Farthing (36 page)

They thought it was wonderful. I started to feel that I might be able to deal with being a mother after all.

“Where will we live in Canada?” Tania asked as we jolted out of one of the little stations.

“We’ll land in Halifax,” David said. “That’s a big port, bigger than Portsmouth, I think, as big as

Southampton. It’ll be exciting. We’ll see flying boats and ships there. Then after Halifax I think we’ll go on the train, a long long way, all day on the train, inland, through Nova Scotia and New Brunswick.”

“Are those countries?” Tania asked. She was opposite me. Paul was next to me—he’d fallen asleep and was leaning against me, rather heavily. You wouldn’t think a three-year-old could be so heavy.

“No, they’re parts of Canada. Provinces,” David said.

“You must have been frightfully good at geography,” I said, enviously.

He laughed. “I’ve just looked at maps,” he said. “You need to get good at maps to be a pilot.”

“Are you a pilot?” Rivkele asked. “A flyer of aeroplanes?”

“Yes, or at least, I was,” David said. “I think I will be again, now. It’ll be different from being a banker, but you can’t be a banker without capital. Maybe later I’ll have capital again, and I can go back to banking. We’ll see. But for now, I think we’ll go to Montreal. That’s in Quebec, the part of Canada where people speak French. They don’t mind Jews so much there—at least, that’s what I’ve heard. In the war, I had a friend in the squadron who was Quebecois, and that’s what he told me. We’ll find

somewhere to live, and you can go to school and grow up, and our new baby will be born, and things will be all right.”

I believed it, when he said it, sitting in the train, bucketing onwards through the quiet green countryside, not knowing if we’d ever get to Canada or even whether we’d get safely on the boat. It was still quite likely that the police would catch us and hang David and repatriate the children to the death camps and probably lock me up in a madhouse. But we were going on in hope, to a new life, new names, new possibilities. Things would be very different.

I sat there, David against my side and Paul heavy on my other side, and thought back over the last week—it was less than a week, from Saturday afternoon when David had come in furious at Angela

Thirkie mistaking him for the waiter, until Thursday afternoon when we sat in the train going to a new life.

I decided there and then to write all this down. To have a record of it, to publish it if possible, if there is some press somewhere in some country that isn’t afraid of the consequences of ceasing to appease these people, and maybe one day even in England. Maybe one day we’ll go home, when England is truly free again, and not just giving lip service to freedom while sinking deeper and deeper into oppression.

“I love you,” I said. “Are you frightened?”

“I’m terrified, but I love you too,” David said, and kind of nuzzled against my neck in that lovely way he has.

Then the train pulled in to Southampton station.

32

Everything made sense; all the inconsistencies and implausibilities that had plagued Carmichael were gone. If he hadn’t been so afraid, he’d have been ready to sing. He made it to London, to the Yard.

There was nowhere to park. He had to leave the car on a newfangled American meter in Lincoln’s Inn

Fields and walk the rest of the way, fearing snipers, fearing immediate and sudden death as he had not since the end of the war. They had killed Agnes Timms, and he knew more than she knew.

Inside the Yard, Stebbings was sitting as usual in his cubicle. He beckoned to Carmichael. “The Chief wants to see you immediately you come in,” he said. His tone was even, as always, but Carmichael thought he seemed somehow less friendly than usual.

“He doesn’t want me to write up my report first?”

“Immediately,” Stebbings said, shortly. He had it written down on a notepad in front of him, Carmichael noticed. “Carmichael: immediately.” His name was underlined.

Carmichael went to the lift preparing arguments to use to his Chief. He was within his deadline.

He had wrapped the case up. They could take it to the Director of Public Prosecutions as it was.

Agnes Timms’s murder was one more piece of evidence, and he and Royston had both heard
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what she had to say and could testify to it.

He was elevated, again leaving his stomach behind as he rose, and at last stepped out into the Chief

Inspector’s office.

The view was splendid. Clouds were streaming south across London, and he had a bird’s-eye view.

Penn-Barkis was sitting at his desk, fingers pressed together. “I take it you’ve finished with the Thirkie case?” he asked.

