Chapter Sixteen #2
She flicked a quick glance at the mantel clock as she made her way towards the desk. If this whole thing was staged, as she suspected it was, then she needed to see what was written in that note.
The note had been composed on British Embassy headed stationery and placed with the same deliberate precision as the Webley on the floor – centred on the blotter, edges aligned, the inkstand set just above it.
She leaned over the desk to read it.
I find I can no longer carry the weight of what I have done. The decision to pass information to those who would use it against the interests of this country was mine alone, made in circumstances I will not detail here, and for which I accept full responsibility.
James Ashby discovered what I had done. He gave me no choice. His death is on my conscience, as it should be.
Cecily, forgive me, if you can.
Conrad Davenport
2 September 1924
The script ran steady from the first line to the signature, even and unhurried, not a blot or a tremor anywhere – the hand of a man copying out an invitation, not one about to put a pistol to his own head.
The gun placed beneath an unmarked hand. The wound that told its own story. Sir Conrad’s confession, admitting to being a double agent and a murderer.
The whole thing was just too convenient … too staged.
Exactly like Mr Ashby’s apartment. Everything assembled just convincingly enough to pass a cursory inspection, and not a detail further.
Two deaths in less than a week, and no matter which way she tried to frame it, the only connection she could find was Oliver.
The way he happened to be near the bridge on the night Mr Ashby was shot, and now this evening, he’d been the one to discover Sir Conrad.
Discovered … or murdered?
The mantel clock struck the quarter-hour.
She had to get back before Clemmi sent out a search party to find her.
Clemmi. How much longer could she keep lying to her? What if something happened to her? What if Oliver… She’d never forgive herself.
Perhaps the time had come for Elizabeth to tell her friend who her husband really was.
The grandfather clock on the landing marked the quarter-hour. She didn’t know whether the mantel clock was fast or the grandfather clock was slow, but the one thing she did know was that she had to get out of there.
She hurried towards the door, her hand on the handle when she heard voices, low and muffled. Someone was outside on the landing. She listened at the door, waiting for whoever it was to leave.
But what if they didn’t?
What if it was Oliver?
She retrieved her Browning from her bag and slipped it into her coat pocket. Better to be safe than sorry.
What if he was returning to the scene of the crime?
Elizabeth shrank back into the shadow of the bookcase. The panelling shifted at her back, then swung away with a soft groan, cool, stale air rushing past her into the study.
The voices grew louder as she stumbled through the gap into the darkness of an old stone passageway.
Now what? She couldn’t go back – what if Oliver was there? But if she went forward, where would it lead her?
She edged along the wall, her fingertips trailing the stone, trying to make out the voices. They were definitely male, or rather the one who was doing the talking was.
Light flared at her back. She pivoted, one hand shielding her eyes.
“I knew you’d be a problem the minute you arrived.”
Oliver stood between her and the panel she’d just come through, an electric torch in his hand.
“I just hadn’t anticipated quite how big a problem.”
“Oliver.” Elizabeth tried to keep her voice even. “What brings you here?”
“I could ask you the same question.” He took a half-step towards her.
“I came to pay my respects to Lady Davenport. You?”
“I had some business to attend to.”
Some business to attend to. The same words he’d used at the soirée the night Mr Ashby was shot, and the same line he’d spun Clemmi that afternoon, and now…
She took a step backwards, sliding her hand into her coat pocket.
“The gun, Elizabeth. Hand it over.” Oliver held out his hand. “I’m not being caught a second time.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
“Don’t play coy with me, Elizabeth, you know exactly what I’m talking about.”
If she handed over her gun, she had nothing. But did she really want to antagonise a man who’d already killed twice?
Her eyes never left his face as she removed the Browning from her pocket and placed it in his palm.
“And don’t even think about trying to escape.” He leaned past her and turned the wall sconce a quarter-turn to the left. “These passages were sealed off years ago.”
Oliver placed his free hand against the stone and pushed. The wall gave way with a low scrape, opening just wide enough for someone to pass through. “After you.” He jabbed the air with the Browning.
Elizabeth slipped through the space, keeping Oliver in her line of sight as she backed into the room.
“You know, I really underestimated you, Elizabeth.” He followed her inside. “He said we should have called it off.”
“He? Who’s he?”
“That would be me.” The voice came over her shoulder.
Elizabeth spun on her heel.
“Hello, Elizabeth.”