Secrets (A Jules Poiret Mystery Book 4) Read online

  The first-class train compartment was empty. She stepped inside and sat down. The train stopped at the next station. A man climbed aboard and walked slowly past the compartments. He stopped at her compartment and looked at the woman inside. He opened the door and stepped inside. She looked up. It had been many years since they had seen each other in the flesh. Their last parting had not been neat. It was awkward and upsetting. They had indulged in a love affair, spanning several years. They loved each other dearly, but they knew they had desires that they would not be able to fulfil. They had never been unhappy with their arrangement. It pained them to think about it, but they were far too happy with each other to consider leaving.

  But he could see it hurt her. And so he arranged it all. She had objected to it at first, completely opposed to it. But he had insisted and he was kind. She had married soon after meeting and then moved into the other man’s house. She had returned periodically to see her old flame, only visiting to catch up, sometimes for more. It was an arrangement that worked. That is, until it became complicated.

  He had gone straight back to her and begged her to be taken back. She could see now that he was in the throes of panic. They had argued with each other. He tried to convince her to come back. There had been fighting, shouting, tears, kisses, sensations and then silence.

  They had spoken of the occasion and come to a decision. She insisted they could not keep travelling to see each other and it would not be prudent to continue their affair. As much as he fought against her, she stood firm. He conceded to her decision and left her to live with her husband. They wrote periodically, but never met again. Until the arrival of that fateful letter.

  “You are quiet, Gwen,” he said, breaking into her internal monologue.

  “It’s like a dream,” she admitted quietly. “I keep expecting to wake up at any moment or for my hand to fall straight through you. I keep thinking that in a few moments, I'll wake up and you'll be not here.”

  Unable to stop herself, she turned fully and took him in her arms, breaking off her train of thought and embracing him tightly. She felt his arms tighten around her shoulders as they held each other. She was shaking, holding back the grief that hung behind her eyes. She leant back and looked into his eyes and saw that they mirrored what she was feeling, pain, longing and unidentifiable emotions hidden in the shadows. They were so close she could have pressed her lips against his and kissed him like they used to. The temptation to do so was great and she could see that was what was going through his mind too. She placed a hand upon his chest, halting his movement.

  “You know we cannot,” she whispered to him. The tone of her voice betrayed every word that she said.

  “I don't care,” he replied desperately. “I don't care that we shouldn't. Not now.”

  She felt her head getting light.

  “Darling!” He took her hand from his chest and pressed his lips to her forehead, her voice muffling as her face hit his chest. She sighed in annoyance, but he smiled as she turned his hand in hers and loosely grasped his fingers.

  “If you don't want this…” her hand encasing his in a crushing grip was a telling sign of the answer, but he continued. “…tell me now. You can choose to forget this after if you so desire, but don't try and ward me off by saying what I shouldn't do, because right now I don't care.”

  “But…”

  “Please,” he whispered, cupping her face. She looked up at him with restrained longing. “I can’t live without you.”

  He felt her resolve crumble like an autumn leaf after saying those words. She closed her eyes, and sighed, before pulling him down by the lapels. Their breaths intermingled with each other for mere moments, her scent a rich and aromatic musk. The tears she had not let fall earlier were now falling thick and fast down her cheeks. He did not ask what was wrong, instead smoothing them away with the pads of his thumbs.

  They stared at each other in wonder. She felt drained, light headed, weak, but also content and she could see he felt similarly.

  “I still can't believe you're here,” he whispered.

  “You know the answer to that,” she replied quietly.

  Captain Harry Haven was enjoying a good cigar in the company of his friend Jules Poiret one evening. It was summer in London and there wasn’t much to do in the evenings. The private box in the theatre was silent. Captain Haven was thinking about his lack of money and ways to get back some of the money he had lost investing in a ship, which had sunk off the coast of the island of Madeira. The seamen had been rescued, but the cargo had been lost.

  Poiret was looking at the contents of a small hamper, which Gustav, his valet, had filled with a selection of the most delicious gourmet foods. There was a knock on the door. Haven opened the door and announced the arrival of Inspector Watkins, the Scotland Yard detective.

  They shook his hand and welcomed him with warmth, Captain Haven and with disinterest, Poiret, because they had not seen him for several months. Watkins sat down behind Poiret in the small box.

  “Captain Haven,” said Poiret, “be so kind and pour Inspector Watkins a glass of brandy.”

  Haven filled a glass and handed it over to Watkins.

  “Inspector Watkins, he is very miserly with his visits to old friends and must have come for a reason. Poiret, he is correct, mon ami?”

  Watkins moved uncomfortably in his chair, playing with his glass. He had not taken his coat off. “Well, your man Gustav told me you’d be here. I was interested in how you and Captain Haven were doing. I haven’t seen you for a long time.”

  Poiret stayed silent and looked at the stage.

  “What are we looking at here?” Watkins picked up a programme and read the title “The Epicurist Ate His Own Feet.” He shook his head, laughing. “Is it a play?” he asked.

  “Non, my dear Watkins, it is the musical,” came Poiret’s unusually terse answer.

