The Marx Sisters (29 page)

‘Who did he tell you he was?’

‘He didn’t, and he said I couldn’t contact him, and this really presented a problem for me. You see, the chain from Marx forward to the present had been broken. I mean I could readily accept that an old inscribed book on the shelf of Karl Marx’s great-granddaughter would be genuine, but how could I be sure the same would be true of a book sold to me by a mysterious dealer who wouldn’t identify himself? The photocopies did look identical to those I’d seen in Eleanor’s room that day, but for all I knew he might have had half a dozen versions forged into ordinary copies of those books, which would be worth only a few hundred dollars, and be selling them to universities around the world. Ever since the
Hitler Diaries
fiasco we’ve all been paranoid.

‘The only way I could see of testing him was to tell him something about the manuscript of which Meredith had given me that first page. So the next time he called me I said that that was what I was really interested in, and if it was what I expected, it would be worth hundreds of thousands to my research sponsors. But I didn’t mention the word
Endziel
, or my theory about the fourth volume of
Das Kapital
, and I could see no way that anyone could work that out in order to forge something.

‘We arranged that I would come over to London this week to see the books and anything else he might have been able to get hold of, and he would contact me here at the Connaught. He never did, but when I saw a newspaper on Thursday saying that the second sister had been murdered, I took fright and booked out on the next available flight.’

‘You assumed he would have been responsible?’

‘Well, it was one hell of a coincidence if he wasn’t.’

‘If what you say is true, Dr Naismith, and the manuscript of your fourth volume does exist, and your mystery dealer doesn’t have it, then the remaining sister, Peg Blythe, is still very much at risk.’

‘Yes. I wish I could say that that was my reason for telling you all this now.’

‘But instead you just wanted to go home.’

‘Actually, no.’ She looked up at Brock defiantly. ‘The reason is that I realized that if the dealer, or anybody else for that matter, ever does get their hands on the manuscript, the thing that’s going to prove its provenance—its unbroken line back to Karl Marx—is your investigation. You may think that you’re trying to find a murderer, Chief Inspector, but to my mind you’re doing something much more important. You may find Karl Marx’s
Endziel
, and when you do, I’d like to be around.’

Bren Gurney was back in top gear when Brock and Kathy returned to Jerusalem Lane, issuing instructions over the phone in Brock’s office while munching something held in his big paw.

‘Brass monkey weather,’ Brock complained as they bustled in. He stopped and sniffed the air. ‘That bacon sandwich smells good, Bren. Where’d it come from?’

‘Mrs Rosenfeldt’s Sandwich Bar next door, chief.’ Gurney put down the phone. ‘Chip butties and mushy peas the
spécialités de la maison.’

‘What! That’s sacrilege! What happened to Rosenfeldt’s Continental Deli?’

‘Swept away by market forces, chief. She did a careful market survey among the DCs here and the lads on the site over the road, got a few recipes from them, did a few sample tastings, and now she’s flogging greasy bangers and mugs of hot soup as fast as she can churn them out. She’s taken on two girls and she’s making a killing.’

‘Unfortunate choice of words,’ Kathy said, smiling.

‘You’re allowed to use phrases like that when you’re in Serious Crime, love. Sets people’s teeth on edge.’

‘Never mind about that,’ Brock said gruffly. ‘Get someone to fetch me one of those bacon sandwiches. No, better make it two.’

‘Yuck.’ Kathy curled her lip in disgust, and Brock began shuffling guiltily through the mail on his desk.

When Gurney returned, Kathy told him about their meeting with Judith Naismith.

‘You believe her?’ he asked sceptically.

‘Yes, I do. At least I believe that what she told us was probably true, although it may not be all she knows. I think she sees us now as being at least a possible route to the stuff she wants, and probably the only way of authenticating it when it turns up.’

‘Do you have a list?’

Kathy gave him the list of book titles that Judith had written out for them.

‘Mmm,’ Brock said, speaking with his mouth full. ‘Better get it typed up and some teams out straight away. Every second-hand and antique book dealer. That’s got to be top priority.’

Kathy nodded.

‘I don’t know.’ Gurney was still unconvinced.

‘A dozen books, Bren,’ Brock said, ‘worth five thousand pounds each. That’s a reasonable motive for putting a couple of old ladies to sleep.’

