It was an agonizingly long wait before Sneddon himself appeared and, frowning at Ramsay, said, “Young Mr. Coker, good morning—I believe you want access to your mother’s private box?” Sneddon held the letter in his hand and perused it for what seemed like a lifetime, before handing it back to Ramsay, saying, “Of course, Mr. Coker, come this way. Oh, and you have the key, of course?”
Yes, actually he had the key, thank you very much. Taken from beneath Nellie’s mattress yesterday afternoon while she was out and copied by a locksmith in Bridle Mews and returned to the mattress within the hour. If Nellie knew what he had done, she would probably turn him into a goat or a lizard. If she knew what he was currently doing, he would disappear in a puff of smoke, never to be seen again. He was about to betray her, at Azzopardi’s behest, and yet he felt almost righteous. His mother didn’t care a jot for him, she had proved it with her will, so why should he care for her?
Although the whole endeavour was terrifying, Ramsay was also finding it exhilarating. He wasn’t just writing a crime novel—he was living one. Fiction had nothing on what it felt, after a lifetime of passivity, to be finally doing something.
Nellie had only one safe-deposit box, but it was big and heavy, and the teller who had accompanied him into the vault had struggled when taking it out and putting it on the table. Sneddon used his key, then Ramsay used his, and he was finally left alone to open the box.
He thought of Pandora.
He lifted the lid.
* * *
—
“What in God’s name were you thinking?” Niven growled at him. He had Ramsay by the collar, as if he were a schoolboy, and was propelling him towards the Hispano-Suiza, which was parked outside the bank with its engine running. “Get in,” Niven snapped, opening the passenger door and pushing Ramsay in the car and then roaring away down Aldwych as though it were a getaway. “And don’t whine.”
“I’m not whining!” Ramsay protested. “How did you know I was in the bank?”
Sneddon had phoned him, Niven said. He knew Nellie would never send Ramsay to root around in her private box, and anyway Sneddon had seen straight away that the letter Ramsay had written was a risible excuse for a forgery. The manager felt sorry for Ramsay, however, as he thought it must be some kind of stupid prank, “the folly of youth,” he said, rather than a criminal act, and not wanting to bring down the full wrath of Nellie on him, “He phoned me instead,” Niven said. “You should be grateful to Sneddon. And why did you need money so badly that you would engineer this farce? For dope? Gambling?”
“I didn’t take money, it was just papers and stuff.”
“What does that mean? ‘Papers and stuff’?”
Sheepishly, Ramsay took a sheaf of papers from inside his coat. Niven turned into Tavistock Street and parked the car so he could study them.
“Title deeds, lease agreements for the clubs? The freeholds?” Niven puzzled. “Why would you want these?”
Ramsay’s lip trembled and tears pricked his eyes. Not from fear or shame or remorse, but from the relief of confession. He could stop being afraid now, Niven would sort everything out. He reeled out the whole sorry tale.
“Azzopardi? You’ve got yourself tied up with Azzopardi?” Niven was thunderous. “You’re an even bigger idiot than I thought. You understand what this means? With this ‘stuff,’ as you put it, he would own all of the clubs. Everything Nellie possesses.”
“But they’re in her name.”
“He’ll change her name to his. There are plenty of forgers in London a lot better than you. Or perhaps he’ll blackmail her into signing them over. Threaten something she can’t afford to lose.”
“Well, don’t worry, it won’t be me,” Ramsay said. “Our mother would happily sacrifice me if it meant keeping her precious empire. I’ve seen her will, you know. You’ll be all right, but she’s more or less disinherited me.”
“I wouldn’t blame her after this stunt.”
* * *
—
“Mrs. Coker,” the teller greeted Nellie as she bobbed purposefully towards the counter. “I hope you’re feeling better?”
She ignored the question. “I would like access to my safe-deposit box, please.” She raised an eyebrow that sent the teller scurrying to find Mr. Sneddon.
Ten minutes later and she was back in the Bentley. Clamped to her knee was the box made of rusting metal that she had retrieved from her safe-deposit box. A war chest, Hawker thought.
* * *
—
“I think it’s time we both laid our cards on the table, don’t you think?” Niven said.
“Mine are laid out already,” Nellie said, nodding with some satisfaction at the Lenormand spread of cards that was in front of her. Niven looked at it with distaste. He often wondered if his mother really did believe in the occult or if she simply liked people to think she had some secret power she could use as a weapon if they crossed her. She was a showwoman through and through.
A rusty tin box was sitting on a chair next to her. Niven couldn’t imagine what it contained, although it was just the right size for a large severed head. He wouldn’t have been surprised. “What’s in the box?”
Nellie ignored the question. Niven had found her, after some searching, in the Crystal Cup. He should have known she’d be here, it was her place of safety. It was too early for Gwendolen to be in the club, and he wondered if she was still upstairs in the flat and if she remembered anything about last night.
* * *
—
She had been fast asleep when he had left her in the early hours, knocked out by the brandies and malts that she had drunk recklessly, one after the other. He wasn’t sure what had prompted this sudden bacchanal, but Oxford seemed to be involved somewhere along the line.
In the course of this dissipation she had, unprompted, told him the story of her life, ending with her coming to London. “And now,” she concluded cheerfully, “I am a spy.”
“I suspected as much,” he said. The influence of alcohol had made interrogation easy. “For Maddox?”
“No!”
“Azzopardi?”
“Who?”
“Who, then?”
“Frobisher, of course. He has me looking for evidence to bring your mother down. Bring all of you down, I suppose.”
Frobisher? Of course that made sense. Niven should have realized that she was in the sober employ of the law, she was hardly Mata Hari. “Isn’t secrecy the essence of spying?”
“I’ve given the game up,” she said. “I am done with it, done with Frobisher.” She laughed and said, “So—what are you going to do about it? Have me killed?”
“The same word but with two different letters in the middle.” She had drunk too much whisky to work it out so he said nothing and kissed her.
Just the one rather clumsy, whisky-flavoured kiss, but it disturbed him in a way he hadn’t expected. Not so Gwendolen, who drained her glass and, putting on a temptress’s voice, said, “I’m going to bed. I hope you’ll join me.” He had to stifle a laugh as he watched her weave her way across the room.
When he went to check on her after half an hour, he found her sprawled on her bed, dead to the world. No flannel and bed socks, her nightclothes seemed designed for a new bride. Even if she hadn’t been semi-conscious, Niven had no intention of bedding her. He pulled the covers over her and hung up her clothes, which had been jettisoned on the floor. Then he turned off the light and left.
* * *
—
“Well,” Nellie sniffed. “Did you enjoy your night with Miss Kelling? She is very wily, you have obviously been taken in by her charms. She’s working for Frobisher, you know.”
“What’s in the box?” Again she ignored the question and he sighed and said, “Ramsay saw your will. It upset him.”
“He shouldn’t be so nosy,” Nellie said. “Is that why you’re here? Or to talk about your ‘secret’ meetings with Azzopardi. I thought maybe you were planning to usurp me.”
“Me?” Niven laughed. “I’m the one looking out for your interests—I’m not sure anyone else is. Azzopardi tried to steal the title deeds for the clubs this morning.”
“No,” Nellie corrected. “Ramsay tried to steal them. He’s a traitor,” she said, almost fondly, as if he had proved his Coker credentials somehow.
“The important thing,” Niven said, “is that he didn’t give them to Azzopardi.” (What was in the box?)