"If David found him, he would have had much to lose. And…he enjoyed violence."
"So he arranged to meet David, planning to kill him." Gemma felt certain of it now. "But was taking the manuscript just a bonus?"
Erika sighed. "David might have believed he could threaten him with it. How could he have been such a fool?"
"And instead, Miller took it and stripped David of any identification. But then you reported David missing, and identified his body. Miller hadn't counted on that. So he tried to have the investigation stopped."
"Gavin said the order came from the top," said Erika. "And if…Miller…had found out that Gavin had made the connection with the newspaper-"
"Gavin." Gemma looked at her friend with a sudden knowledge that wrenched her heart.
Erika met her eyes, but there was no need for her to speak.
"I read his notes," Gemma said after a moment. "He was a good man, and a good police officer. And I thought it very odd that he died just after he was told to leave off looking into David's murder."
"His superintendent said it was suicide, but I never believed it."
"If Gavin had shown you that day's paper-"
"I would have known who had killed David, and why," said Erika.
"If Miller heard from some of his pals that Gavin had connected David with vengeance groups, he might have thought it too close for comfort, even before Gavin made the connection with the newspaper photo," Gemma mused. "And if making a few discreet suggestions that David's death wasn't worth pursuing didn't do the trick-"
"Francis Tyrell, the superintendent, didn't seem to care for Jews. Perhaps Miller knew that it wouldn't take much urging to convince him."
"But Tyrell didn't convince Gavin Hoxley, so Miller arranged a meeting with him, an anonymous tip, perhaps-"
"Gavin," said Erika, her eyes bright with tears for the first time. "Gavin was a strong man. But he would not have known what he was facing. And if he'd thought he might learn something about David's murder, he wouldn't have rung me until he was certain. But he never had that chance."
CHAPTER 21
At last the secret is out, as it always must come in the end…
– W. H. Auden, "Twelve Songs"
"But what about the brooch?" asked Erika. "I still don't understand why that poor girl was killed. Or why the brooch was never sold in all those years."
"I'm afraid it's a bit more complicated than that." Gemma stood, and discovered that all her muscles had cramped, as if she'd been tied in knots for hours. "I'm going to make us some tea. And something to eat. Are there any biscuits?" She needed time to process what she'd learned, and she wasn't eager to tell Erika the things she hadn't yet been told.
"I made braune Zuckerplätzchen. Brown-sugar cookies. For Kit and Toby."
Gemma looked up from filling the kettle in surprise. Had she ever heard Erika speak German?
"I found myself wanting to remember things," Erika explained. "I hadn't had them since I was a child. They're in the tin."
The red-and-green tin, incongruously Christmassy, sat next to the cooker. Gemma put the comfortingly lumpy biscuits on a plate and got out cups and saucers. Erika, who usually quickly took charge in her own kitchen, sat and watched her without protest.
She looked exhausted, and yet it seemed to Gemma that some of the strain had gone from her face. And Gemma thought, as she often did, how beautiful Erika was, still, and wondered what she had been like when she had known Gavin Hoxley.
"Erika," she said, realizing something she had never consciously noticed as she popped tea bags into the pot and filled it from the kettle, "why don't you have any photos of yourself?" She didn't ask why there were none of David, not now.
"I brought nothing out of Germany." Erika gave a little shrug. "Not that it would have mattered, as things happened. And then, I don't know. David never touched a camera, and I-" She frowned. "I think there is one, taken not long after the war, by a neighbor. It's in the top drawer in the secretary."
Leaving the tea to steep, Gemma went into the sitting room and opened the top drawer of the little writing desk. Among the bills and pencils, she found a few loose photographs. Some were obviously more recent, taken in color, and were of Erika at various university functions. But there were a few in black and white at the bottom of the drawer, and these Gemma removed and took through into the kitchen.
They appeared to have been taken on the same day, and she recognized the communal garden behind Erika's house. The trees were in full leaf, and groups of people she didn't recognize smiled into the camera. The women wore sundresses and cotton blouses, the men had opened their collars and rolled up their sleeves.
"It was a victory party," Erika said. "That August. For those of us who had made it through."
And then Gemma found the photo. Erika must have been only a few years younger than Gemma, but she looked slight as a girl. Her dark hair was loose, and her deep brown eyes looked into the camera with the gravity that Gemma had come to know so well. She was astonishingly lovely.
Erika took the photo from her, gazing at it. "I remember her as if she were someone I knew once." She put the photo aside and took the teacup Gemma offered her. "Now," she said, "what is it you don't want to tell me?"
Elated by her success in finding the photo of Joss Miller in the same edition of the paper that had contained Erika Rosenthal's article, Melody was more than a little disappointed when Gemma wouldn't take her along to talk to Dr. Rosenthal.
But she knew Gemma always made an effort to include her when possible, and she had to trust Gemma's judgment on this one. She was nervous, though, as Gemma had said she might call for backup, and Melody knew little more than that Dominic Scott had apparently committed suicide, and that Joss Miller might have had some connection with David Rosenthal.
The minutes ticked by and Gemma didn't ring. Melody ate a cheese-and-pickle sandwich at her desk and drank a nasty cup of vending machine tea that tasted like pond sludge. She sorted through incoming reports, initialing the things that didn't need Gemma's perusal, then, checking the time again, she realized her access to the Guardian's digital archives had not yet expired.
Turning back to the computer, she put in an advanced search for articles or clippings concerning Joss Miller from the war onwards. She found articles on investment mergers and art acquisitions, and a few photos similar to the one in the May 1952 edition. Her attention had begun to waver when she saw the notice of a wedding in June 1953 between Josiah Miller and the Honorable Lady Amanda Bentley.
So Miller had married a minor but well-funded title-if her memory served her, the Bentleys had been in the biscuit trade. But by that time, Joss Miller had probably been more interested in the title than in the money.
Alert again, Melody kept on with her search. Ellen Ann Miller had been born in 1955, according to the birth notices. And in 1960, the Honorable Amanda had quietly passed away, according to the obit, "after an illness."
"No fuss, no muss," Melody said aloud. Apparently Amanda Bentley had served her purpose, for Josiah Miller did not remarry, although there were occasional reports of society liaisons.
In the early seventies, photos of Ellen Ann Miller began to appear at society parties. Melody whistled through her teeth. Even in her late teens, Ellen Miller had been stunning. Not beautiful, exactly, but she had possessed a feline, predatory sexiness that practically oozed off the page.
And then, in 1978, Ellen Miller smiled out of a photo captioned High Time at the Roxy, and beside her name was that of the handsome, dark-haired young man with his arm round her shoulders. Harry Pevensey.