‘But so traceable,’ Bren objected. ‘What professional dealer is going to get involved once they realize where they’ve come from?’

‘Hence the need to contact Judith Naismith. Get rid of them out of the country.’

‘But what do we really know about this dealer? That he’s male and that he knew how to contact Bob Jones. How? In fact how do we know it wasn’t Bob Jones?’

Kathy shook her head doubtfully.

‘All right, then,’ Bren continued, the bit between his teeth, ‘whoever it is, he contacts Naismith and she tells him that she really wants something else, something that Meredith had that was even more valuable than the books. A manuscript, probably wrapped up in old newspapers or something so you wouldn’t even realize you had it. What does he do? He tries the sisters, and they tell him they haven’t
got anything and to get lost. So then he contacts . . .?’ Gurney raised his eyebrows and looked at Kathy.

‘Meredith’s next of kin,’ Kathy said.

‘Mr Terry Winter, exactly.’ Gurney folded his arms with satisfaction. ‘So now our Terry knows about the manuscript. And he knows
he
doesn’t have it. So it’s got to be at Jerusalem Lane. He tries every way to get in there to search for it, but the old dears hardly ever go out. Eventually, as the date for Naismith’s trip gets closer, he has to break into his own house in Chislehurst to get his keys to Jerusalem Lane, and then pay his aunts a night-time visit. Eleanor’s the best bet for having the stuff. It was probably in a suitcase under her bed. She wakes up and sees him groping around, and he has to kill her to silence her. Then he makes off with the manuscript. It’s too late to get to Naismith or the book dealer by this stage, but it doesn’t really matter. He can wait. And the beauty is that when he finally does produce it, he can say he inherited it directly from his mother, and Naismith’s provenance is intact. No wonder he can afford Connell!’

Brock wiped his mouth and beard with a paper napkin appreciatively. ‘Good as far as it goes, Bren. Where is the manuscript now, then?’

‘In a security box in the bank, or a left-luggage locker, or with a friend—the missing Geraldine maybe. It’s the first murder that bothers you in casting Winter as the villain, isn’t it, chief?’

Brock nodded. ‘Winter is a spoilt boy who’s never really grown up. I think his mum was still number one. He might try to manipulate her, exploit her, even bully her, but I can’t see him killing her. And besides, he’s got a plausible witness who says he was never within five miles of Jerusalem Lane at the relevant time.’

‘All right. But we’ve been assuming that both sisters were killed by the same person. Why? If Winter did the second, he would want it to look like the first, for which he has an alibi, right?’

‘Who killed Meredith, then?’

‘I don’t know. I think we’ve got to start from the beginning again with that one.’

Brock frowned. ‘Kathy?’

‘There’s something in what Bren says, sir. I’ve always been uncomfortable about not getting to the bottom of what was happening to Meredith before she died. Of course her depression could have been due to Terry putting pressure on her, but I always thought it was more than that—something to do with her life here in Jerusalem Lane. It’s difficult to imagine it now, with them all gone, but the atmosphere was so real, and so intense. They were like characters from some weird melodrama, all so passionate, and all locked together in this little street. Do you remember Dr Botev, and the impression he gave that he knew what had happened to Meredith? And Mrs Rosenfeldt and her dark hints about the Nazis? We put all that to one side. But maybe . . . I don’t know.’

‘Go on,’ Brock said.

‘Well, maybe they all knew things were coming to an end here, and maybe someone had some final score to settle with Meredith.’

They were silent for a moment, until finally Brock spoke. ‘All right, we know where Mrs Rosenfeldt is. See if you can trace Botev, Kathy. Bren, we’d better get hold of the records from the local CID of that break-in at the Winters’ house. And let’s find those damned books!

‘One other thing,’ he added as they got to their feet. ‘If your theory is right, Bren, about Winter stealing the papers from Eleanor, he probably has to assume that Peg knew Eleanor had them. In which case he won’t really feel safe to sell them until Peg is dead, too.’

Peg received them with her usual radiant composure. She was seated at a table by the window of her hotel room, letters and sympathy cards spread over its surface.

‘People are so very kind,’ she sighed, picking up a card. ‘The Stoke Newington Socialist Guild. How very thoughtful of
them
to write.’

