Cross Cut

By Barry Spencer

His voice echoed dully, swallowed by the rough- ribbed, deep striations of the tunnel walls that looked as though they had been lacerated by giant claws. But for the pools of light shed by the two lamps, the darkness inside the tunnel would have been complete. The air was heavy, still, and fetid with a heady witch's brew of ill defined chemical smells.Advancing into the bowels of the mine they sloshed through puddles of water. The yellow light of their carbide lamps, dancing over the slick corrugations of the adit walls, threw up coatings of green bacterial slime and here and there small, iridescent, green copper stalactites and spikes of the same plumage jutting from the tunnel wall.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 20, 2019
• ISBN: 9781796057713

Barry Spencer

Calling himself a Speculative Type Designer, Barry states that he often makes letters that may or may not look like letters. For over a decade he has researched, explored and played with the Latin letterforms and through his research and exploration he has been able to reach a point where he believes he has fundamentally altered the way that he creates, perceives and understands the shapes of the alphabet.Barry continues to explore the potential of letterforms while also writing and lecturing on graphic design, typography and type design.

Book preview

Copyright © 2019 by Barry Spencer.

Library of Congress Control Number:   2019913404

ISBN:      Hardcover      978-1-7960-5773-7

                Softcover        978-1-7960-5772-0

                eBook              978-1-7960-5771-3

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

Rev. date: 09/20/2019

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Contents

Preamble

Prologue

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Afterword

For

Shahnaz

Preamble

Cradled within the wild and desolate beauty of the Lancashire Fells, the little village of Penwick embraces the western shore of the lake known as Penwick Water. There it sleeps, since time immemorial, in the shadow of a rocky eminence the locals call the Sage of Penwick. Behind the village, sheep quietly graze the heathland, oblivious of the swirling mists and drenching rain showers that, on occasion, sweep down the fells unpredictably like Viking raiders.

Something happened in Penwick to shatter its ageless tranquillity, an event unique in its history, something alarming and grotesque, which I describe in the pages that follow. It became notorious as the Ranson mystery, a cause célèbre avidly reported by the press, the news of which spread like a contagion throughout neighbouring villages then to the adjoining counties of Cumberland and Westmorland and eventually throughout the nation.

The local constabulary, citing lack of experience and resources, shrank from undertaking the needed investigation and called in Scotland Yard. The file landed on the desk of Detective Chief Inspector Marcus Conover. The assistant commissioner (AC), Sir Henry Branston, knew Conover to be the most experienced officer under his command and the best man for the job. Eventually, it grew to be one of his most celebrated cases. As a senior crime reporter, I covered the story for the London Daily Globe and was privileged to follow every detail, every twist and turn of the investigation as it unfolded.

Some years ago, when Conover surrendered his warrant card and moved to a cottage in the Lake District, of all places, his retirement put me into a nostalgic mood. It set me thinking about my own career. Memory is fleeting and evanescent as a will-o’-the-wisp, and though it may sound strange for me to say it, memory has a unique place in my life. In this frame of mind, I scrambled up into the gloom of my attic, resuscitating the single naked bulb dangling from the raftered ceiling. It threw a pale grey light fretted by shadow over piles of bric-a-brac, packing cases, trunks overflowing with discarded toys in a jumble of competing colours, racks of old clothes, the detritus of life I couldn’t bring myself to throw away perhaps because it proved that my memories were true—fragments shored against my ruins, you might say.

Brushing aside the veil of cobwebs, I set about rummaging through this private wasteland, coming on boxes of old clippings, pausing to scan some of the more lurid or interesting cases I had covered. But of course, I was seeking one thing in particular. And there it was beneath several files in a dilapidated cardboard bank box, the thick album I compiled devoted to the Ranson case, the photographs and articles I wrote for the Globe all those years ago. I blew off the film of dust coating the rough canvas cover, and with the album tucked safely under my arm, returned the attic to its realm of darkness and clambered down to the security and comfort of my drawing room. Then for the next several hours, my wife, Claudette, and I sat in companionable silence before a crackling fire—she absorbed in her embroidery, I immersed once again in the vagaries of the Ranson mystery, delicately turning brittle pages, poring over yellowing newspaper cuttings, and studying faded photographs of a grim-looking Conover.

