The Architect of Murder Read online

  Although it was never proved, it was obvious that Joseph Chamberlain — the Colonial Secretary then as now — had known about the raid, and done nothing to stop it. It had been planned by Rhodes and Beit, and was typical of the methods Rhodes employed to satisfy his lust for power and conquest. Colonel Rhodes had been released after his brother paid Kruger a heavy fine, and discharged from the army in disgrace. His bravery at Omdurman, where he had been wounded while serving as a war correspondent with Kitchener’s army, had resulted in his restoration to the army list. It was rumoured that Rhodes and Kitchener had become friends, which may also have accounted for the reinstatement.

  Colonel Rhodes was one of the celebrities amongst the ten thousand besieged soldiers in Ladysmith, where he was serving as a war correspondent again. He, Jameson, Sir John Willoughby, and Lord Ava had been specifically targeted by the big Boer guns. Lord Ava was killed at the Battle of Waggon Hill. He was rescued by Colonel Rhodes, but died from his wounds later. I was also wounded at Waggon Hill. I subsequently contracted enteric fever, with the result that I shared a hospital tent with Jameson, who was similarly afflicted. Although we were never formally introduced, we spent the remainder of the siege together.

  Colonel Rhodes had acquitted himself well throughout the war and was very popular with the troops. I knew that his Distinguished Service Order — in contrast to those of so many aristocratic or celebrity officers — had been hard won, but I didn’t approve of his family’s unscrupulous pursuit of expanding their private empire. I’d joined the Bechuanaland police to keep the Queen’s peace, not extend the already vast territories of a man whose ambition and greed seemed to know no bounds.

  At length, I caught sight of the grandiose edifice of the Langham looming above us. Like so many of Westminster’s prominent buildings, it was Georgian and constructed of light-coloured stone imported from the west country. The hotel had been styled Europe’s first deluxe establishment when it was opened, and was the height of luxury with England’s first hydraulic lifts. My father had always made a point of staying there before he moved to London, and I had a vague recollection of dining in one of the restaurants while I was a schoolboy. Forty years on, the Langham still held a justifiable reputation as the most sumptuous pile in London.

  The driver stopped outside the imposing portico. I paid my fare, returned the doorman’s greeting, and walked into an elegant foyer where the stately sense of space was magnified by a high ceiling and arched doorways. I announced myself at reception, parted with another of my cards, and was directed to wait in the equally lavish parlour. Ten minutes later an attendant arrived to tell me that Colonel Rhodes was still breakfasting and had an imminent appointment at Buckingham Palace, but could spare me a few minutes in between if I was prepared to wait. It sounded like humbug, but I acquiesced, resuming my perusal of The Times.

  I studied the roll of officers in South Africa returning to their units from the sick list for familiar names. Half-past nine came and went and I turned my attention to the international news. By ten o’clock I knew all about the meeting of the Kaiser and the Tsar, and the German support of the Boers through the Pan-German League, amongst other organisations. I’d just started on the mail and shipping intelligence when the attendant reappeared and asked me to follow him.

  I was taken to a splendid suite of rooms on the second floor. I couldn’t be sure if there was a drawing room in addition to the sitting-room, but I could see a balcony overlooking Portland Place. Colonel Rhodes had changed little since I last saw him two years ago. He was hawk-faced, with a bristling moustache, close-cropped grey hair and a haughty bearing. He was shorter than me, slim and energetic for a man in his early fifties. He was wearing the dress uniform of a colonel in the Royal Dragoons: a scarlet tunic with gold shoulder cord and braid, a gold sash and waist belt and close cut blue overalls with a thick gold stripe. His throat was adorned with the Companion of the Most Honourable Order of the Bath and his chest covered with decorations. In addition to the white cross of the DSO, there were four campaign medals, with half a dozen clasps representing specific actions.

  He looked me up and down, and advanced towards me.

  “Good morning, Colonel Rhodes.”

  “The moral major,” he replied. “I don’t believe we’ve met since Ladysmith.”