“Yes, sir,” Carmichael said, sitting in the chair in front of the desk that Penn-Barkis indicated. If he could not see the view, at least he wouldn’t be distracted by it. “Let me explain it to you.”

On the long drive back, Carmichael had put it all together and now he could lay out a clear picture of the

Thirkie murder that made sense. He spoke without any interruptions at all. Penn-Barkis sat still with steepled fingers, listening intently.

“It was a political assassination, though not in the way we thought. Mark Normanby wanted to get rid of

Thirkie in a way that gave him a chance to capitalize on his death to take power. Angela Thirkie agreed to help with this, because she wanted her husband out of the way. They either waited until she was pregnant or moved their plans forward because she was pregnant. The timing of the houseparty had been planned to coincide with the vote, either because Lady Eversley was a conspirator or because

Normanby had put pressure on her. The Kahns were invited along to be scapegoats and set the country against the Jews.” Kahn was probably the only Jew Normanby knew well enough to persuade to come to visit.

“Ahead of time, Normanby impersonated Kahn in France in order to get hold of the star. Kahn wouldn’t have given his own name and address; someone wanting to implicate him certainly would. We know

Normanby has been in France this year.” And we know Kahn hasn’t, and couldn’t have been, if we believe Mrs. Kahn, but Penn-Barkis probably wouldn’t accept that.

“Also before they went to Farthing, Angela Thirkie paid Brown to play the trick on Lord Eversley on the

Sunday. Lord Eversley may or may not have known about it. Brown was paid to play his ‘joke’

and set them against the Bolsheviks. If Brown had been told to shoot to miss, it might explain why he didn’t do better against a shotgun. On the other hand, that might just be his relative inexperience with his rifle. She also made sure Thirkie brought his dagger with him, and got hold of the lipstick. She may have got her maid to steal it. Her maid seems fairly easy to intimidate; we could almost certainly get more information from her, and probably from the chauffeur as well. She’s having an affair with the chauffeur, and it seems likely the baby is his.” Talking to Angela Thirkie’s servants would be the next thing. He’d have to go up to Yorkshire. It was a pity he hadn’t caught her at Campion, but talking to the old lady had been quite sufficiently informative.

“On the night of the murder, Saturday sixth May, Angela Thirkie somehow persuaded Thirkie to sit in the car—I don’t know how.” He couldn’t imagine her doing the dance of the seven veils in the headlights, or

Thirkie sitting still for it. It might have been earlier, when it was still light and she might have asked him to pose for a photograph in the car. How long exactly did the poisoning take?

“If she hadn’t persuaded him, then Normanby must have threatened him into it, making it technically suicide, but isn’t driving someone to suicide an offense?” It should be. Penn-Barkis didn’t answer, just kept on looking at him most disconcertingly. Carmichael had seen him like
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this before at the end of a case. He just kept on.

“Most likely, Normanby threatened to reveal something he knew—probably not Angela’s adultery; it must have been some other hold he had over Thirkie, something Thirkie had done that he himself considered shameful. Possibly it was a sexual passage between the two of them, or perhaps something political. In any case, Thirkie died painlessly in the car. After death they took him upstairs and arranged him so as to frame Kahn. Maybe Normanby did this alone, because Angela Thirkie displayed signs of shock on hearing where her husband’s body had been found.” That had thrown him off, and made him think about two sets of murderers for too long.

Penn-Barkis listened in silence, his eyes fixed on Carmichael’s face. “Normanby lied about playing billiards with Thirkie, probably to conceal the time of death, which was earlier than we initially thought.

He also arranged to find the body himself.”

Penn-Barkis laid his hands flat on the desk and drew a deep breath. “Have you finished?”

“Yes, sir. I can tell you where I have my evidence from, if you like.”

“That’s not necessary. I’ll take it on trust that it’s all verified and that you have witnesses or material evidence. You’re sure, quite sure, that what you’ve said is the case?” Penn-Barkis stared at Carmichael without blinking.

“Yes, sir,” Carmichael said, feeling as if he had run ten miles.

“Your policeman’s itch to find out exactly what happened, which was plaguing you so badly when we last spoke, is entirely satisfied?”

“Yes, sir,” Carmichael repeated.

