Hubbard carried on looking at the dead woman and his mind whirled. No wonder Webley had wanted a quick cremation, he thought, and more to the point, what has he done with the real Lady Webley? ‘Any clue as to who this might be?’ he asked.
‘I don’t think she’s English,’ Reynolds replied. ‘Maybe French or Italian.’
‘What makes you say that?’
‘Mainly her coloring, she’s got a definite Mediterranean look about her.’
Hubbard thought for a moment, then asked, ‘What about the cause of death?’
‘From the brief examination I’ve given her so far, I’m reasonably confident she’s a genuine accident case. The injuries are consistent with a fall onto rocks from height and the amount of bleeding and bruising around the head wound and the fractures in the left arm and leg are consistent with death occurring within seconds of the injury.’
Hubbard said nothing. He was staring at the body again, his mind racing.
‘Do you still want a full PM carried out?’ Reynolds asked.
Hubbard looked up and said thoughtfully, ‘No. I think you’re right in what you say about her being a genuine accident case. When we eventually find out who she is, we don’t want to send her home in little pieces, do we?’
‘That’s what I thought,’ Reynolds said.
‘Can you keep her on ice for me while I launch an investigation?’ Hubbard asked.
‘Anything to oblige the Metropolitan Police.’
‘Thanks,’ Hubbard said as they walked back through to the anteroom. As Reynolds was changing, Hubbard asked, ‘This doctor friend of yours, Charles Fawcett, is he likely to say anything to Webley about your questions?’
‘No, I swore him to secrecy, and besides, he can’t stand him.’
‘Really, why is that I wonder?’ Hubbard mused.
‘Charles thinks he’s an upper class twit and a lay-about who’s never done an honest day’s work in his life,’ Reynolds confided, ‘and, judging by some of the complaints he’s had to treat, he suspects him of being a bit of a sexual deviant. Apparently, he was forced to resign his commission in the Guards in order to save himself being cashiered, after he’d thrashed a naked recruit nearly to death with a riding crop during a sadistic initiation ritual.’
‘Was he now? Well that all ties up with what I’ve heard from a couple of other people. What about Lady Webley, does Fawcett like her?’
‘He thinks she’s a doll, much too good for her husband, and certainly not involved in any of his funny bedroom business. He was very upset by the news of her death.’
‘That’s interesting,’ Hubbard said. ‘I haven’t come across one single person yet who’s had a good word to say about Sir Ross Webley.’
‘Maybe you should try talking to his bookmaker,’ Reynolds said with a grin.
Hubbard got back to New Scotland Yard at four-thirty, and went straight up to see his boss. Knocking on Mycroft’s office door, he walked in and took a seat in front of the Commander’s desk.
‘You look excited,’ Mycroft said, glancing up over half-moon glasses from a report he was reading, ‘What have you got?’
‘I’ve just come back from the Westminster,’ Hubbard said. ‘The body Webley submitted for cremation is not that of his wife.’
Hubbard suddenly had Mycroft’s full attention. ‘What?’ Mycroft exclaimed, taking his glasses off and laying then on his desk. ‘How did you work that out?’
‘Simon Reynolds knows the Webley’s GP. He got a description of Lady Webley that is nothing like the body we picked up from Northolt.’
‘And you’re sure there hasn’t been a cock-up at the undertakers or the crematorium?’ Mycroft asked.
‘Absolutely certain. Now, the question is, what has Webley done with his wife?’
‘What indeed?’ Mycroft asked. ‘You’d better bring him in, I think. There are a few things he needs to explain.’
‘My thoughts exactly. Apparently he’s leaving the country tomorrow, so I want to pull him straight away, if that’s all right with you.’
‘Fine, fine. And when you’ve got him, you had better lift his passport until we get to the bottom of this. We don’t want him doing a Lord Lucan on us, do we?’
Hubbard smiled. ‘There is something else I think we ought to get underway, now we’ve got an excuse.’
‘The exhumation of his first wife?’ Mycroft asked.
‘Exactly.’
Mycroft thought for a few moments then said, ‘Now we’ve got reason to believe that he’s responsible for the disappearance of his second wife, I think we’re justified in pursuing the suspicions we have concerning the death of his first. Leave it with me. I’ll speak to the head of Hertfordshire CID and the regional coroner, get it underway as soon as possible.’
Satisfied, Hubbard thanked him then went back to his own office, phoned his wife to let her know he would be home late again, then called DS Butcher and told him to meet him downstairs with the car in five minutes.
Fifteen minutes after setting off, they were standing on the steps of the Webley residence, waiting for the door to be answered.
‘Compact but bijou,’ Butcher commented wryly, looking up at the splendid Victorian façade, soaring above their heads.
Hubbard smiled, then instantly straightened his face and whipped his warrant card out as a short, fat woman who had obviously been crying, opened the door.
‘We are police officers. DCI Hubbard, DS Butcher,’ he said, holding up his card and indicating towards his colleague. ‘We’d like to have a word with Sir Ross Webley if we may.’
‘I’m sorry sir,’ she said, ‘the master’s gone down to the farm, then he’s off to America in the morning.’
‘Are you expecting him back tonight?’ Hubbard asked.
‘I don’t think so sir, he took all his luggage with him and said goodbye before he left. Mr Alex would know, you could ask him.’
‘Mr Alex?’
‘Mr Alex Crawford, Sir Ross’s secretary.’
‘Is he in?’ Hubbard asked impatiently, looking past her into the house.
‘No sir, he brought me back after Her Ladyship’s funeral, collected some bits and pieces, then said he had some things to do and went out.’
‘And when was that?’
Mrs Holland frowned then answered, ‘About half past two I think. He said he’d be back later on.’
‘But he didn’t say when?’
‘No sir.’
Hubbard thought for a moment then got his notebook out and said, ‘Could you give me the address of the Webley’s farm please.’
Back in the car, Hubbard said, ‘Fancy a drive to the seaside?’
Butcher smiled and slipped the car into gear. ‘I can’t wait to see his face when he finds out we’re on to him.’
‘How long do you reckon?’ Hubbard asked.
Butcher thought for a moment then said, ‘If we push it and use the blues and twos ‘till we’re out of the smoke, hour and a half tops. Should be there by half six.’
‘Let’s go then,’ Hubbard said, hitting the switch to activate the blue lights and sirens.
As they pulled away from the house on Regent’s Park, Alex Crawford was already down at the farm and had just finished preparing things for Ross, whom he expected at any moment.
Philippe and Alice enjoyed their late lunch, which was excellent. The restaurant was virtually deserted so no one had minded them staying on, sitting at a corner table. A waitress appeared occasionally to top up their coffee cups, but apart from that they were left alone.
Another half hour passed then Alice looked at her watch and said, ‘Five thirty, we’d better get moving.’
Philippe called the waitress over and paid the bill, then they made their way outside and hurried to the car. It was still raining. Thick, iron-gray clouds poured in from the English Channel blocking out most of the evening light, bringing with them a false dusk. Alice started the car and they drove the eight miles north to the farm in silence. They passed through the local village, but stopped short of the farm track, parking the car in a lay-by where a stile marked the beginning of the footpath that led to the rear of her property. The cinder path was well maintained and used regularly by staff who worked at the farm.