Given the passage of time, it struck me that Ranson had acquired, as it were, the patina of age and had now entered—or at least deserved to enter—the canon of infamous cases, some solved, some unsolved, such as Dr. Crippen, the acid bath murders, or the Wallace case—the type one would find in murder encyclopaedias. Who understood the unique character of this case better than I? Who more than I, even more than Conover, was more qualified to record and analyse these events, which had so enthralled the public? Thus, the determination to write a book about the Ranson case took hold of me and consumed the best part of five years in its accomplishment. I admit, being on the point of retirement myself, personal reward was at least a factor in my decision to undertake this project as was my resolve to keep myself occupied and my brain active. But what loomed larger in my mind was my need for a legacy, my need to leave behind something permanent for my grandchildren to read with pride, something less ephemeral than a series of newspaper articles. I offer you now the fruits of my labour.

Before the curtain rises on this drama and I discreetly retire from the stage, let me introduce myself in the spirit of Moby Dick. Call me Charlie—Charlie Trover. You may have heard of me, read my articles in the Globe over your morning coffee, or heard me on the wireless. I joined the Globe in 1938, when the mood in the country was dark with the premonition of war. Yet ironically, it seemed an auspicious moment to embark on a career in journalism, which thrives like weeds in a compost heap on the chaos of human folly. I had been a schoolmaster for a number of years in an undistinguished prep school in Saint Albans, teaching French, my idealism to inspire a new generation having survived the horrors of trench warfare. I resigned preemptively to forestall the vindictiveness of a newly appointed and totally inept headmaster.

I had been writing in my spare time, and it was on the strength of some of my published short stories that I came to the attention of Lionel Fallon, the famous editor of the Globe, who offered me a position. Inevitably, I began by covering petty offences in the police courts such as drunk and disorderly, vandalism, and minor cases of battery—what the chief stipendiary Sir Frank Hilton, Eton, Oxford, and the Irish Guards used to call with his air of smug superiority the traditional misdemeanours of the criminal classes. But I soon graduated to the heavy lifting. I’m talking murder, serial killing, dismemberment, the headless body in the dumpster—things that can keep you awake at night, things that give you the creeps, the stuff of nightmares.

When war broke out in September 1939, I wasn’t called up for military service. In April 1940, to do my bit, I volunteered as a fire watcher; and whether by coincidence or by design, I can’t say, I was placed on the roof of the Globe Building in Fleet Street. During the blitz, clad in black overalls and a steel helmet, equipped with buckets of water, a stirrup pump, and a pair of binoculars, I stood witness to the savage and unrelenting son et lumière staged over London courtesy of the Luftwaffe. With fleets of German bombers groaning overhead, I sounded the alarm, shouting warnings of imminent danger into the telephone for my colleagues on the night staff to take cover in the makeshift air-raid shelter in the basement of the building.

But enough of me. I want to introduce you to Conover. Having covered so many of his cases over the years, I got to know Conover. He was an interesting man. I was privileged to observe him in action, to study his temperament, his contradictions and idiosyncrasies. At a superficial level, I knew his preference in drinks, the music he liked to snap his fingers to, the books he enjoyed, and even the type of woman he found attractive. His foppish, almost eccentric mode of dress and his affection for his churchwarden pipe were always a source of mild amusement to his colleagues yet so disarming in the face of menace as to be contrived. And of course, I knew how he would approach a case, his modus operandi. But at a deeper level, he seemed enigmatic, even slightly mysterious as if he had somehow acquired the aura of his more perplexing cases. Whether this was authentic or counterfeit, I was never able to fathom. In repose and on occasion observing him interview a witness or question a suspect, I caught a sadness in his eyes bordering on resignation, a weakness out of harmony with the strength and rugged determination of his features.

It struck me that perhaps he had a special relationship to death, even a fascination that bordered on obsession. Death, without wishing to be flip, was a living presence in his life like a funeral bell that never ceased to toll. His work involved constant proximity to death, frequently in its grimmest manifestations. But this was not the only reason. He had been touched by death personally.

During the latter part of the war, he lived with his wife, Millicent, and their seven-year-old daughter, Connie, in a small terraced house in Ealing. Walking home as usual one evening, he spotted a thin pall of black smoke drifting lazily over the rooftops as though its original energy had been spent. It appeared to be coming from somewhere ominously close to his house. What terror must have seized his heart at that moment I can barely imagine. Racing to the corner of his street, he saw two fire engines with flashing red lights parked outside what had been his home, now reduced to a pile of smoking rubble. It had suffered a direct hit by a buzz bomb. His wife and daughter were killed. I doubt he ever recovered from the loss. Thenceforth, he seemed to live a life bereft of love.