  It was silent for a moment. Poiret put his glasses on and looked at his pocket watch.

  Watkins sighed. He decided to talk. “Well, there is this case that has baffled us at the Yard, but we’ll solve it. We always do.”

  “A puzzle requires thinking,” said Poiret, only half interested. “In that case the intellect needs to be nourished.”

  “That’s another one of your eccentric ideas,” said the Inspector, who had a fashion of calling everything “eccentric” that was beyond his close-minded view of how things should be.

  “No matter,” said Poiret as he looked through the hamper.

  “What’s the difficulty you were telling us about?” Captain Haven asked as his curiosity got the better of him. “Another murder, old boy?”

  “Oh no, not at all. Thing is, the facts are simple and I, as I said before, I have no doubt that we can take care of it ourselves, but then I thought, Mister Poiret would love to hear the details. He loves these kinds of riddles. It will amuse him.”

  “Amuse Poiret, n’est pas?” said Poiret, “Bon! Tell it to Poiret. He will tell you, if it amuses him or not.”

  “Oh, yes. Fact is, it’s hard to understand, because the case is so simple and yet perplexes us altogether.”

  “Perhaps it is the simplicity of the facts which, they confuse you,” said Poiret gently touching his well-groomed moustache. “Sometimes you look for the needle, when you should look for the, how do you say, haystack.”

  “You’re already talking in riddles, Poiret! I don’t understand what you’re saying and we haven’t even started,” replied the inspector, laughing a fake laugh.

  “Perhaps the mystery is complicated, because it is so ordinary?” said Poiret.

  “Oh, Good Heavens! Who ever heard of such a thing?”
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  “Peut-etre too self-evident.”

  Inspector Watkins laughed out loud, “Oh, Poiret, you will be the death of me!”

  “But what is it all about?” Haven asked.

  “Why, I will tell you,” replied the inspector.

  Haven filled their glasses with brandy and offered them a cigar.

  “I will tell in short what the case is about, but before I begin, I have to warn you that this case demands the greatest secrecy.” Inspector Watkins looked around the small theatre box.

  “Mum’s the word, old chap,” said Haven.

  “Continue,” said Poiret simply.

  “Well then, I have received personal information from a very high level that a certain very important document has been stolen from Number 10 Downing Street. The person who stole it is known to us. He was seen taking it. We also know that it’s still in his possession.”

  “How is this known?” asked Poiret.

  “Well, we think it’s still in his possession,” replied the inspector, “because of the nature of the document and because of the non-appearance of certain developments, which would at once be seen if he had used it as he must plan to use it in the end.”

  “Be a little more explicit, old chap. I haven’t the foggiest idea what you’re talking about,” Haven said.

  “Well, I can go so far as to say that the document gives the owner a certain power in Westminster, where such power is very valuable.”

  “I still don’t understand what you mean, old boy,” said Haven.

  “No? Well, the publication of the document would bring into question the honor of the wife of a certain very important person. In other words the document could force this important person to resign, if it was published in the newspapers.”

  “But this power,” Haven interjected, “could only be used if the thief knows that the lady in question knows the name of the thief. But who would dare steal anything from the Prime Minister’s office?

  “The thief,” said Watkins, “is the shadow secretary for transport, whose ambition and corruption is legendary. But there is never proof.”

  “You mentioned a woman. Is this document, you talk about a state secret or a letter?” asked Poiret.

  “Very well, Mister Poiret,” said Watkins laughing, “Good guess. It’s a letter, alright? The method of the theft is both ingenious and bold. The letter had been received by the lady while alone at Number 10 Downing Street. While she was reading the letter, she was suddenly interrupted by the entrance of the very important person from whom she wanted to hide the letter. After trying in vain to hide it in a drawer, she was forced to place it, open as it was, on a table. The destination address was upwards, so the sender’s name could not be seen, therefore the letter did not raise the man’s suspicion. Right then the shadow secretary for transport enters the room. His hawk eye immediately sees the envelope and worse he recognizes the handwriting of the address. He observes the anxiety on the wife’s face and understands her secret. After talking about some government matters, he had an appointment with the unnamed important person, he takes a letter from his briefcase, opens it, pretends to read it and then places it on the table close to the compromising letter. He keeps talking for some fifteen minutes about politics. In the end as he’s leaving he takes the letter, which doesn’t belong to him and puts it in his briefcase. Its rightful owner saw the theft, but, of course, didn’t want to call attention to the letter in the presence of her husband. The shadow secretary left, leaving his own letter on the table.”

  “Bon,” said Poiret to Captain Haven, “Now you have precisely what is needed to make the power complete, both victim and perpetrator, they know what the other has done.”

  “Yes,” replied the inspector, “and for the past few months he has been using that influence to lean on her to change her husband’s policies for his own political gain. The wife is more and more convinced of the necessity of getting back her letter. But this, of course, can’t be done openly. In short, driven to despair, she’s asked her cousin, my superior at the Yard to help her and he decided to entrust me with this very delicate matter.”

