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  The vicar smiled benignly. ‘Gone are the days when the parish priest keeps a register of births, Mr Fox. We would only have a record if the individual had been christened here.’

  ‘And was he?’

  ‘I’ve no idea. It would certainly have been before my time, that’s for sure.’

  ‘But did you check?’

  The vicar shook his head. ‘No,’ he said. ‘There would have been no point. Apart from anything else, people often turn to the workings of Christ late in life. In any event, not having been christened wouldn’t constitute grounds for refusing anyone a Christian burial.’

  ‘Did you view the body, by any chance?’

  ‘Of course not. I was furnished with the death certificate and the authority to bury so I went ahead.’

  ‘So a coffin turned up, you did the business and bunged him down below?’ Fox grinned. ‘Is that a fair assessment of the proceedings?’

  The vicar gulped. Never before had he heard a funeral summarised in such a way. ‘I suppose so,’ he said, unhappy that he could not fault Fox’s rough-and-ready description.

  ‘And how did the, er, cadaver, arrive, may I ask?’

  ‘In a plain black hearse.’ The vicar spoke as though he could conceive of no other way for a coffin to arrive.

  ‘Didn’t happen to take a note of the registration number, I suppose.’

  ‘Why on earth should I have done that?’ The vicar was incredulous.

  ‘How many people turned up for the funeral, Vicar?’

  ‘Just his widow … and a friend.’

  ‘What sort of friend?’

  ‘A man.’

  ‘Could you describe him?’

  The vicar gave that some thought. ‘Ordinary, I suppose.’

  ‘Very helpful,’ murmured Fox. ‘And you didn’t think that unusual, either?’

  ‘No. Mrs Harley explained that they didn’t live in this country any more. Apparently they were over here on holiday from …’ The vicar paused. ‘Tasmania, I think she said.’

  ‘Tasmania, eh?’ Fox nodded. ‘Yes,’ he said thoughtfully, ‘it would have to have been somewhere like that. And all the relatives were miles away. On the other side of the world probably.’

  ‘Well, yes, as a matter of fact that is exactly what she said. Mrs Harley, that is.’ The vicar was beginning to look disconcerted. ‘Is there some suggestion of irregularity? I mean, the bishop would have to hold an enquiry, and —’

  ‘Not before I do,’ said Fox with a measure of finality that further anguished the vicar.

  ‘Well, I don’t see —’

  ‘This wife of the deceased, Mrs Harley. Any idea what her first name was?’

  Again the vicar sought solace in his books and papers. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘Susan. Mrs Susan Harley.’

  ‘And what did she look like? D’you remember?’

  The vicar thought about that for a bit. ‘Yes,’ he said eventually. ‘About thirty, I suppose. Long blonde hair.’ He glanced guiltily at Fox. ‘A very good-looking woman as I recall,’ he said.

  ‘What an extraordinary thing.’ Fox grinned, stood up and fastened the centre button of his grey chalk-striped suit. The vicar stared at him. ‘One of the best that Hackett had,’ Fox volunteered.

  ‘I beg your pardon?’

  ‘The suit,’ said Fox, smoothing the lapels. ‘It came from Hackett of Covent Garden.’

  ‘Oh, I see,’ said the vicar, who had been unable to afford a new suit in three years. ‘What happens now?’

  ‘What happens now, Vicar, is that I make further enquiries. In the meantime, perhaps you would be so good as to give my detective inspector here the full details of this funeral parlour that purports to trade from the Edgware Road.’

  ‘There are no undertakers called Marloes in the Edgware Road … or anywhere else in London as far as I can see, sir,’ said Gilroy.

  ‘What a strange business,’ said Fox. ‘And what about the phone number?’

  Gilroy grinned. ‘The subscriber to that number is a Mr Jeremy Benson, who lives in a flat near Marble Arch. As a matter of interest, guv, he’s got a wife called —’

  ‘Don’t tell me. It’s Susan!’ said Fox. He fiddled with his paper knife for a while.

  ‘No, sir. It’s Jane.’

  ‘Now there’s a coincidence,’ said Fox. ‘Something evil is going on here, Jack,’ he added.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Marble Arch, you say?’

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ said Fox. ‘We’ll pop across and have a chat with this Benson finger.’

  Chapter Seven

  ‘It’s empty.’ A grey-haired woman who must have been close on seventy had emerged from the door of the flat opposite.

  ‘Is that so, madam?’