He was not crushed by his grief or reduced to a consuming cynicism. Instead, he seems to have sublimated his pain by immersion in work. Long after his colleagues had left for the evening, grateful to return to the solace and privacy of their homes, Conover would remain at his desk. Late into the night, he pored over files, wrote reports, or compared witness statements for inconsistencies. Puffing his long-stemmed churchwarden, he would ponder his next move while Harley, his beagle, dozed contentedly at his feet. He would bring to justice those who visited death on the innocent, thereby vicariously avenging the death of his wife and daughter.

He joined the Met in the 1920s and served in the Flying Squad under the famous Detective Ch. Insp. Fred Nutty Sharpe. Naturally reserved, he never discussed his contribution to the war effort, although rumour has it that he was somehow caught up in military intelligence. After the war, he quickly rose to the rank of divisional detective inspector (DDI), the recipient of numerous commendations from the commissioner and from the judiciary. His subordinates never addressed him as sir or chief as they did with other senior officers. In the tradition of the Met, they called him Guv’nor. And when his name arose in conversation, he was the Guv’nor. It was the greatest tribute they could bestow, a measure of their respect and admiration for his achievements earned by only a handful of the greatest detectives in the history of the force. Conover took this in his stride. It never went to his head and he accepted the accolade with sardonic amusement.

If he was revered by his colleagues, he was feared by the criminal fraternity, the gangs, the pimps, the con men, those who inhabit the dark London underworld he penetrated. They feared his quiet dedication, his integrity, his tenacity. But what most unnerved them were his powers of deduction, his insight, his sheer native shrewdness. It’s hard to imagine now, but back in the day, the sight of the deceptively comic figure of Conover wearing his distinctive grey homburg, bow tie, and maroon waistcoat puffing at his churchwarden—his beagle, Harley, trotting at his side—was capable of provoking a state of near panic in the breast of some hard-bitten thug.

Like so many officers before him, he regarded DDI as the most rewarding position in the force. He was autonomous within his own division. He had a wide variety of cases, and he could pick and choose those investigations he would follow. Taking the Ranson case was ultimately Conover’s decision.

He and I had an unorthodox, if not unique, relationship resting on a firm foundation of mutual trust and respect for the other’s professional integrity. I was privileged in a manner denied to other reporters. He frequently allowed me access to the crime scene and to case conferences. There were times when I sat unobtrusively in a corner during interviews, although for reasons of confidentiality that wasn’t always possible. Confident of my discretion, he often divulged information off the record, which I held back until he gave me the go-ahead to publish. When the need arose, I printed public appeals for information to help his investigation.

On a personal level, we became friends, although neither of us ever allowed our friendship to intrude into our professional relationship. We had much in common, although we parted company when it came to his eccentric hobbies. He collected handcuffs and other forms of restraint such as leg-irons and neck collars and would go to great lengths to add an exceptional item to his collection, particularly a piece from the nineteenth century. His other abiding passion, on the rare occasions he was able to engage it, was taphophilia, an interest in cemeteries. He had amassed a large and varied collection of photographs of tombstones and interesting epitaphs. This seemed to be of a piece with his fascination with death.

As I followed the Ranson case, I was able to study Conover’s technique. I was Isherwood’s camera. I recorded what I saw and what I heard. He was a good listener. He understood when to merge into the background, when to let a suspect talk, when to get tough, and when to show compassion for human failings. He never lied to a suspect. He never entered an interrogation with a preconceived belief of guilt. When he had solved a case, he wrote his report and closed the file. He never allowed himself to become personally involved. He retained his objectivity throughout.

Exposure to Conover was reflected in my journalism, which matured to the point where I was not merely giving the reader the bald facts. I could discuss what lay behind the facts. I could offer informed opinions, discuss motivations. I aspired to interest my readers beyond the superficial, to provide topics for discussion, to inform the public debate—to enliven morality with wit in the words of Addison, which sound so pompous these days, and to temper wit with morality.

I make no claims to authorial omniscience. The story I have to tell is, first and foremost, based on my personal observation, from documents and files I have been privileged to review, from my own reportage and contemporaneous notes of interviews. Where such primary source material has been unavailable or in circumstances in which events can be deduced from circumstantial evidence only or by reasonable inference, I have filled in the gaps without—I assure you—gross invention. Where necessary for the sake of continuity, I have felt free to employ my imagination in the confident expectation that this will enliven the text for the reader without distorting the facts.