“Then forget all this,” Penn-Barkis said. “Put it out of your mind. It may well be what happened, and it’s certainly an explanation that covers everything, but the important thing to remember is that Kahn did it.”

“But sir!” Carmichael almost jumped up out of his seat.

“When I was a boy, I was told that only little goats butt,” Penn-Barkis said, with a thin smile.

“Kahn did it, and the reason Kahn did it is because Mr. Normanby is our Prime Minister and thinking these things against him almost amounts to treason.”

“Scotland Yard is above politics, and the courts are above politics, and the law—”

“Nothing is above politics, Carmichael,” Penn-Barkis said. “I’m so sorry to disillusion you, at your age.”

“The law—”

“But you’re not above breaking the law yourself when it suits you, are you?” Penn-Barkis asked, gently.

“You made a telephone call from your desk here to Farthing yesterday at twelve-thirty. What was the purpose of that call?”

Carmichael blushed hotly. “I rang to tell Mrs. Kahn there was new evidence and to expect me,”

he admitted. “I didn’t tell her to run.

“I’ve heard what you both said, and I think a court would agree that you came sufficiently close to make no difference,” Penn-Barkis said. “We record all police priority calls, as a matter of course. Didn’t you know? We don’t want that privilege being abused. But it isn’t only that. You told Royston to allow a false description to go to the press.”

Carmichael could say nothing. He couldn’t believe Royston had betrayed him, but he must have.

“Oh yes, Royston told me,” Penn-Barkis went on. “He believes you’ve been led astray by being a little in love with the Kahn woman, but I know better, of course. It’s not likely that you’d be in love with any woman, is it Carmichael? We know about your relationship with your… servant.

”Long-term companion‘ is what they say in the obituaries, isn’t it, about relationships of that nature, when the participants are of the same class.“ Jack. They knew about Jack. Carmichael shut his eyes for a moment.

This meant ruin. Why was death so much easier to face than ruin?

“If you were prosecuted you would both receive a prison sentence, and a rather harsh one.”

Penn-Barkis steepled his fingers again. “I suppose it’s possible that if it were to become a criminal matter you might

not be convicted—such cases are notoriously hard to prosecute when nobody complains and there isn’t any public indecency. Proof is challenging, and the courts do insist on it. But even if you were to be acquitted, you could hardly continue to live together. Also the general knowledge, or even suspicion, of your proclivities would severely inhibit your career, not to mention your esteem in the eyes of your colleagues. I imagine Sergeant Royston for instance would be rather less eager to work with you if he knew. Sergeant Stebbings too would be disgusted, but then he holds an old-fashioned prejudice against people like you.”

Did Stebbings know already? It was general belief at the Yard that Stebbings knew everything anybody knew. He could imagine the look in Royston’s eyes, the turning away, classing him with those who molest children, with Normanby and the traffic of Charing Cross Underground.

Penn-Barkis was waiting. “Well, Carmichael? You hold the law so high that nobody can break it with impunity except you?”

“No, sir,” Carmichael said, woodenly.

“But you agree you have broken the law when it suited you?”

“Yes, sir,” Carmichael said.

“Then I’m sure you’ll agree that Kahn did it,” Penn-Barkis said.

The devil’s bargain was laid out plainly. Carmichael could tell him to go back to hell and take the consequences, but it wouldn’t achieve anything. Without Penn-Barkis, without the apparatus of the law, he was nothing, could achieve nothing to bring Normanby to justice. One man alone could not put the

Prime Minister in the dock, even for murder. If he held by the truth he would gain nothing but the satisfaction of knowing himself right. It would be a cold comfort when it was all he had to face the future, when he went to prison for abusing his police privilege or for homosexuality. On the other hand, he could damn himself and live his life, keeping quiet, doing what good he could.

On the one hand, Kahn and prison (and justice, he added); on the other, himself, Jack, and his career. It was no choice, but if it was no choice, why was his tongue like lead in his mouth?

“Yes, sir,” he said, too quietly.

“Eh?”

“Yes, sir,” he repeated.

“Very good. We need men like you in the Force,” Penn-Barkis said. “Men who won’t rest until a case is solved, but who can let it go if that’s what’s necessary.”