  ‘They moved out a few weeks ago.’

  ‘I see.’ Fox stepped across to within a few feet of the helpful neighbour.

  ‘Are you from the agents?’

  ‘No, madam, the police.’ Fox produced his warrant card. ‘Detective Chief Superintendent Thomas Fox … of the Flying Squad,’ he murmured.

  The woman nodded knowingly. ‘I can’t say that I’m surprised,’ she said.

  ‘That’s very interesting,’ said Fox. ‘And why d’you say that?’ He was at his suave best when dealing with cultured old ladies.

  The woman briefly examined Fox’s well-dressed figure and concluded, despite his Cockney accent, that he was a gentleman. ‘Perhaps you’d better come in,’ she said. ‘It doesn’t do to discuss matters of this sort in public, does it?’

  ‘Indeed, madam, it does not.’ Fox beamed and he and Gilroy followed the woman into her apartment.

  The sitting room was richly furnished with what Fox’s practised eye told him were genuine antiques. The expensive carpet was overlaid with a valuable Persian rug and the loose covers on the chairs matched the curtains. Fox rapidly assessed that he was in the presence of substantial wealth.

  ‘Do sit down.’ The woman paused. ‘Perhaps I may offer you a glass of sherry?’

  ‘Thank you.’

  She filled elegant crystal glasses and handed them round. ‘A strange couple, the Bensons,’ she began.

  Fox sipped his sherry. ‘This is quite splendid,’ he said.

  ‘It’s an Oloroso Extra Solera. One of the best sherries there is, so I’m told.’

  ‘I can quite believe it.’

  ‘It is rather fine, isn’t it?’

  ‘Forgive me, ma’am,’ said Fox, ‘but you have the advantage of me. I don’t know your name.’

  ‘Oh, how remiss of me,’ said the woman. ‘It’s Morton, Alice Morton.’

  ‘Well, Mrs Morton …’ Fox paused. ‘Or is it Lady Morton?’ he asked, with a flash of intuition.

  ‘How very clever of you, Mr Fox. Yes, it is Lady Morton.’ She fluttered her ageing eyelashes. ‘Not that it matters. Before he became chairman of the bank, my late husband was a general.’ She took a sip of sherry. ‘It came with the rank … or “up with the rations” as he used to say.’ She gave a nervous little giggle.

  Gilroy took a tentative sip of his sherry, a drink he didn’t much care for, and thought once again what a smarmy bastard his governor was.

  ‘You were saying … about the Bensons,’ said Fox, carefully placing his glass on a lace mat on the Chippendale side table.

  ‘Well,’ said Lady Morton, ‘to use modern parlance, she was a flighty piece.’ She smiled at her own boldness.

  Fox smiled too, but at Alice Morton’s belief that a phrase some forty years out of date could still be considered risqué. ‘Is that so?’ he said.

  ‘Of course, she was much younger than her husband.’ Lady Morton gave a knowing smile.

  ‘How interesting.’

  ‘I think she married him for his money.’

  ‘He was wealthy, then?’

  ‘Oh yes.’ Alice Morton lifted her chin slightly. ‘These flats are quite expensive, you know.’

  ‘Indeed, Lady Morton, I can see t
hat.’

  ‘But they never seemed to do things together. Rather strange, I thought. I didn’t know them very well, mind you. Tended to keep themselves very much to themselves, but one can’t help noticing.’

  Not for the first time in his experience Fox concluded that the Lady Mortons of this world were probably worth ten full-time surveillance officers. He also knew there was little point in prompting her. It would all come out, given time.

  ‘They used to go on holiday separately,’ continued Lady Morton with enough inflexion in her voice to indicate that it was an arrangement that did not meet with her approval.

  ‘Really?’ Fox contrived to sound quite amazed.

  ‘I happened to be coming out one morning as she was leaving. The chauffeur was taking her luggage out.’ Lady Morton fluttered a lace handkerchief towards her nose and sniffed genteelly. ‘I suppose she felt that she had to say something.’

  ‘And did she?’

  ‘Said that she was taking a holiday in Morocco.’

  ‘I see.’

  ‘I was able to give her a bit of advice, as a matter of fact.’ Lady Morton placed her empty glass on a table and glanced at Fox’s half-full one. ‘More sherry?’ she asked.

  ‘Thank you very much.’