When the curtain rises, I shall make a brief appearance in the prologue. Otherwise, I shall not strut or fret my hour on this humble stage. I shall discreetly retire into the wings, always present, rarely seen—a narrator, not an actor.

Prologue

London

Friday, April 15, 1950, 4:00 p.m.

I was at my desk in the vast Globe newsroom with its lofty art deco ceiling, indifferently tapping away on my Remington, feeding man’s insatiable appetite to know, adding my humble contribution to that great enterprise—the production of a national daily newspaper. Piled high around my desk in what has been quaintly called in a clever oxymoron organised chaos, shielding me from a view of Phil Taylor’s bald patch and the red bulge of neck beetling over his collar, lay the crime reporter’s tool kit: phone books, dog-eared reference manuals, a couple of battered, one-volume dictionaries, a paperback Roget’s Thesaurus, a Who’s Who, a Who Was Who, a dictionary of quotations, a tea-stained copy of the Criminal Justice Act, 1948. That week’s edition of Punch and assorted stacks of notes, magazines, and unopened bills added to the general confusion.

The day was dragging interminably. I stubbed out my cigarette into an overflowing glass ashtray, yanked the final sheet from the typewriter, and contemplated the afternoon’s opus—a banal piece of reportage with racial overtones about the fatal stabbing of a Jamaican youth in the early hours at a Soho club aptly named The Bitter End. An architecturally incongruous plate glass window at my elbow offered a view of Fleet Street and the Inns of Court. It was a welcome distraction.

I lit another cigarette, inhaled deeply, leaned back, and gazed mindlessly at the scene below. My ennui was mirrored by the throng of traffic that seemed to move beneath an implacably cinderous sky in dreamlike silence amid a grey mist of drizzle, a foil to the hubbub, the constant jangle of telephones, the frenetic clatter of typewriters, the babble of voices, the clicking of multiple teletype machines, and the stamp of hurrying feet among the ranks of desks. Here was the energy, the excitement I once found so intoxicating, now inevitably eroded by that spoiler, Time, into a meaningless cacophony, like an orchestra tuning up before a performance.

My reverie was invaded by the rotund figure of Bob Cuthbert, chief assignment editor, diaphanously reflected in the window. I swung round to greet his maliciously good-humoured grin. Sorry to wake you, Charlie Trover.

That’s OK, but next time, knock. I stabbed the broad expanse of his belly playfully with the rolled-up sheets of the Soho article. He parried the thrust with mock theatricality, snatched the scroll, and scanned the text with a practised eye. Then without comment, he shoved a stack of magazines to one side and perched on the corner of the desk, swinging one leg like a pendulum.

Something just came over the ticker. Should get above the fold. Frances Seymour, the actor Henry Seymour’s wife, committed suicide by cutting her throat with a kitchen knife.

I have your strapline, Bob, I said archly. How about ‘Socialite Seymour self-slays’? Did she leave a note apologising for the mess?

"Yes. She said it seemed like the right thing to do. Apparently, Henry wanted a divorce. They had a row and parted on bad terms. He’s appearing at the Haymarket in Macbeth. He went on anyway. A little heartless, don’t you think?"

The phone rang. His question dangled unanswered. I took the call.

Mr. Trover, it’s Detective Sergeant Patel. I recognised the slight singsong trace of an Indian accent. The Guv’nor asked me to call you. The title with its cockney overtones sounded strangely artificial. There’s a situation up in a place called Penwick in the Lake District he thinks will interest you. We’ve taken the case. If you’d like to cover the story, you can catch the 6:00 p.m. from Euston. We’ve set up headquarters at the Penwick Arms.

With the receiver wedged in the crook of my neck, I was already slipping on my jacket.

1

New York City

Monday, August 6, 1947

At precisely 9:55 a.m., a yellow cab drew up at the entrance to the Archbold Building at 1005 Madison Avenue in Manhattan. A middle-aged man emerged from the taxi, paid the driver with a handsome tip, and bade the doorman a cheerful good morning as he passed through the revolving glass doors into the foyer. Dressed in a grey business suit, a black homburg, a modest blue tie, dark-framed spectacles and carrying a valise, he appeared distinguished yet blandly anonymous, no different from countless other Manhattan mandarins and arousing no particular curiosity among the throng of self-absorbed New Yorkers hurrying about their business along the sidewalk.

He took the elevator to the twentieth floor. The doors slid open at the offices of Hamlin, Plata & Lugarni, Attorneys-at-Law. Four leather-backed chairs and a sofa were disposed around a low table neatly stacked with magazines. Above the sofa hung a large framed black-and-white photograph of revellers at an amusement park on Coney Island. Through an open door to his left, he could see a law library with shelves of bound law reports and a polished conference table, and to his right stretched a line of offices down a hallway. He could hear the clatter of typewriters.