  “No, sir, we have not.”

  He was standing close to me now, his mouth tight and disapproving under a moustache which was still dark. “In that case,” he remarked, “allow me to congratulate you on your VC. As one of the officers present, I know you deserved the honour.” He offered his hand, and we shook. “Not just for your rescue of Trooper Millar, but also your conduct during the earlier part of the battle — particularly your attempts to reach Lieutenant Hall with the Highlanders.”

  I was taken aback by his generosity, and mumbled, “Thank you, sir.”

  He turned and walked away, his manner suddenly changing. “Now, Major, it is only out of respect for your courage that I have allowed you to intrude upon my timetable today.” He faced me from across the room. “As you can see I am due at the Palace to rehearse for Saturday. We both know there’s no love lost between us, so state your business.”

  “I’m here to inform you that Mr Eric Lowenstein is dead.”

  “You say the name as if it should mean something to me, or refer to a gentleman of my acquaintance. It does neither.”

  “Mr Lowenstein was an employee of Wernher, Beit & Co, a confidential clerk. He was also one of the witnesses to your late brother’s will.”

  “You seem to be poorly informed on all counts, Marshall. I have made my own way in the world and have nothing to do with my late brother’s estate — though I naturally approve of his intentions. His desire to leave the fruits of his labour to the greater good of the British Empire is typical of the self-sacrifice he displayed throughout his regrettably short life.”

  “Mr Lowenstein was murdered.”

  Colonel Rhodes snapped, “What has that to do with me? I asked you to be succinct, but if you insist on wasting my — ”

  “Mr Lowenstein corresponded with you before his death. In fact, sir, you were his only correspondent. He wrote to you five times between May and July.”

  “You have these letters in your possession?” The corner of his mouth lifted in a sardonic smile.

  “No, sir, I do not.”

  “The gentleman in question had a reply from me?”

  “If he did, I am not aware of it.”

  “That is because I did not receive any letters from the gentleman — small surprise in view of the fact that we never met, and now obviously never will.”

  “Mr Lowenstein was in hiding at the time of his murder,” I prompted.

  “What of it? I had no communication from this Lowenstein, and I am unable to assist you any further with this matter, even if I were inclined to do so. And I assure you I am not.”

  “May I ask when you arrived in London?”

  “You really are trying my patience, Marshall, but I have a sense that if I humour you for a few moments now, it might save me hours of tiresome pestering later. The matter is one of public record. I arrived with Viscount Kitchener on Saturday the twelfth of July. Now I think I’ve submitted myself to your meddlesome questions far beyond the extent of common decency. I bid — ”

  “Just one more question, please.” He nodded, once. “Where were you on Wednesday morning between the hours of midnight and six o’clock?”

  Colonel Rhodes flashed a malicious smile under his moustache, licking his lips like a beast about to feed. “I hope for your sake that you’re in the employ of either an official body or an influential patron — otherwise you’re going to find yourself in a pickle. I was a guest at the Travellers Club. I returned here at about one o’clock in the morning and retired shortly thereafter.”

  “With whom did you dine, sir?”

  He snarled, “I expected better from an officer and a gentleman. If you wish to question me in an official capacity
I suggest you return with your credentials, present them to my solicitor, and arrange a formal interview next week. Is that clear?”

  “It is.”

  “You know, Dr Jameson could’ve used you in Johannesburg in ’ninety-six. Your friend was an asset, of course, but had you ridden with the doctor… Don’t preach piety to me!” He waved his fist at me. “For a man who was too much of a pacifist to join our South African adventure, you took to war like a duck to water, didn’t you? Don’t try to deny it. I saw you the day Lord Ava was killed. I saw the hatred in your face. You weren’t so fussy about killing Dutchmen then, were you?”

  “Good day, Colonel,” I made for the door.

  “Marshall.” I stopped, but didn’t turn round. “Be careful, London can be just as dangerous as the veldt.”