  Poiret got up and with a smile shook Inspector Watkins hand enthusiastically with both hands. “Congratulations, mon cher Watkins. They could have not given the task to a better police officer in the Scotland Yard,” said Poiret, “Of that I’m sure, mon ami.”

  “Well,” replied the inspector self-confident, “I have been known to solve a case or two.”

  Poiret sat down again and continued smoking his cigar.

  “It is clear,” said Haven, “as you said, that the letter is still in the possession of the shadow secretary, because it’s his possession of the letter and not the publication of the letter, which gives him power. With publication the power would end.”

  “That’s right,” said Watkins, “and knowing this I started the investigation. My first step was to thoroughly search the shadow secretary's mansion in Eccleston Street and I had to do this without his knowledge. My superior warned me of the danger, which would result from him knowing of our investigation.”

  “But,” said Haven, “you’re quite good at this sort of thing. Scotland Yard must’ve done this a thousand times before.”

  “Oh yes and therefore I was quite confident that we would find the letter. Also, the shadow secretary’s habits gave me the opportunities I needed to search the mansion. He’s often away from home all night. He also doesn’t have a lot of servants. The ones he has, sleep at a distance from their master's bedroom and being mostly from Manchester, they are in the habit of drinking themselves into a stupor most nights, giving us ample opportunity to search the mansion. We have keys, as you know, with which we can open any door in London. For the past three months not a night has passed, during which I haven’t personally ransacked the shadow secretary’s mansion. There is a lot at stake. We’ve looked in every nook and corner of the mansion, but we just can’t find the confounded letter.”

  “But isn’t it possible,” Haven suggested, “that the shadow secretary has hidden it somewhere else?”

  “Non,” said Poiret quietly. “Poiret has seen many blackmailers at work. They want the compromising letters close-by. In case the victim, he shoots himself and leaves a letter of confession for the police, the blackmailer, he can destroy the evidence immediately. A blackmailer is not the average criminal. He is cunning, but also careful, the blackmailer.”

  “Quite right,” agreed Haven, “The letter must be on the shadow secretary’s person then.”

  “I’m afraid not,” said the inspector looking for a refill of his glass. “He has been twice searched under my own personal supervision. And believe me it was very hard finding reasons why a shadow secretary should be searched by her Majesty’s Scotland Yard.”

  “You may have spared yourself the trouble,” said Poiret looking at his pocket watch again. The lights went out, indicating the performance would begin soon. “The shadow secretary, Poiret, he has read about him in the newspapers. He is not altogether the fool and must have anticipated the searches of the body.”

  “He’s not a complete fool? Hah!” said Inspector Watkins, sitting up. “I read the romantic poems he likes to write in his spare time. He hides them in his desk drawer. If he’s not a fool, he’s only one step removed from one.”

  “Bon,” said Poiret shrugging his shoulders. He began smearing liver pate on a cracker. “Poiret, he has been called “un artiste supreme” himself by some.”

  “Suppose you tell us,” said Haven, “how and where you searched.”

  “Well, fact is, we searched everywhere and we took our time too. We searched the entire building, room by room. We devoted a whole week to each and every room. Every night, we searched.” Watkins waved his hand in the air. “We first examined the furniture of each room. We opened every closet and desk and I presume you know that to a properly trained police officer such a thing as a secret hiding place is nonsense. You must be an idiot if you allow a secret hiding place to esc
ape your attention. The thing is so obvious. There is a certain amount of volume, of space, that a closet or desk has to have. Not an inch escaped unsearched. After the closets and desks, we focused on the chairs. We probed the cushions with thin, long needles. You’ve seen me use them before. We also removed the tops from the tables.”

  “Why?” asked Haven, leaning forward.

  “Sometimes people, who wish to hide an item remove the top then create a cavity in the leg then deposit the item in the cavity and replace the top back on the leg. The bottoms and tops of bedposts are sometimes used in the same way.”

  “But why take the tables apart? Can’t you detect cavities just by tapping on them?” Haven asked, “I mean they’d make a different noise.”

  “Not if a sufficient wadding of cotton is placed around the item. Besides, in our case, we were obliged to do our job without making too much noise. The servants, remember?”

  “But you can’t take all the items of furniture in which he could’ve hidden something apart in the manner you mentioned. For example, a letter can be folded and inserted into the upholstery of a chair. You didn’t cut all the chairs open, did you?”

  “Certainly not! We did better. We examined the upholstery of every chair in the mansion and pretty much every piece of furniture with the aid of a very powerful electric microscope. If there had been any traces of recent disturbance, we would’ve detected it at once. A single grain of dust for example would’ve been as obvious as an apple. We would’ve detected any tear in the glue, any unusual cavity in the joints.”

  “Did you also look at the mirrors, in between the boards and the plates? Did you check the beds and the bedding as well as the curtains and carpets?”

  “Of course and after we had carefully investigated every item of furniture in this way, we searched the mansion itself. We divided the entire surface of the house in parts. We numbered them, so that none would be missed. Then we searched each and every individual square inch in the house.”

  “Did you search the garden?” asked Haven.

  “The garden is stoned for easy maintenance. It didn’t give us much trouble. We examined the moss between the paving stones and found it undisturbed.”