  Lady Morton topped up Fox’s glass and poured herself another full measure. She noticed that Gilroy had hardly touched his and silently dismissed him as a social inferior. ‘Oh, yes,’ she continued, sitting down again opposite Fox. ‘I was able to tell her some of the more useful things, like not drinking the local water and what to do about gippy-tummy, and how much to tip the natives. That sort of thing.’

  ‘You know Morocco well, then.’

  ‘I should say so,’ said Lady Morton enthusiastically. ‘The general and I knew it like the backs of our hands.’ She paused to sip her sherry again, prompting Fox to believe that she got through quite a few bottles in the course of a week. ‘I said I hoped that she and her husband would enjoy their holiday, and she said that she was going alone. Well, I suppose that I must have raised an eyebrow …’ Fox could visualise the effect that would have had, and envied it. ‘And she said that her husband was very busy with his work and couldn’t possibly get away.’

  ‘What was Mr Benson’s work?’ asked Fox. ‘Not an undertaker by any chance, was he?’

  ‘An undertaker?’ Lady Morton threw back her head and laughed, a tinkling, girlish laugh. ‘My dear man,’ she said, ‘what a quite absurd thing to say.’

  ‘Only a passing thought,’ said Fox, joining in Lady Morton’s infectious laughter. Behind him, Gilroy smirked.

  ‘No, I believe he was a company director of some sort, but, as I said, they kept themselves very much to themselves. Of course’ — Lady Morton lowered her voice to a conspiratorial whisper —’she had other men here when her husband was away, you know.’

  ‘Did she really?’ Fox leaned forward.

  ‘Oh, yes.’

  ‘Might you recognise any of them again?’

  ‘I very much doubt it. I’m not one to pry, you know.’

  ‘Of course not.’ Fox paused. ‘I wonder, ma’am, if you can recall whether the Bensons were here during the last week in July.’

  ‘The last week in July …’ Lady Morton spoke slowly as if trying to recall the events of that week. ‘No,’ she said eventually. ‘I’m afraid that I really can’t remember.’ She looked quite disappointed at being unable to provide this vital piece of information. By way of compensation, she nodded at Fox’s glass. ‘Another sherry?’ she asked.

  ‘No thank you,’ said Fox, ‘but there is one other thing …’

  ‘Yes?’

  ‘D’you happen to know where the Bensons went when they moved out?’

  Lady Morton looked crestfallen. ‘I’m afraid I can’t help you there,’ she said. ‘One minute they were here, the next they were gone, so to speak.’

  ‘Never mind,’ said Fox, rising to his feet. ‘You’ve been most helpful.’

  ‘Not at all. I feel that one should always assist the police whenever possible.’

  ‘How refreshing,’ said Fox as he moved towards the door.

  ‘Er … is there some sort of trouble?’ Lady Morton held the front door of her apartment ajar.

  Fox smiled disarmingly. ‘Good heavens, no,’ he said. ‘I was just hoping that the Bensons might be able to assist us with our enquiries.’

  *

  ‘The flat’s not on the market, guv’nor,’ said Gilroy. ‘According to the managing agents, the Bensons are away on an extended holiday.’

  ‘But you got an address for them … obviously,’ said Fox.

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  ‘Where is it?’

  ‘In the South of France, sir. Nice.’

  Fox smiled. ‘Is that a fact?’ he said. ‘Well, well. They tell me that it’s very pleasant there at this time of the year.’

  ‘D’you want me to book a flight, guv?’ asked Gilroy hopefully.

  ‘Not yet, Jack. There are still things to be done here.’ Fox stood up. ‘Yes, indeed, things to be done.’ As an afterthought, he added, ‘I’m sure you’ll be able to fit them in, Jack.’

  *

  ‘The doctor whose name appeared on the death certificate does actually exist, sir.’

  ‘I would have been surprised if he didn’t, Jack.’

  ‘So I went to see him.’

  ‘Good, good.’ Fox inclined his head in expectation.

  ‘Thomas Harley was not one of his patients. In fact, he’d never heard of Thomas Harley and most certainly did not sign a death certificate in respect of the said Thomas Harley.’

  ‘There are days, Jack, when you absolutely astound me,’ said Fox. ‘However,’ he added, ‘today is not one of those days.’ He stood up, ran a finger along a ledge on his bookcase and then examined it despairingly. ‘I think it would be a useful course of action, at this stage of the enquiry, Jack, for us to obtain an exhumation order.’

  ‘Yes, sir.’ Gilroy waited patiently.