  I left the Langham greatly disturbed by Colonel Rhodes’ reminder of Waggon Hill. I didn’t know how many Boers I’d shot during the battle, but I remembered the faces of the three I’d killed at close quarters very well. They came to me some nights when I couldn’t sleep, and other nights when I could. Two men and a beardless boy. I fought to keep the images of that day, the Siege of Ladysmith, the whole war, from flooding my mind completely. I tried to concentrate on the task at hand, and I found one thing that helped me to focus on the present.

  Colonel Rhodes had lied.

  He’d hidden it very well, but I knew he’d received at least one of Lowenstein’s letters. That was why he’d asked what proof I had. The steamers usually took twenty days from Cape Town to Southampton, which meant that Colonel Rhodes hadn’t left the Cape until the last week in June. I could check the newspapers, but the exact date wasn’t important. If Lowenstein had sent letters to Colonel Rhodes early in May, he would’ve received one or more by the time he left. Furthermore, he had no alibi, and he was the right height for the penang lawyer.

  My next appointment was of far greater concern. For four years Dr Morgan Drayton and I had been as close as brothers in the Bechuanaland Protectorate. Then there’d been a parting of ways. I’d refused to work for the British South Africa Company, resigned my commission, and left for Durban. He’d thrown in his lot with Rhodes and Jameson, taken part in the Raid, fought for Rhodes in the Second Matabele War, and become Jameson’s right hand man. Perhaps because we had been so close and shared so much, our parting had been anything but cordial.

  It would be an interesting reunion.

  8. Doctor Morgan Drayton

  Truegood met me at Granges, and I gave him a summary of my interview with Colonel Rhodes as we walked along Piccadilly. When I finished, I asked if he had made any progress.

  “No. Lamb and I spent the morning following up the Family man. No joy yet. Sergeant Aitken and his men are pursuing house-to-house inquiries in Tottenham Street and surrounds. Probably a waste of time, but you never know with Fitzroy. Nothing new from the post-mortem, either. Doc just confirmed what he told us yesterday.”

  “What about Drayton, was he happy to co-operate?”

  He scowled. “I dunno if he was happy, do I? I couldn’t read his expression over the bloody telephone. But he didn’t give any chaff about it. And I didn’t mention you, either.”

  “Probably a good idea.”

  For the second time in two days I approached the gates in the high brick wall surrounding Devonshire House. Truegood knocked on the pedestrian door. If the footman recognised me, he didn’t show it. Truegood presented his card. We were escorted across the courtyard to the main entrance of the Palladian mansion, a pillared veranda underneath a balcony, which in turn was directly under an undecorated pediment. The butler admitted us and took our hats. He led us through a magnificent hall into a palatial parlour with a chandelier hanging from an ornamented rosette in the richly decorated ceiling. A landscape hung on the wall above the fireplace. I knew enough about art to identify it as the work of one of the old masters, and enough about the Duke of Devonshire to be certain it was an original.

  Morgan Drayton awaited us; he seemed very much at home in the refined ostentation of his surroundings. His Savile Row morning dress was augmented with an emerald cravat, secured with a diamond pin that matched his cufflinks. He held a Russian cigarette in his long, delicate surgeon’s fingers. He didn’t look a day over the thirty-one years of age he’d been in ’ninety-five, when I’d last seen him. Drayton took his colouring from his Portuguese mother, his hair so black it was almost blue, and his skin pale and freckled. His waxed moustache and chin puff matched the elegance of his movements. My appearance caused only a second’s hesitation before he was in front of me, hand outstretched.

  “Alec, what an unexpected pleasure.”

  I shook his hand, and was immediately reminded of the strength in his lithe figure. “Good day, Morgan, how are you keeping?”

  “Very well, thank you. Please accept my sincere condolences on the passing of Miss Marshall.” He placed his left hand on my forearm.

  I responded somewhat abruptly. “You knew my sister?”

  “No, unfortunately not,” he answered, “but I read of her terrible accident in the papers. I realised at once that the article referred to your sister, of course, a most admirable young lady. I received your card yesterday; I’m so sorry to have missed you.”

