Murder at Down Street Station

5 MURDER AT DOWN STREET STATION JIM ELDRIDGE To my wife, Lynne, who has been my rock and my support for so many years. CONTENTS TITLE PAGE DEDICATION CHAPTER ONE CHAPTER TWO CHAPTER THREE CHAPTER FOUR CHAPTER FIVE CHAPTER SIX CHAPTER SEVEN CHAPTER EIGHT CHAPTER NINE CHAPTER TEN CHAPTER ELEVEN CHAPTER TWELVE CHAPTER THIRTEEN CHAPTER FOURTEEN CHAPTER FIFTEEN CHAPTER SIXTEEN CHAPTER SEVENTEEN CHAPTER EIGHTEEN CHAPTER NINETEEN CHAPTER TWENTY CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE CHAPTER THIRTY CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE CHAPTER THIRTY-TWO CHAPTER THIRTY-THREE CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR CHAPTER THIRTY-FIVE CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS ABOUT THE AUTHOR BY JIM ELDRIDGE COPYRIGHT CHAPTER ONE Wednesday 25th December 1940 Detective Chief Inspector the Right Honourable Edgar Saxe-Coburg and his wife, Rosa, known to the public as the jazz singer Rosa Weeks, raised their glasses of red wine and toasted one another across the dining table. ‘Happy Christmas,’ said Coburg. ‘At least for one day,’ said Rosa. ‘Do you think they might extend the truce?’ A truce for Christmas Day had been agreed between Berlin and London. After three months of constant bombing, mainly at night, the skies above London were clear of enemy planes. Most people had spent Christmas Eve in their deep shelters, which for Coburg and Rosa meant the air raid shelter in the basement of their small block of flats in Piccadilly, while most Londoners had sought refuge on the platforms of the capital’s Underground stations. For all of them sleep had been difficult to achieve with the heavy bombing pounding the city, the vibrations felt deep below ground, making everyone worry that at any moment the shelter may collapse and tumble down on them, along with thousands of tons and earth and bricks and rubble from the buildings above them. And then, almost as if someone had thrown a switch, at midnight the pounding ceased. There had been talk of a truce between the two warring nations, Britain and Germany, but most people had been sceptical. ‘You can’t trust Hitler,’ was the phrase on most people’s lips, with the word ‘Blitzmas’ being used to describe this festive season. The year before, 1939, Christmas had been normal, despite war having been declared at the start of September: festivities, parties, presents, carol singers in the streets, Christmas lights, turkey with all the trimmings for Christmas dinner, followed by Christmas pudding. This year there were no Christmas lights, no carol singers, the blackout was strictly enforced and rationing had meant no turkey for Christmas dinner. Instead, it was very small portions of lamb or mutton or – if you knew a butcher who had some – rabbit. With no dried fruit available, Christmas pudding was made from carrots. Most people had refused to believe there really was a truce and had remained in their Underground station shelters rather than risk coming out. After all, it was now after midnight; the streets were completely dark due to the blackout and torches were forbidden and there was always the risk of someone falling into a bomb crater in the darkness. But as dawn came and still no more bombs fell, gradually people emerged from the shelters and made their way home. Coburg and Rosa opted to leave their underground shelter at half past midnight and made their way up the stairs to their flat by the light of a torch, deciding to risk it, although it took a while for them both to get to sleep. When they woke on Christmas morning they listened to the wireless for a while, the news to get confirmation that the Christmas Day truce was still holding, then music, while they made breakfast of toast. They’d decided to leave opening their Christmas presents until they sat down for Christmas dinner, so the morning was spent telephoning Rosa’s parents in Edinburgh to wish them happy Christmas, then Edgar’s elder brother, Magnus, the Earl of Dawlish at Dawlish Hall, before they settled down to prepare the Christmas dinner together: roast mutton, roast potatoes with cabbage and carrots. The meal eaten, they each handed the other the presents they’d bought, wrapped in thin brown paper because restrictions meant there was no actual Christmas wrapping paper available. Rosa had bought Coburg a diary for 1941, and Coburg had bought Rosa a bath set with special scented soaps. ‘This is fantastic!’ exclaimed Rosa as she undid the wrapping. ‘Exactly what I was hoping for. They said in the papers that soap was in such short supply, anyone hoping to receive it as a present was going to be unlucky. How did you manage to get this?’ ‘The Eton network.’ Coburg smiled. ‘An old school chum of mine is married to a woman who’s someone important in a big cosmetics company.’ He looked down at his empty plate and said, ‘I’m feeling guilty. It’s Christmas Day. I should have taken you to The Savoy or The Ritz or somewhere for Christmas dinner. Or we should have made the trip to Dawlish Hall. Magnus and Malcolm will be sitting down to roast chicken with all the trimmings with a spread by Mrs Hilton that will have nothing spared. It’s one of the advantages of living in the country. Fresh eggs, bacon, vegetables. We could have driven there on Christmas Eve late afternoon after I’d finished work and then come back this afternoon.’ ‘No,’ said Rosa. ‘I wanted our first Christmas together to be just us, here at our own home. But, if there really is a truce in place, we can go out for a walk this afternoon.’ ‘Putney,’ proposed Coburg. ‘A peaceful stroll along the river before midnight comes and we’re once again under the bombers.’ He grinned. ‘Or, before that, we could return to our bed and take advantage of an absence of air raids to disturb us.’ Rosa got up and took his hand. ‘This is what I call a perfect Christmas.’ She smiled as she led him towards the bedroom. Deep