Kathy felt not for the first time that Mrs Blythe was rather enjoying all the attention coming her way. ‘Peg,’ she began, ‘we were speaking to Judith Naismith this morning.’

The old lady smiled blankly at her. ‘Naismith? Should I know her?’

‘She came to see you and Eleanor, about your books and other papers.’

‘Oh, the dreadful American academic woman!’ She frowned. ‘I’m afraid we had very little time for
her
.’

‘She told us about her theories. We had no idea you three sisters were the descendants of such a famous man.’

Peg puffed up with pride. ‘Oh,’ she preened coyly, ‘we didn’t advertise it, you know. And these days, being the great-granddaughter of Karl Marx is rather like what it must have felt twenty years ago to be the last descendant of the Tsar Nicholas—you know, a historical relic from a bygone, irrelevant and very unfashionable age.’

Brock smiled. ‘You don’t believe it’s irrelevant, though, do you, Peg?’

She returned his look. ‘No, Chief Inspector, I do not. But’—she gave her tinkling laugh—‘from what one reads these days, I am almost the only one left.’

‘But the wheel will turn, eh?’

‘Ah, yes.’ Her eyes were bright as she answered him. ‘How short people’s memories are!’

‘What did you make of her notion that your mother might have passed down to you important documents which came from your great-grandfather?’

‘Nonsense!’ she chirped, her eyes still unaccountably shining. Kathy wondered if she was flirting with the old man. ‘She was full of silly theories, like all academics. Eleanor recognized her type straight away. She used to meet them all the time when she worked in the British Museum.
So bossy, and so insistent, you know, like those awful American religious people who knock on your door. It was distressing, especially for Eleanor. She thought Eleanor had something hidden, something about her books.’

‘Did Eleanor feel threatened by her, would you say?’

Peg frowned and shook her head, ‘Eleanor did not feel that she needed to be protected, Chief Inspector,’ she said quietly. ‘She was a strong person. Of all of us she was the strongest. Perhaps that was why she believed, like our great-grandfather, that you do not need a strong Party, because they themselves were so strong and good.

‘But I’—and the persona of the sweet, frail and brave Queen Mother slipped back over her again—‘am not strong or good, and so I believe that we must have strong leaders and a strong Party to keep us upon the true road.’

Brock looked thoughtfully at her for a moment, and then nodded. ‘Well, Mrs Blythe, I believe that you at least
are
in need of protection. I am going to have to insist that you tell no one else where you are staying. And I am going to arrange for a woman constable to stay here in this hotel with you. If you would like her company, that’s fine, otherwise she will stay out of your way. But she will be here.’

‘I am sure that isn’t necessary, Chief Inspector, but I do appreciate your concern. Of course I would be delighted to have her company.’ And then, as she showed them to the door, ‘Eleanor’s model was her great-aunt, you know, another Eleanor, whose picture she hung upon her wall. Our Eleanor lived as noble a life, and died as noble a death, as that model she revered. I do have a great fear that when the time comes for me to join them, I shall not be as strong. I should so hate to let them down.’

‘Answer the door to no one until our officer arrives,’ Brock said. ‘She will phone you from the front desk first, and identify herself.’

There had been a slight thaw the previous afternoon, followed by a sharp drop in temperature during the night, so that the snow and slush had now solidified into rutted, glazed mounds of ice. When she got out of the car, Kathy had to pick her way carefully across the pavement and down the short drive leading to the front door of the semidetached house. Like most of the originally identical pebble-dash houses on the street, this one had been through several cycles of improvement, the original timber casements of its bow windows replaced by modern aluminium windows with mock diamond pane patterning, and a recent bedroom extension inserted into its tiled roof. The drive was almost the only one on this Saturday morning not occupied by a car, and its surface had not been cleared of snow.

It took Dr Botev so long to come to the door that Kathy almost gave up. Then she heard a shuffling from the inside, the door opened a little, and the doctor’s thick lenses peered out at her.

‘Kathy Kolla, doctor. From the police. I phoned half an hour ago.’

He led her through a small hallway made almost impassable by open cardboard removal cartons, and into the front room where more boxes were heaped so that an orange settee and armchairs resembled life rafts floating in a sea of wreckage. He sat down heavily without a word,
leaving her to clear a pile of old towels off a seat opposite him. After the cold outside, the warmth of the central heating was suffocating and she unbuttoned her coat.