  I should have realised from what Miss Paterson had told me that many people who hadn’t met Ellen, knew of her. “Thank you.”

  “And of course my congratulations on your decoration. Well done, indeed.” I nodded and he shook hands with Truegood. “Good day, Inspector Truegood, I had no idea you were bringing Major Marshall along. He and I were friends in Pitsani, some years ago. May I offer either of you gentlemen a drink? Cigarette? Cigar? Then do sit down, make yourselves comfortable, and tell me what brings you to Devonshire House.”

  We all sat and Truegood said, “Major Marshall is assisting me with my inquiries. You don’t have any objection?”

  “Not at all. You’ve done me a great service by bringing him here.”

  “Have you been looking for a confidential clerk by the name of Eric Lowenstein?”

  “It is no secret, Inspector. In the last week of May I employed two private inquiry agents for the purpose, Messrs Littlechild and Slater.”

  “Mr John Littlechild?”

  “The very same. I thought you’d be familiar with Mr Littlechild, if not Mr Slater. Mr Henry Slater is a private detective with offices in Basinghall Street, in the City.”

  “Why do you want to find Mr Lowenstein?”

  “Because he is missing, Inspector, why on earth else?” Drayton smiled affably.

  Truegood stumbled; he was like a great bull that suddenly grasps that neither muleta nor matador are in front of him. “What I meant was why you as opposed to his family or friends.”

  “I believe his family are in the Cape Colony and I am here,” Drayton smiled again and drew on his black cigarette.

  “Then you’re a friend of his?” Truegood persisted.

  “‘Colleague’ would be a more accurate description. We both have associations with the late Mr Rhodes. I am private secretary to Dr Jameson, and Mr Lowenstein is a confidential clerk of Mr Beit’s.”

  “So who asked you to look for Lowenstein?” said Truegood.

  “My employer, Dr Jim.”

  “Why Dr Jameson and not Mr Beit?”

  “As I’ve been in London since April, Mr Beit left the matter in Dr Jim’s hands. It concerns the execution of the late Mr Rhodes’ last will and testament. Due to the considerable legacy involved, there have been several delays in proving the will. Dr Jim instructed me to send Mr Lowenstein back to Cape Town. I suspect that will no longer be possible, will it?”

  Truegood faltered again and Drayton rose, walked over to the fireplace, and threw his cigarette in the grate. “Come now, Inspector. When a senior member of the official detective force arrives with a highly decorated officer as his agent, it can only mean one thing: Mr Lowenstein is dead. Not only dead, but murdered. Is that not so?” He leant against the marble ma
ntelpiece.

  “How did you know he was murdered?” Truegood demanded.

  “Because you just told me, my dear sir. I’ll have to wire Dr Jim with the news before I leave.”

  “Before you leave?” Truegood repeated.

  “For Cape Town. The situation regarding the will has become quite urgent, and I booked passage on a steamer on Tuesday. I leave the day after the coronation. How did it happen?” asked Drayton.

  Truegood had been about to ask another question and Drayton’s enquiry caught the detective off balance. “He… he was beaten to death with a penang lawyer, some time between midnight and dawn yesterday morning,” came the answer.

  “Upon my word! A random attack or a calculated murder?”

  “Impossible to tell at the moment.” Truegood recovered before he gave away everything we had.

  “Before you ask, I’ll tell you that I dined here on Tuesday night, and didn’t leave the house until… about nine o’clock on Wednesday morning. His Grace and several of his family were at dinner and there’s a horde of staff who can vouch for my movements — or lack thereof — during the night. But if you think I know anything that may be of assistance to you, ask away.” He waved in a magnanimous gesture.

  “Firstly, I wonder why you’ve given me an alibi before I asked for one,” said Truegood.

  “Major Marshall will tell you that I have some small experience of police work, Inspector. Mr Lowenstein goes missing; I spend two months looking for him; he is discovered murdered; it requires no great stretch of the imagination… May I ask where you found his body?”