A plump blonde wearing a headset and makeup that looked as though it had been laid on with a spatula was seated at a switchboard. Smoke spiralled from a cigarette smudged with traces of lipstick carelessly perched on the edge of a marble ashtray. A nameplate propped up against a glass bowl of candies proclaimed in italic script the presence of Carrie Sugar Malone. Squinting under the curl of her mascaraed eyelashes, she bent her concentration on the filing of her nails. A bottle of nail polish awaiting application stood like a tiny sentinel at her elbow.

The visitor spoke in a clipped English accent. Good morning, miss. I’m here to see Mr. Lugarni.

Sugar looked up. Her glossy red lips parted in a weak smile. Do you have an appointment, honey?

No, I’m afraid not.

They were interrupted when a jack lamp on the panel lit up. She slipped the nail file into her purse. Gee, it’s getting busy. Hamlin, Plata & Lugarni. Pause. Hold on while I connect you. Sugar flicked a grey caterpillar of ash from the cigarette, took a puff, restored the cigarette to its resting place, and turned her attention to the visitor. Just give me a second, honey. She plugged a cord into a jack and flipped a switch. Miss Littlewood, there’s a guy heah wants to see Bob. Doesn’t have an appointment … oh, OK. She glanced up. Mr. Lugarni’s in cawt this morning. He won’t be back until about 2:00 p.m.

Would you kindly tell Mr. Lugarni’s secretary that I’d like to discuss the Peggy Sutton case with him? I have something important to tell him.

Says he’s heah about Peggy Sutton. Says it’s important. She listened, nodded, and addressed the visitor. What’s your name, honey?

My name is Hector Ranson.

Miss Littlewood, are you there? Yes, says his name is Hector Ranson and— Sugar unplugged the connection. Gee, she hung up just like that. Guess she’ll be right out. Please take a seat and help yourself to a candy.

Ranson smiled politely, declining the offer. He removed his homburg, revealing a vigorous growth of spiky ash-grey hair. He was about to collapse into the spongy depths of the sofa with the latest edition of Life when a tall angular woman who seemed to him to be the living nemesis of Sugar Malone approached, extending her hand in welcome.

Mr. Ranson, is it? My name’s Doris Littlewood, and I’m Mr. Lugarni’s secretary. May I suggest that we talk this matter over in the conference room? Sugar, please have Carrie serve coffee.

I’m pleased to meet you, Miss Littlewood, Ranson said, shaking her long-fingered, limp hand. Thanks for seeing me at short notice.

Sitting facing each other across the conference table, Ranson—as was his habit—could weigh up his interlocutor. She was wearing a high-buttoned white blouse with muttonchop sleeves and black skirt well below the knee straight out of Vogue magazine circa 1930. Her dark, pageboy hairdo framed an assertive nose and chin unsullied by any hint of cosmetics. Shrewd eyes not devoid of humour regarded him earnestly through wire-rimmed glasses. A crucifix resting on her meagre bosom left no doubt about her religious commitment. Southern Baptist, he thought. Had she worn a coif, he might be conversing with a nun. Bob Lugarni could safely leave his business in her attenuated hands.

Well now, sir, do you believe in coincidences?

They happen, he conceded.

They sure do. The good Lord has brought you here today, the very day Mr. Lugarni is appearing before Judge Delaney in surrogate’s court on the estate of Margaret Sutton, deceased. Her eyes widened with this revelation as though she expected Ranson to clap his hands and cry, I’ll be blessed, and praise Jesus! His reaction was more muted.

Surrogate’s court?

I apologaas, sir. It’s the name we give in New York to probate court.

And why is that significant?

It need not be. It depends on what you have to say. I’m told it’s important. I may need to get a message to Mr. Lugarni if the facts supporting the motion have changed. Perhaps the estate won’t escheat after all.

I beg your pardon, Miss Littlewood. I’m not a lawyer and—

She leaned forward to emphasise the point. It means the estate wouldn’t necessarily fall into the hands of the state of New York. But I know you’ll understand that, before I attempt to contact him, I’ll need to know whaa you’re here.

Frankly, I’d prefer to discuss that with Mr. Lugarni.

Miss Littlewood bristled. My dear sir, if there are new facts, the judge must be fully advised before he rules on the motion.

