer range, as you know."

  "I know. It's quite incredible really that Daddy managed to pot him."

  The Inspector just looked at me for a moment. Maybe he was adding something up in his head. "Well, he was very lucky," he said. "Does your father generally carry a shotgun on rides around the property?"

  "It depends on the time of year," I said. "In the autumn, practically always. In winter too. But at the moment all the birds are out of season. All there is to shoot is a hare or a rabbit, which isn't much sport. He only took the gun today because Harry insisted."

  "Harry insisted," Carmichael said, making a note.

  "Harry in the stables," I expanded.

  "I know who Harry is, Mrs. Kahn," he said. "So you and your father were very very lucky indeed. You probably owe your lives to Harry insisting."

  "I was thinking about that earlier," I said. "It's one of those horseshoe nail things, isn't it?"

  "I suppose it is," he said, getting the reference at once, as I'd known he would. It's a poem about a whole battle being lost for the want of a horseshoe nail. Hugh used to lov
e it and recite it. He knew the whole thing by heart when he was quite a little boy and I wasn't much more than a baby. "Who suggested that you go riding this morning?"

  "Daddy," I said. "I'd mentioned feeling restless and cooped up, you know, because we have to stay here and can't go home, and he suggested that we could take the horses out. He said it would be all right if we didn't go off the property. We didn't—we kept very carefully to Farthing land."

  "He couldn't have known you'd be there, then," the Inspector said. "The assassin, I mean. It wasn't something you planned and told the servants about so that anyone might have got to know about it?"

  "No, it was pretty much spur of the moment," I said. "Daddy suggested it as I was finishing my breakfast. I went up and changed and then met him in the stables. It was hardly an hour."

  "Who else was at breakfast when you discussed it?"

  "The Normanbys," I said. He made a note, his pen strokes very hard.

  "Were any servants in the room?" he asked.

  "No . . . Lizzie was in and out, but I'm almost certain she wasn't there just then."

  "There isn't time for it to have been a conspiracy," Carmichael said, almost to himself. "They couldn't have conjured him up in that time; he had to have been waiting."

  "Waiting in case anyone happened to come along, I suppose," I said. "Only it isn't all that likely, is it?"

  "Nobody went up there yesterday," the Inspector said. "He could have been there then. He could have been prepared to wait until he found someone."

  "Have you found out yet about the—you called him the intruder?" I asked. "If you don't mind me asking. Who was he?"

  "We'd know a lot more if he was alive to question," he said. He frowned again and tapped his fingers together. "From what he had on him, and without more inquiries, he appears to be a Bolshevik agent."

  "A Russian agent?" It seemed incredible, like something from the tuppenny papers, like the sergeant saying my wound was "just a scratch." It seemed absurd, although I supposed that the Russians had no reason to like Sir James, after he'd got Hitler to attack them, or Daddy either for egging him on.