  ‘Well, put it in hand, Jack, there’s a good fellow,’ said Fox. ‘It’s a very straightforward administrative process.’

  ‘It is, sir?’

  ‘Nothing to it, Jack.’ Fox assumed a crafty look. ‘Application to the coroner under Section 25 of the Burials Act 1857, I should think. Perhaps the Coroners Act. Is it 1887? Or is there a later one? Needs the Home Secretary’s authority, of course. Look it up in Archbold, just to be sure.’ He waved a dismissive hand in the air.

  ‘Yes, sir,’ said Gilroy, turning towards the door.

  ‘And when you’ve done that, come back and we’ll pay another visit to Jim Murchison … the man least likely to become the next world champion driver.’ Fox lifted his jacket carefully from his shoulders and settled it back into place.

  *

  ‘It’s no bloody good you bleeding coppers coming in here harassing me,’ said Murchison as he was escorted through the door.

  The prison officer gave one of Brixton’s latest remand prisoners a malevolent glare, and left him to the mercies of Fox and Gilroy.

  ‘Why did you agree to see me, then?’ asked Fox.

  ‘Makes a break, don’t it? Someone to talk to.’ Murchison sat down sideways-on to the table, crossed his legs and folded his arms.

  ‘Splendid,’ said Fox. ‘Exactly what I had in mind.’

  ‘Well, I ain’t saying nothing to you, and that’s flat. Not without my brief, anyhow. And probably not then.’ Murchison gazed at the far wall with a truculent sneer.

  ‘It’s a funny thing, Jack,’ said Fox, turning to Gilroy, ‘but we travel all the way down here to do this fellow some favours and that’s all we get by way of gratitude.’ He shook his head wearily.

  Murchison swung round and stared at the two Flying Squad officers. ‘What d’you mean, favours?’

  ‘As a matter of fact, Jim,’ said Fox, exhaling cigarette smoke towards the ceiling, ‘I wasn’t being quite honest with you there.’

  ‘Huh, tell me someth
ing new.’

  ‘I am the bearer of bad tidings, Jim.’

  To a prisoner on remand the suggestion of bad tidings usually means one thing: another count or two on the indictment. ‘I got sod-all to say without my brief, and that’s it. I shan’t say it again. In fact …’ Murchison stood up. ‘I don’t think I’m staying here any longer.’

  Fox sat still, an amused expression on his face, and waited until Murchison had reached the far side of the room. ‘It’s about your mate Wilkins, or Harley, or whatever you like to call him.’

  Murchison stopped, just as he was about to hammer on the door that led back to the cells, and turned. ‘Never heard of him,’ he said. It sounded unconvincing.

  ‘Oh!’ said Fox. ‘So you wouldn’t have gone to his funeral anyway.’

  ‘Funeral? What funeral? What the hell are you talking about?’ Murchison slowly retraced his steps, an apprehensive expression on his face.

  ‘Sit down,’ said Fox.

  Murchison slumped into the chair. ‘Well? What are you on about? If this is another con, it won’t bleeding work. I’ll tell you that for nothing.’

  ‘Your esteemed friend and erstwhile colleague, Mr Thomas Harley, died of a heart attack in London on or about the fourteenth of July, dear boy. And on the nineteenth of July was laid to rest in a churchyard in Devon —’

  ‘I don’t know what you’re going on about,’ said Murchison desperately. ‘I tell you I don’t know no one called Harley or Wilkinson.’

  ‘Nice try, Jim,’ said Fox, ‘but it’s Wilkins not Wilkinson. And he’s dead.’

  ‘This is a bloody con. I know what you’re —’

  ‘And may the Lord have mercy on his soul,’ said Fox.

  ‘It’s a bloody wind-up. You’re trying to stitch me up.’ Murchison picked nervously at the edge of the table. ‘What are you up to?’

  ‘But it’s true, Jim.’

  ‘Nah! I’m not buying it,’ Murchison scoffed. ‘My father always said never to trust a copper.’

  ‘That’s amazing,’ said Fox.

  ‘What is?’

  ‘That you had a father. You’re full of little surprises, Jim.’ Fox turned to Gilroy and held out his hand. ‘This, Jim, my lad, is a photostat copy of the death certificate of the said Thomas Harley, signed, as you can see, by a qualified medical practitioner.’ He laid the sheet of paper in front of Murchison, carefully smoothing it with both hands.