My dear lady, let’s just say I have significant facts to disclose which could affect the administration of the estate.

You say your name is Ranson?

Yes, Hector Ranson.

As far as I recall, your name doesn’t appear on the file.

That could change.

Mr. Ranson, sir, I propose calling Mr. Lugarni. May I suggest that you take a seat in the waiting room while I try to get Mr. Lugarni on the laan?

Opening the library door, she was confronted by a teenage girl in a flowered frock bearing a tray with the ritual paraphernalia of coffee. Oh, Carrie, I’d quite forgotten about you. Mr. Ranson will take his coffee in the waiting room. Sugar, please get me Judge Delaney’s clerk, courtroom 5, the surrogate. I’ll take it in my room.

Miss Littlewood bustled down the hallway and disappeared into her office. Meanwhile, Ranson flopped onto the sofa and, sipping his coffee, browsed among the photographs in Life. He was barely halfway through his coffee when Miss Littlewood reappeared. She squatted next to him at the edge of the sofa, her bony knees showing through her skirt.

I managed to get hold of Mr. Lugarni, she explained. He’ll have the motion continued pending further discovery. He intended to have lunch with his wife, but instead, he’s returning to the office. He should be here within the hour.

Ranson nodded and added in little above a whisper, Thank you. I flew in from Prestwick yesterday. It’s been one hell of a journey. I’ve had it, bushed. Forgive me if I stretch out and close my eyes while I wait.

Why, that’s just faan, Mr. Ranson. You go ahead and relax.

Ranson stretched, leaned back into the comfort of the sofa, and closed his eyes.

Mr. Ranson, Mr. Ranson. Someone was shaking his shoulder. Mr. Lugarni’s ready to see you now.

Ranson stirred and became aware that Doris Littlewood was looking down at him and frowning. He grunted and hauled himself to his feet. Grabbing his homburg and valise, he followed her down the hall.

He was shown into a spacious corner office with a panoramic view through plate glass windows over the lawns and trees of Central Park. An elaborately designed silk Persian carpet overlaid the parquet floor. A glass cabinet containing baseball memorabilia stood against one wall. The Hudson River shimmered in the noonday sun, and the New Jersey skyline lay in the hazy distance.

As he entered the room, Bob Lugarni was sitting in a high-back leather chair at a vintage oak rolltop desk. Stacks of documents and what appeared to be legal briefs stuffed and overhung its narrow compartments and nooks. A Smith Corona stood on a nearby mahogany typewriter stand. He looked up inquisitively then rose in greeting. Ranson shook a firm chunky hand. Lugarni gestured towards one of two upholstered armchairs.

Good to meet you, Mr. Ranson. Please make yourself comfortable. The voice was an agreeable baritone. He flipped open the lid of a silver box on his desk. Cigarette?

Thanks. Lucky Strike, Ranson said. I rather like American cigarettes.

I’ll join you.

Lugarni came around the desk and lit both cigarettes from an Aladdin’s lamp silver lighter. They both sat back and sized each other up through a drifting scarf of smoke. Ranson estimated Lugarni to be in his early sixties. Tall, solid, dressed in a black pinstripe suit, a matching silk waistcoat enveloping a prominent embonpoint, and a blue polka-dot bow tie, he cut an impressive figure. His high-domed head rising above a fleshy countenance was bald, but sleek wings of dark hair streaked with grey curved to embrace his temples.

Lugarni broke the silence. The trip over can be punishing.

I hitched a ride on an RAF B-24 Liberator from Prestwick, Ranson said.

Via Reykjavik and Greenland to Gander in Newfoundland?

Precisely.

There was a pause. Then Lugarni said, I’ll cut right to the chase, sir. What prompted you to fly halfway around the world to show up here on the off chance?

"I ran across an article in the London Daily Globe a few weeks ago regarding the estate of the late Peggy Sutton. Up to that point, I didn’t know she’d gone. According to the report, she never married, and there was no will."

You didn’t see the report of her death last year?

No.

OK, but why do you care?

Because I was her husband.

Lugarni stiffened. Do you have the proof?

Ranson unzipped the valise and, withdrawing a paper, slid it across the desk to Lugarni. It’s my marriage certificate.

Lugarni ran his eyes over the document. So someone called Hector Ranson married someone called Margaret Sutton on July 17, 1917, at the Kensington Register Office. You’ll need to do better than this. How do I know that you are the Hector Ranson referred to here and that Margaret Sutton is the same person as the deceased?

"Our ages will tally.